Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

James stumbled backward, shaking his head, the pain eviscerating him so excruciating, he almost doubled over. Almost roared aloud against the knives carving and cleaving unmercifully into his heart and soul. And he did what any animal mortally wounded did. Reacted with primal rage and the urge to protect itself.

  Curling his upper lip into a sneer, he raked his contemptuous gaze over her. “I’ve been so damned stupid.” A complete and utter idiot. “I believed you were different. That money and position didn’t matter—”

  “They don’t, James. Not in the way you think.” She held a delicate palm out to him, beseechingly. “Please let me explain. I owe you that much.” Her voice broke, and when he didn’t take her outstretched hand, she let it drop to her side. “I am sorry,” she murmured again, her face ashen, and her eyes wounded pools.

  Sorry? Sorry? He didn’t want her God-damned apology. He wanted her!

  Something inside him splintered, fracturing into a million pieces, and where his heart had once been, an unfeeling stone replaced the mangled organ.

  He threw his head back and laughed, harsh and cynical. “You don’t owe me anything, Regine.” With that, he turned his back and stalked away, resolutely disregarding her sobs, her vows that she loved him, and her pleas for him to listen to her.

  Never again would he be taken in by a beautiful face or pledges of love and promises of forever.

  London, England

  Late January 1811

  Pulling the folds of her woolen-lined, velvet mantle snugger, Regine Maberly, Duchess of Heartwaite, shivered as she picked her way around several inconvenient puddles. Perhaps she ought to have accepted the coachman’s offer of a ride when he’d collected her packages, though the glover’s shop lay but one street over.

  Desiring the exercise, she’d opted to walk while completing her errands. But the gunmetal-gray sky sported a canopy of pouting clouds. She feared, much like a petulant child, they were about to make their displeasure known. Only in this case, in the form of an ugly downpour.

  Her bonnet’s scarlet ribbons flapped against her neck, both from her brisk pace—her boot heels rhythmically clacking and splashing her soggy progression—as well as the sulky wind’s stubborn resolve to finagle a means inside her cloak.

  The wind seemed determined to subject her sensitive nose to the mélange of foul odors, inevitably wafting about the city, too. Coal smoke, the dank aroma of The River Thames, as well as piles of waste and rubbish lining many of the streets all contributed to the fetid stench.

  Compared to the Borderlands, where she’d lived these past two years, London’s crisp, damp weather proved much milder. And yet, though she wore a redingote beneath the mantle, she couldn’t entirely prevent the shudder the biting chill caused to ripple the length of her spine.

  How she missed the warmer climes of the countries and islands she’d spent the first six years of her marriage visiting and exploring: Spain. Italy. India. Greece. Egypt. Even the Caribbean with its powdery beaches and vibrant rainbows of flowers.

  After Heartwaite’s death nearly two years ago—she’d always addressed him by his title at his behest—she’d considered living abroad permanently. She’d left England directly after her marriage and then had taken up residence in the country promptly upon returning. Thus, she’d eschewed an introduction to the haut ton all these years. A small and very welcome blessing, that.

  She’d never coveted a title and all the finery, trappings, and expectations that accompanied the position. Oh, she could play the part of peeress to perfection—Heartwaite had insisted upon it—but beneath the silks and lace and jewels, the finely coiffed hair and practiced politesse, she was a simple woman at heart.

  Plans to toddle back to the Continent had given her something to aspire to during the lengthy, lonely months of Heartwaite’s decline and the expected mourning period afterward.

  Unfortunately, fate—the willful, unrelenting force determined to up-end her life and plans—had interfered and decreed otherwise. Again. Blast Providence. Destiny. Fortune. Chance. Even blast the divine powers.

  Flattening her lips into a thin line, she wrestled her frustration into submission. Railing and complaining were futile and served no purpose other than to cause further discontent. Chin up, old girl, she admonished the minuscule rebellious part of her that seldom made itself known anymore.

  Resolutely reining in her melancholy musings, she lowered her head against the haranguing wind. The glovers was her last destination this afternoon. Within the hour, she’d be trotting up the steps to her cozy townhouse and enjoying a piping-hot cup of coffee while her sister sipped tea heavily laced with milk and sugar.

  The cold wind nipped at Regine’s cheeks, making her all that more eager for a cup of coffee to warm her. She’d acquired the taste for the rich brew during her travels and now preferred coffee to tea.

  More proof she no longer belonged in England. Nonetheless, she must endure. For now.

  Rather than join her on the outing, Juliet had begged to remain home and create valentines. Which, in truth, was a poorly constructed excuse to avoid venturing into public with her new spectacles.

  For Juliet’s sake, until her dearest younger sister made a match, Regine tarried in England. Or, if Juliet didn’t choose to marry, then to travel with her if that was her sister’s preference.

  Which it very well might be, given the cool reception they’d received in London so far. Few invitations had seen their way to the sisters’ rented Grosvenor Square doorstep since Regine had set up home in London. She suspected curiosity had prompted those half-dozen or so invites. A young, widowed duchess who’d managed to escape le beau monde’s watchful eye was a novelty.

  To be fair, however, she must concede it wasn’t the height of the Season.

  As she marched along, Regine permitted her mind to wander.

  Not so long ago—eight years wasn’t so very long, was it?—she wouldn’t have believed the numerous extraordinary places she’d have visited. And yet—yes, it is true—she’d forfeit every single adventure, every monument, museum, great wonder of nature, and grand marvel of man, to have been permitted to select a different path for her life. The route she’d yearned to take with all of her heart, mind, body, and spirit.

  If she’d only had herself to consider.

  Two laughing boys—arms wildly waving—darted past, drawing her back to the present and earning them a tolerant smile.

  Children. The one thing Heartwaite couldn’t give her. Involuntarily, she pursed her lips against the scrape of disappointment such reflection always produced. She’d known that was the case from the beginning, but that didn’t render the sting any less sharp.

  As she passed a coffeehouse, a dapper elderly gentleman and a petite lady of middling years, attired entirely in flamingo pink with copious pink and white feathers adorning her bonnet, exited. Regine couldn’t help but inhale the heady aroma of coffee, escaping the establishment through the open doorway.

  At once, the familiar smell transported her to Spain, and the delicious coffee she and Heartwaite had enjoyed there. She preferred hers heavily dosed with milk, while her husband had enjoyed his black with four sugar lumps.

  Pausing, she inspected the charming frontage, making a mental note of the coffeehouse’s name: Royale Roast Coffee Shoppe and Café. Perhaps she’d return another day and bring Juliet with her. Once her sister became accustomed to her new spectacles, and to seeing clearly, she’d welcome more outings. Hopefully.

  Regine cast one last appreciative glance over the quaint building. With its bright blue shutters and white gingerbread fretwork, it reminded her very much of something from a storybook. Her attention snagged on a man engrossed in a newssheet on the other side of a sparkling, clean window.

  No. It cannot be. Her heart stuttered to a halt then resumed beating with the swiftness of a winded Ascot racehorse. Heavens above.

  She pressed her fur-lined, ruby kid glove-covered fingertips to her mouth. A half-gasp, half-exclamation of distress lodged in
her throat upon recognizing familiar auburn hair with an endearing, unruly mahogany lock flopped over a high brow. His hair had always done that. How many times had she smoothed the silky strands of coppery-brown from that noble forehead?

  Head slanted in the manner that always bespoke deep concentration, he casually rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his chin.

  I’m not ready.

  She’d never be ready. Not if another eighty years came and went.

  Feet rooted to the wet pavement, she gawped, forcing people to skirt around her.

  James Brentwood. Good Lord.

  Even after all of this time, he had her at sixes and sevens.

  She hadn’t seen him in over eight years, but she would’ve recognized him anywhere. He looked much the same. Same straight blade of a nose, square chin, lips perfectly fashioned by God, and eyelids lowered over what she knew to be vibrant blue-green eyes. Intelligent eyes. Kind eyes. Eyes, which had once looked upon her with devotion and love.

  Such tender, reverent love.

  Followed by hurt. Confusion. Betrayal. And finally—the most wounding of all—disgust and antipathy. Even after all of this time, Regine’s lungs and stomach cramped with remembered pain, as if it had only been yesterday that she’d watched him stalk away from her.

  I’m sorry. So, very, very sorry.

  Swallowing reflexively, she lowered her hand from her mouth as she caught sight of herself reflected in the window. Blue eyes round and stunned and face pale as milk.

  And, devil a bit, if her smart, port-colored half-boots, didn’t carry her inside of their own volition. Even as her common sense and self-preservation ordered her to walk on.

  To forget James Brentwood. To protect her fragile heart.

  Piffle and twaddle. Regine wasn’t a shrinking violet. Never had been. A swift Hello and, How are you? ought to suffice. After all, to ignore him would be the height of poor manners. Hadn’t they been neighbors for over fifteen years? They’d been much more, as well.

  He probably doesn’t even know I’ve returned to London.

  He would soon enough.

  Regine slipped inside the cozy eatery, her attention riveted on James, and filled her lungs with the welcoming aromas. Robust coffee beans, heady tea, sweet chocolate, baking spices, and other delicious smells met her nostrils. Her tummy gurgled, reminding her she’d forgone her midday meal, and her light breakfast had consisted of coffee and toast.

  She half-wished he’d glance up and see her and half-hoped he wouldn’t. An urge to turn around and flee so overwhelmed her, she felt almost faint. Or perchance hunger made her light-headed. More likely, trepidation did.

  After sweeping a glance around the room, she returned the smiles of a pair of twinkling-eyed, apple-cheeked matrons nattering in one corner. A precocious towheaded boy, sitting on his knees and dragging a spotted toy horse along the back of his chair while making neighing noises, grinned at her, revealing a missing front tooth.

  A pair of gentlemen—bankers perhaps given their somber black suits—paused in their animated discussion to turn and boldly inspect her, their appreciative smiles and slightly inappropriate gazes, making her uneasy. Edging her chin upward, she focused on James—the man she’d once loved with all of her heart.

  How could a gentleman turned out entirely in black, save his starched shirt and confection of a cravat, be so hopelessly attractive? So sculpted? Splendid? Virile?

  Heat suffused her. Good God. What had prompted that particular thought?

  He’d stretched his strapping legs beneath the table and crossed his ankles. Though the chair was of average size, his tall, powerfully built frame and preposterously broad shoulders dwarfed the sturdy piece of furniture.

  Like a woman long-starved, Regine permitted her gaze to feast upon him and his sheer male essence. Memories flooded her: his breath whispering across her cheek; his strong fingers threaded through her hair; his solid body pressed to hers as he showered kisses upon her face and mouth.

  Oh, James.

  Of a sudden, Regine became aware she stared at him like a calf-eyed ninny. Her cheeks flamed hot—probably as ruddy as her shockingly bright mantle. Nothing like gawking in the manner of a gauche schoolgirl instead of a mature, widowed duchess. A world-traveler, woman of independent means, and guardian to a fifteen-year-old girl.

  Regine refused to peek from beneath her lashes and determine if any of the patrons had noticed her uncouthness. Better not to know. Ignorance being bliss and all that.

  In a few short heartbeats and an equal number of surprisingly steady steps, she stood indecisively beside his table. Her stomach wobbled with a whorl of emotion, and her pulse quickened, the blood sluicing through her veins at an alarming speed.

  Approaching him was a mistake. She should turn and leave. Now. That would be the wise thing to do. Yes, but she was well and done with doing what was wise and expected. Hence her unfashionably loud attire.

  Unfashionable for England, perhaps, but quite acceptable in the foreign places she’d stayed. She’d always preferred bright colors, and as a widow, she felt no compulsion to conform to Society’s expectations.

  Absorbed in his newssheet, James Brentwood didn’t glance up but shook his head while lifting a lean, staying finger.

  Remorse buffeting her, Regine permitted her gaze to brush every dear angle and plane of his face. How many times had she run her fingertips over his angular jaw? Kissed his slightly too-strong chin?

  “No more of your delicious coffee for me, Mrs. Delaney,” he murmured, distractedly. “Sleep will elude me until the wee hours if I indulge.”

  She closed her eyes for a long blink.

  Lord. His voice.

  The mellow timbre had haunted her dreams for years. Her daytime reveries, as well.

  Sometimes, when she was in a half-awake, half-asleep fog, she’d believe James spoke her name. She’d come fully awake, calling his name, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. And when she realized it had only been a dream, overcome with fulminating regret, she’d bury her face in the lavender-scented, satin-covered pillow and let sorrow have its way.

  Dragging in a ragged breath and with her stomach flopping as frantically as a beached trout, she laced her fingers together. And squeezed. Tightly. Outwardly, she appeared serenely composed and unaffected, but inside she was a tumultuous, careening wreck. An apt description of her life for almost a decade now.

  “I’m not Mrs. Delaney, James,” Regine managed, through a throat too taut for speech and cursing to herself for the revealing, tremulous tenor. Consternation scuffed against gladness as she awaited his reaction.

  He went rigid, his jaw, neck, and shoulders noticeably tensing beneath her scrutiny. Not a doubt remained that he hadn’t recognized her voice.

  Gradually, as if bracing himself for an assault or battle, he brought those startling aquamarine orbs fringed with sooty lashes to meet her gaze. He’d always had the most memorable turquoise eyes. Eyes a woman yearned to dive into and explore their mesmerizing, enigmatic depths and mine the treasures within.

  And now that she’d seen glistening tropical oceans, she knew exactly what shade his eyes were—the sea surrounding the Isle of Crete just after dawn. And every time she’d looked upon that glittering water, she’d thought of him. Wished it was him at her side. Him watching her from across the breakfast table or with her as she exclaimed over another marvel of man or nature. Always and forever, James.

  For an instant, unrestrained joy shone in his unflinching gaze. Then, his blistering eyes pierced her with withering scorn before a bland expression masked the emotion with the alacrity and might of a lightning bolt strike. Shutting her out as effectively as if he’d slammed and secured shutters or battened down the hatches of a ship.

  Were his teeth clenched? Aye, indeed. A muscle definitely ticked in his jaw.

  Regine dropped her focus to the hand resting on his thigh. Balled tight. Her treacherous attention shifted ever-so-slightly to the lump his fitted pantaloons couldn’t h
ide. Latent desire took root in her belly.

  He’d always affected her thus. Whereas once she’d gloried in her attraction to him, now it was a burden.

  “Your Grace.” Harsh. Cold. Unwelcoming.

  Rejection and pain scissored sharp and lethal, shredding her initial exhilaration at seeing him after all of this time. Scooting her gaze to the floor, Regine took a second to marshal her composure and arm her battlements. Definitely not a greeting one would welcome from the man she’d almost married. A man she’d wanted to wed from the depths of her soul, but circumstances had forced her to take a different road.

  If only—

  One could not live one’s life reminiscing over if-onlys and what-ifs. The past was the past, and it was best left behind. Except, she’d never forgotten him. Never purged him from her aching heart or wrenched him from her soul.

  Without waiting for an invitation, and somewhat astonished at her brashness, given he was not at all as happy to see her as she was to see him, she slipped into the chair beside him. She pointedly pretended not to notice the battle-hardened glower he leveled her.

  She could collect Juliet’s gloves another day. And bring her sister with her. They were for Juliet, after all.

  This meeting with James was more important and long—so very long—overdue. A swift, subtle glance around revealed the other patrons had returned their attentions to their companions and refreshments.

  With abrupt, efficient movements, he wordlessly folded the newssheet into a neat rectangle. After laying it aside, he turned those brooding, hooded eyes upon her. He’d grant her no quarter, then.

  Had she honestly expected any different?

  After slipping her reticule off her wrist—the letter within making it a trifle stiff and poking out the top a bit—Regine placed the purse atop the table and offered a ghost of a bittersweet smile as she removed her gloves.

  It truly was good to see him, but also heart-wrenching.

  Being with James felt like coming home, and she realized just how homesick she’d been. Much like a person deprived of the sun for too long, he warmed her, comforted her. She wanted to sit and soak up his presence.