Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  “Marry me, Regine.” He said into her hair. “Marry me, and we can begin again.”

  Joy blossomed across her face, and she gifted him with a radiant smile. “Yes.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  Bainbridges’ Valentine’s Day Ball

  One week later

  Regine smiled into her husband’s eyes as James whirled her around the sanded ballroom floor in perfect time to the waltz’s lilting melody. They’d been married this morning with only Juliet, James’s sisters, and their husbands in attendance.

  She sent letters to Christiana and Marian, announcing her nuptials, but hadn’t invited them to the ceremony. Neither she nor James had wanted to wait to learn if they could make the journey to Town.

  Regine was, in a word—or two actually—blissfully happy. Ecstatic. Fine. Three words.

  Juliet had become accustomed to her spectacles, and thanks to James’s encouragement and kindly attention, she wore them like a badge of honor. Dimpling at him and Regine, her eyes sparkling with mischief and mirth, she’d made a very pretty apology for sending the valentine on Regine’s behalf.

  George-Curtis had taken himself off to his country seat after a brief meeting with James and his partners at the firm. James assured her that her nemesis would harass her no more.

  And now, Regine danced in the arms of the man she’d loved for her entire life.

  “I love you, Mrs. Brentwood,” he whispered in her ear, edging her closer than propriety permitted. Though she was entitled to keep her title, Regine made it very clear, she preferred missus over your grace.

  She, once so conscious of decorum, pressed into him, not giving a whit that the gossips’ tongues would wag all over London tomorrow about the Brentwoods’ scandalous behavior at the ball. Tilting her head, she said, “I love you, too. So very, very much.” And then to give the tattlemongers on dit to bandy about, she touched a wisp of a kiss to his mouth.

  A low growl rumbled in his throat. “Wife, if you keep that up, I’ll cause a scandal that will be on the ton’s tongues for the next decade.” His smoldering gaze lowered to her décolletage. “I might, in any event.”

  The smile she gave him held a promise. She’d chosen her gown to please him, and not le beau monde. Designed by a very exclusive French modiste, the gown’s fabric was a shimmering iridescent crimson. The color appeared to ebb and flow as she moved.

  Regine had wanted to see the heat of desire in her husband’s green-blue eyes. She’d succeeded. Peeking up at him from beneath her lashes, she wet her lower lip. “We don’t have to stay, if you’d—”

  Before she’d finished her sentence, he’d seized her gloved hand in his and, with one arm around her waist, guided her from the glittering ballroom. “What say we start our honeymoon, early, sweetheart?”

  “I’d say that was a very fine idea, indeed.”

  Isle of Crete

  9 June 1816

  James squinted against the early morning sun cloaking the patio and stark white stucco buildings. Below him, the turquoise Cretan Sea sparkled, a myriad of diamonds against the pristine, powdery sand.

  Regine hadn’t exaggerated the island’s beauty nor its charm. Since marrying five and a half years ago, they spent a month here every summer, and each time, it became harder to return to London.

  In truth, more and more of late, he’d contemplated living half of the year in Greece. After a few additional wise investments and conferring with Stapleton Shipping and Supplies as to the best use of her ship, he and Regine were in a financial position where he wasn’t required to work as a solicitor any longer. Well, at least not to charge a fee for his services. He’d continue his pro bono work for those unable to afford to hire a lawyer.

  There’d be time to discuss those contemplations when they returned to England, for they must leave on the morrow. Regine expected their third child within the month and, call him old-fashioned, he wanted their baby born on British soil.

  Yawning, he stretched his arms overhead and tipped his lips upward when slender arms slid around his middle from behind. Regine flattened her palms against his naked chest and pressed a hot kiss to his shoulder blade, her scantily clad breasts brushing his back.

  Desire promptly hardened his groin.

  “What are you doing awake so early?” He turned and gathered his sleep-rumpled wife into his arms and kissed the crown of her head. The fragrances of apples and spices met his nostrils.

  Her hair lay in a tangle of silky raven curls about her shoulders and waist, and she smiled up at him, trailing her fingers across his collar bone in a seductress’s invitation. “I missed you, and I’m hungry.” She patted her swollen tummy through her gown’s gossamer-thin fabric.

  James cocked an eyebrow and lowered his mouth to her shell-like ear. “I have just the thing to satiate your hunger, my sweet.” He rotated his hips until his groin brushed the apex of her thighs.

  “I’m sure you do.” A winged sable brow shied high on her forehead as she glanced at the distinct bulge straining against his pantaloons. “I fear you’ll have to wait, darling. I’ve already ordered coffee, melomakarona, and bougasta. I truly am quite ravenous.”

  “Ah, pastries to break your fast again, my love?” Her appetite for food and other things had increased as the babe grew within her. She wasn’t the least jot shy or timid about satisfying either.

  Thank God.

  He lay a palm over her distended tummy and, bending low, murmured. “How are you this morning, little one?”

  She chuckled and covered his hand with both of hers as the baby gave a sound kick. “He is determined to let his mama and papa know he’s ready to come into this world.”

  “He?” James grinned as the baby kicked again. “You’re certain it’s a boy this time?”

  She nodded and shoved her ebony hair over her left shoulder. “Yes. He. The girls were never so rambunctious in the womb, nor was I constantly famished.” She’d been terribly ill the first three months of this pregnancy, too.

  “No, our daughters’ waited to be born to display their high-spirits,” he said, drawing her to his side and nuzzling the sensitive spot below her ear. “Much like their mother.”

  She drew back, an affected pout upon her plump mouth. “I beg your pardon? I am, at all times, the epitome of decorum.”

  He looked pointedly to the mussed bed and made a low, dissenting sound in his throat.

  A delightful blush turned her cheeks pink, but she only nestled closer. “I didn’t hear you complaining about my high-spirits last night, husband.”

  “Never,” he murmured against her satiny throat before kissing and licking a trail to her high, firm breasts. Every day, he thanked God for bringing Regine back into his life, and every day, he grew to love her impossibly more.

  Arching her neck, she gave a soft moan, then whispered breathlessly, “Perhaps I might delay breaking my fast—”

  Before she finished the sentence, he scooped her into his arms, and in a half-dozen strides, laid her atop the tousled sheets. Bracing one elbow beside her, he rested his head in his hand while he leisurely explored the delicious cleft between her bountiful breasts with the fingers of his other hand. Leaning to graze his mouth across hers, he murmured, “I love you, Regine.”

  Her brilliant blue eyes softened at the corners as answering adoration shone from them. Cupping his face with her hands, she stared straight into the depths of his soul. “And I love you, James. Now, forever, and beyond eternity.”

  Before you go, if you enjoyed SEDUCTIVE SCOUNDRELS BOOKS 4-6 please consider leaving a review.

  USA Today Bestselling, award-winning author COLLETTE CAMERON® scribbles Scottish and Regency historicals featuring dashing rogues and scoundrels and the intrepid damsels who re-form them. Blessed with an overactive and witty muse that won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she’s lived in Oregon her entire life, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-time. A self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic, you'll always fin
d a dash of inspiration and a pinch of humor in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances®.

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  Dearest Reader,

  Thank you for reading SEDUCTIVE SCOUNDRELS SERIES BOOKS 4-6.

  I hope you spent many hours, escaping to Regency England with the heroines and heroes. I've introduced you to several other characters, and their stories are coming soon.

  Although I strive to be as historically accurate as possible, I do take a bit of creative license with my romances. After all, they are historical romance with the emphasis on romance rather than historical fiction, where the emphasis is on the historical aspect.

  Please consider telling other readers why you enjoyed this book by reviewing it. I also truly adore hearing from my readers. You can contact me at my website below. I also have a fabulous VIP Reader Group on Facebook. If you're a fan of my books and historical romance, I'd love to have you join me. That link is below as well.

  I so appreciate you reading my stories. I never intended to be an author, but once I dipped my toes into the writing world, I was hooked. I don't plan on ever retiring.

  Many blessings to you!

  Hugs,

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  NEVER DANCE WITH A DUKE

  Seductive Scoundrels Series, Book Seven

  A Historical Regency Romance

  The cost of trust is more than she’s willing to pay. But he’ll do everything he can to change her mind…

  A scandal ruined her future…

  Nicolette Twistleton delights in thumbing her nose at Society. After all, becoming the Spiteful Spinster was what helped her through being jilted by her betrothed. Putting her faith in another man? Impossible. But there’s something about the entirely too handsome and charming Mathias Pembroke that makes her wish she was the kind of woman who could learn to trust again.

  A secret can destroy his…

  Mathias, Duke of Westfall, wants nothing to do with his inherited title and all the public scrutiny it brings. He has dark secrets to protect, and can’t afford to be distracted by the trappings of Society. What he apparently can be distracted by, however, is the lovely Nicolette. He understands her pain and knows he could help her heal…if only she were willing to open her heart to him.

  Can love save them both?

  When ghosts from the past emerge and threaten the fragile bonds they’ve begun to build, Nicolette and Mathias find themselves caught between their feelings for each other and devastating scandal. Will love be enough to protect them—or was their happily ever after doomed from the very start?

  NEVER DANCE WITH A DUKE

  Seductive Scoundrels, Book Seven

  Hyde Park, London

  Morning, 15 May 1810

  Nicolette Twistleton puffed out a soft, poignant sigh as she strolled the sun-dappled footpath along the southern bank of the Serpentine in Hyde Park.

  Bella, her pug puppy, frolicked about, yanking on her leash in an energetic attempt to investigate every single thing she happened upon: leaves, sticks, insects, rocks, worms, people— and their shoes. She had a particular penchant for the latter, which she thoroughly enjoyed ruining with her needle-like teeth.

  Thus far, a trio of Nicolette’s slippers and a pair of half-boots had met a gruesome end.

  A pair of brownish-gray mourning doves swooped across the pathway, landing beneath a flowering cherry tree’s heavily laden branches. Cooing softly, they touched bills, in what almost appeared to be an avian kiss.

  Several feet behind Nicolette—enough to permit a bit of privacy but not so much as to cause raised eyebrows—her maid, Jane, carried Nicolette’s parasol and hummed softly to herself.

  A distracted half-smile curving her mouth, Jane twirled the plump pink peony she’d plucked from the front flower bed when they left the house an hour ago.

  Jane was madly in love.

  She and Jack, one of the Twistleton grooms, were to wed next month. Her dreamy expression and wistful sighs were beginning to wear on Nicolette’s tattered nerves, however. As happy as she was for the loyal servant, she couldn’t prevent the reoccurring twinge in the region of her heart.

  Oh, the pang most assuredly was not envy.

  No indeed—God forbid such a wholly ludicrous idea.

  The familiar ache was a bitter reminder of Nicolette’s absolute humiliation and devastation two years ago. Her then betrothed, Alfonse Bremerton, the Duke of Kilbourne, had jilted her a mere four hours before they were to have exchanged vows at St. George’s Church. After the odious churl had danced with her thrice at a ball the night before, pretending to be the doting soon-to-be groom.

  When his note had arrived the morn of their wedding day, she’d eagerly opened it, expecting a love note.

  Nicolette,

  I cannot marry you.

  Forgive me.

  K

  Kilbourne hadn’t even deemed her worthy of an endearment.

  Seven words.

  Twelve short syllables.

  Thirteen if you counted Alfonse’s initial, which she did not.

  That was all it took to destroy Nicolette’s life, her plans for the future, and make her determined never to trust a rogue again. Or even marry for that matter.

  How could she possibly ever trust her gullible heart again?

  By the time she’d received her former betrothed’s cryptic note calling off their wedding, the cowardly cur was already half-way to Gretna Green with Maribelle Grosenick—a vulgarly rich heiress hailing from America.

  Even more mortifying—salt in an already festering wound—Kilbourne’s heir, a healthy male child, had entered the world a mere six-and one-half months later. Irrefutable proof that the blackguard had been playing Nicolette false during their courtship.

  And he’d dared—dared, by God!—to plead with her to consummate their vows the eve of their wedding. After all, they were to exchange vows on the morrow, he’d cajoled, and all the while, Kilbourne had been plotting to scorn her.

  Scapegrace. Hog-grubber. Jackanape.

  Typical man—controlled by that thing between his legs and not the brain in the head atop his shoulders. And most assuredly not governed by any sense of decency, honor, or chivalry.

  “Contemptible, maggot-patted bounder.” She snorted, loudly and most indelicately, earning her a curious look from Bella’s big brown eyes and also sending the cooing doves to wing.

  “No, I wasn’t talking to you, my precious darling,” Nicolette told the sweet little dog, she acquired the purebred pug in Colechester two months ago. Bending, she patted Bella’s soft head, earning a doggy grin in return. “Are you having fun?”

  Tongue lolling, Bella gazed at her adoringly and promptly tried to nip Nicolette’s gloved fingers in an attempt to play. Everything was a chew toy for the teething pup.

  Thank goodness for this little dog who’d helped ease the sadness and loneliness Nicolette hid from the world behind a carefully constructed contradictory facade: part carefree flirt and part coldly aloof spinster.

  She donned her mask of gay coquette and pretended to all of the world that she didn’t have a single care. That being jilted hadn’t affected her in the least. Until a man became too familiar or forward, then she retreated into an icy shell.

  Men never knew which she’d be, on any given occasion, and s
he preferred it that way. It kept them slightly off-balance, which meant they couldn’t ever get close to her. And if they couldn’t get close, she ran no risk of heartbreak again.

  It also kept the gentlemen from presuming too much. And Nicolette’s caustic tongue deterred even the more daring of the bucks from over boldness. She’d once overheard two matrons declaring Nicolette’s tongue was sharp enough to scrape barnacles from a ship.

  Bah, she scolded herself for allowing her mind to wander down these melancholy paths on such a lovely day.

  She was better off without Kilbourne.

  That, she now knew to be an unqualified fact. For a man who’d stray while betrothed would assuredly do so once vows had been exchanged.

  Had Maribelle considered that when she’d dallied with another’s affianced?

  She ought to have.

  For if the rumors were accurate—and there was generally a tidbit of truth in all tattle if one dug around enough to find the nugget—he’d recently become romantically entangled with an Italian opera singer.

  Another sound of disgust echoed in Nicolette’s throat.

  That made his fifth mistress since marrying.

  Perchance, the lure of a title had sufficed for Maribelle, and after providing the requisite heir, she was content with her lot. Gossip also had it that the Duchess of Kilbourne was in the Americas for an extensive visit.

  So perhaps, she’d come to her senses, after all.

  Nevertheless, from that fateful day onward, at twenty years old, Nicolette had relegated love and all of the other flimflam associated with the useless emotion to a fusty, secluded corner of her heart. Where, in time, she hoped to forget she’d ever entertained such foolish, fanciful notions.