Poor dear. Miss Sweeting radiated loneliness. And no wonder. With no one but a maid for companionship and a negligent nephew wont to visit once a year at most, Miss Sweeting would have had no company if it weren’t for Katrina and her mother’s twice weekly calls. During the Season, when the Needhams resided in London, Katrina doubted Miss Sweeting had any guests at all.
Her expectant expression tweaked Katrina’s heart as she resumed her seat and attended to her gloves, straightening the inside-out fingertips.
Skimming his appreciative, too-forward gaze over Katrina, The Saint fished an ornate silver stopwatch from his fawn-and-charcoal-striped waistcoat. “I can spare a few minutes since I’m not likely to complete all my business in London today, and I expect I’ll be obligated to lodge there tonight in any event.”
“Wonderful.” Miss Sweeting beamed and clapped her hands once. “Please pull the bell for Dalton. She’ll prepare a lovely tray in no time.”
The movement jostled Percival, and he opened an eye disdainfully, sending Katrina a baleful glare. Animals adored her—all except this cantankerous feline.
St. Monté dutifully summoned the servant before returning to stand beside his aunt’s chair, his stance wide and commanding. Taller, broader, infinitely more powerful than he’d been five years ago, he focused his tawny, penetrating gaze upon Katrina.
His eyes ...
At once, her spencer and morning gown became heavy. Cloying. She fanned her flushed face with her hand. Merciful God. Most assuredly, she ailed. Best to depart for home straightaway lest she contaminate Miss Sweeting or find herself confined to bed when dearest Richard returned in … in …
A skeptical eyebrow arched the merest bit over The Saint’s hooded eyes.
That was, when her beloved Richard returned next …
A sensual smile, probably designed to assault Katrina’s senses, tipped St. Monté’s mouth, and his other bold eyebrow arced, joining the first on his tanned forehead.
Devil it, whenever Richard finally returned from his gallivanting.
His posture that of a captain braced atop his ship’s rolling deck, St. Monté shifted, locking his hands behind him. His black coat drew taut across the breadth of his preposterously broad chest and bulging biceps.
Not that Katrina had noticed the wide planes or exceptional muscles, any more than his anchored stance that emphasized his strong, buckskin-covered thighs and manhood. Or his finely honed cheekbones and contoured jawline, which fairly screamed rogue.
Knave. Rakehell. Scoundrel.
She was ill. Why else did her mind wander like a warbling brook?
Katrina doggedly dredged up Richard’s form, summoning the hazy image from deep within her illusive memory’s bowels. He sported a powerful physique too, her conscience chastised, while another part, the part quite improperly taken with St. Monté, jibed in an annoying singsong voice, Not as grand as The Saint, by any means, most particularly his manly parts.
Oh, my God. Do think of something else, Katrina. Anything else.
Katrina mentally stomped on her ruminations and scrambled for a harmless topic. Lodgings. Yes. Perfectly boring.
Except for the bed part, the irksome voice in her head trilled.
Shut up!
“If you’re not a member of any of the gentlemen’s clubs ...” Would he keep active memberships when he sailed most months out of the year? “I recommend you seek lodgings at The Steven’s Hotel. It’s less posh than Grenier’s Hotel as well as Mivart’s, but officers favor it, and since you’re a sea captain ...”
That was where Richard stayed when in London, and he liked the place very well indeed.
“Aunt Bertie,” The Saint flashed a neat row of square, white teeth, a startling contrast to his olive skin, “would you honor me with an introduction to your lovely guest?”
Chapter Two
Katrina flinched at Captain St. Monté’s casual request, her pride smarting from the unintended jab his words caused. He’d forgotten her entirely. Erased her from his memory as easily and thoroughly as a gobbled crumpet or a piece of foolscap tossed into the fireplace.
Rather chafed her pride, it did.
His aunt’s eyes and mouth rounded, and she halted petting Percival. “But my dear boy, surely you recognize Miss Needham.”
Katrina cocked her head expectantly.
No acknowledgment registered in St. Monté’s feline eyes.
Rot.
“Daughter to Bridget and Hugo Needham?” Miss Sweeting coaxed. “The banker who advanced you the funds to purchase The Weeping Siren?”
Even Katrina’s encouraging smile produced not so much as a glimmer of recognition.
Double rot and bother.
Well, The Saint really couldn’t be blamed. Surely Miss Sweeting didn’t expect her man-of-the-world nephew to remember a bumbling teenager he’d met but once, years ago? Still, it did rather deflate Katrina’s self-esteem to be so thoroughly unremarkable and completely unremembered.
Canting his head and narrowing his eyes, St. Monté studied her.
Oh, for pity’s sake. She would come to his rescue, though he didn’t deserve it and her pulverized pride shrieked in umbrage.
“We met but once, Captain St. Monté. Though that time, you prowled this salon like a great caged cat.” Managing to wrest her wayward attention from him, lest he see her chagrin, Katrina set her gloves beside her. This most definitely would be a shorter visit than usual. “I presumed you yearned to return to your schooner.”
Like she yearned to quit this room and his keen perusal. Desperately.
Even at one-and-twenty, he’d exuded an untamed, masculine grace as he clawed at his neckcloth and paced his aunt’s dainty, feminine parlor. Uncomfortable in his formal togs, he’d shaken his overly long sun-bleached mane, his fern-green, topaz-flecked gaze alighting on Katrina for a disconcerting moment or two.
Still longer than fashionable, his streaked hair suited him, as did his bronzed features and even the whitish scar starkly contrasting his swarthy skin. Each proclaimed he’d lived an adventurer’s life, and how much grander that must be than playing cards at White’s, ogling horseflesh at Tattersall’s, or dancing set after set at tonnish event after tonnish event.
An envious sigh bubbled up her throat.
“Forgive me, but of course I remember you, Miss Needham. How could I not?”
Katrina’s disbelieving, artfully plucked eyebrows wrestled each other in their scramble to touch her hairline first, and her “Indeed?” rang dryer than month-old bread left in summer sun.
A slow smile hitched St. Monté’s mouth. “Though you were still in the schoolroom, I believe, and blushed pink as strawberry preserves each time I glanced anywhere near your direction.”
He would recall that.
Awkward, gangly, with a horrid propensity for spots on her chin and forehead, but desirous to experience society fuss too, Katrina had been thrilled to accompany Mama to visit Miss Sweeting that day. Captain St. Monté’s presence had been an unexpected bonus, and she’d become immediately infatuated, as green girls are wont to do. For a solid year, he’d been the hero of many a romantic daydream.
Very well, considerably longer than a year, but Katrina hadn’t given The Saint more than a passing thought since meeting Richard, notwithstanding her bi-weekly visits to Miss Sweeting. But those musings weren’t voluntary. No, indeed. Miss Sweeting, without a jot of compunction, thrust them upon Katrina, regaling her with The Saint’s latest exploits and commendations.
How, as a young woman bored stiffer than a fireplace poker with Society and yearning for her own adventures, was she to resist succumbing to fanciful imaginings?
Eyeing him, Katrina affected an affronted air and notched her chin upward an inch. “I’ll have you know, my good sir, I thought myself quite grown up at fifteen, as do all girls that age.”
“Ah, fifteen.” Two words that insinuated more. Much more.
She could almost hear his mind clacking away, calculating her age and po
ndering why, at twenty, she remained unwed. The answer was quite simple really, and rather insipid too. Until she’d met Richard, no other man had toppled The Saint from the venerated pedestal she’d perched him upon. He was to blame for her unmarried state.
Nonsensical twaddle, mooning over and fancying herself in love with the boy-man she’d met but one time. Perhaps the innocent girl she’d once been had truly loved the wild, daring St. Monté, but the woman she’d become idolized her calm, steadfast Richard.
Dalton entered, her shoulders and neck every bit as starched as the pristine apron covering her plain, black gown. Her genial tone and the affection glimmering in her eyes belied her stiff demeanor. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Please take this basket to the kitchen and prepare a tea tray. Nic will be joining us after all.” From her delighted expression, Miss Sweeting couldn’t have been more pleased if Prinny had taken tea with her. She pointed to the basket then drew her shawl snugger. “Oh, and do add another log to the fire, please. I’m quite chilled today. My stiff bones and the pouting clouds tell me a storm’s coming.”
Gads no, not another bloody log. Sticky with sweat, Kristina would require a bath when she returned home as it was. Her alarm must have shown, for Captain St. Monté collected a surprisingly charming cream blanket from the couch’s humped back.
“Let’s wrap another throw around you, Aunt Bertie.” He slipped the soft, knitted afghan about her thin shoulders. “I fear your guest is about to melt into a puddle, though I confess, I’m accustomed to much warmer climes, and the heat doesn’t bother me overly much.”
Of course it didn’t. The devil quite enjoyed gallivanting about in hell’s bowels. Probably paraded about his schooner’s decks half-naked too.
That I should like to see ...
“Thank you, Nic.” Miss Sweeting scrunched her nose a mite, still raking her fingers through Percival’s fur. “You do appear quite flushed, Miss Needham. Perhaps you should remove your spencer.”
And reveal her damp bosom and back? The fabric would cling most inappropriately. “I’m not all that warm. I shall be fine.”
As soon as she stripped naked and plunged into an ice bath.
In three strides, Captain St. Monté reached the fireplace and set about poking the cavorting flames into a demure blaze. “There, this should keep you warm, Aunt Bertie, without overheating Miss Needham.”
Not a jot of moisture glinted on his face while distinct dampness pooled beneath Katrina’s arms and trickled down her spine. Between her breasts too, dash it all. A saturated sponge oozed less moisture than her at the moment.
And there he stood, bronzed and dry, the flickering fire illumining his noble profile. When he extinguished the incense, Katrina almost whooped with gratitude.
“Next time, Bertie, love, light one incense when you can ventilate the room well. I wouldn’t want you to suffer ill-effects from my gift.”
“You’re so considerate of me, Nic.” Miss Sweeting sank further into her chair and shut her eyes.
A faint frown drew Katrina’s brows together. Mayhap she’d suggest Mama have Doctor Cutter pay Miss Sweeting a visit. She’d lost more weight, and her pallor troubled Katrina.
Line’s bracketed The Saint’s eyes, too, as he scrutinized his aunt.
A droplet seeped onto Katrina’s temple.
God help her, but ripping off her spencer and dumping the vase’s water over her head truly tempted. Instead, she withdrew the scented lacy accessory passing for her handkerchief and, the instant St. Monté sauntered to his aunt, swiftly patted her face and scooted as far from the fire as the sofa allowed.
Ladies didn’t mop perspiration from their person in front of gentlemen, though why they weren’t permitted to boggled. Women sweated too.
Think of something else.
“What brings you to Richmond, Captain St. Monté? Do you sail again soon?” She couldn’t very well ask him what ships he planned to plunder next. Or what salacious ports he most preferred.
Miss Sweeting’s eyelids popped open. “Oh, dear. You don’t know. I’d quite forgotten.” She rested a gnarled hand upon his fingers cupping her shoulder. “Nic’s circumstances have undergone a rather unexpected and dramatic change.”
“I’ll say they have.” An undercurrent of derision weighted The Saint’s flippant remark.
Had his lettre de marque been rescinded? What would he do now?
The sea had been St. Monté’s life these past fourteen years, since he’d stowed away on a cutter at twelve, and his near legendary exploits traveled High Society’s most elite circles.
A fortune nudged open many doors, as Papa and Mama had discovered. Aristocratic by-blows sipped Champagne and enjoyed caviar and truffles side by side with those born on the right side of the blanket. Might The Saint now enter the social fray he’d formerly scorned?
“May I assume we’ll have the pleasure of your presence more often?” Katrina oughtn’t to have been so giddy at the notion. Richard wouldn’t approve, even if he wasn’t overtly jealous. Really, betwixt the two, rough pirate or polished officer, only Richard should’ve appealed. That Captain St. Monté also did, perplexed her no end.
St. Monté’s left eyebrow elevated in a lofty and sardonic manner again.
Did he use that expression when facing the captains whose ships he’d pillaged?
“Some mightn’t consider my presence all that pleasurable,” he said, that same mockery tinging his words.
“I beg your pardon.” Oddly discomfited, Katrina directed her gaze to her wadded handkerchief, crushing the tormented scrap. “It wasn’t my intent to pry.”
Burning curiosity piqued, nonetheless, and she studied him through her lashes.
Satire, rather than humor, kicked his well-formed mouth upward on one side. “No need to apologize, Miss Needham, and I must ask forgiveness for my boorish behavior.”
“Truly, your plans are none of my concern.” But she’d like to make them hers. She might love another, but her fascination with the infamous Scoundrel of the Sea hadn’t waned a jot.
“Oh, pooh.” Miss Sweeting flapped her bony hand. “Tell her, Nic. No doubt the news has swept all of London by now.” A gleeful smile pleated her eyes’ wrinkled corners even more. “I’d love to see the faces of those pompous highbrows now, I would. We’ll see who cuts whom.” She tittered before coughing again.
“Oh, and why is that?” Katrina’s attention vacillated between Miss Sweeting and The Saint.
“It seems, Miss Needham, my sire was more of a cockscum than I’d formerly comprehended. Upon the death abroad of my half-brother and stepmother last month, certain information has come to light. Information my father made certain be revealed in order for his seed to retain the dukedom, no matter the scandal or disgrace doing so caused innocent others.”
All traces of the lighthearted swashbuckler vanished, replaced by a pitiless pirate.
Immobile, hardly daring to breathe, Katrina ceased fiddling with her handkerchief. A frisson—no, more of a chilling shudder, truth to tell—jolted her from shoulder to toe. Only an idiot would cross him.
“What sort of information?” Blast her impetuous, babbling tongue and infinite inquisitiveness.
Chapter Three
Nic swept her a courtly, albeit mocking bow. “Formerly Dominic Horatio St. Monté, the Duke of Pendergast’s bastard eldest son, I am—always have been, it seems—the dukedom’s true, legal heir.”
Aunt Bertie clapped her hands and laughed. “Isn’t it absolutely brilliant?”
Brilliant? Not by half.
Familiar rage-induced restlessness gripped Nic, and, jaw set, he paced the threadbare carpet to the shabbily curtained window before marching the return route. A growl, part frustration and part fury, lurked deep in his throat, choking him. He repeated the journey across the room until he’d reined his ire in a modicum.
Astonishment darkened Miss Needham’s eyes from a tropical lagoon’s clear, vivid blue to the sea’s cobalt horizon before a hurricane, and h
er lips, more ripe plum than petal pink, rounded delightfully in shock.
“I’d not heard of his grace’s and her grace’s passing,” she said, quietly, sympathy brimming in her eyes. “Please accept my sincerest condolences.”
Nic dipped his head. He hadn’t grieved, and guilt jabbed needle-sharp darts into his conscience. How could he grieve for people he’d never met? Nor had he rejoiced upon learning the title legally belonged to him.
Unexpectedly inheriting a dukedom and his sisters’ potential guardianship splayed him, leaving a gaping chasm he’d no idea how to fill or breach, except with fury. Yet he refused to give Pendergast that power over him. Anger and rage turned a person bitter, ate away until hatred directed their every thought, every decision.
Still, he was woefully unprepared for his new role.
Lacking his peers’ polished manners—artificial though they might be—he claimed but a rudimentary education. Letters and numbers he’d learned at Aunt Bertie’s small, square kitchen table, and upon the coarse decks of various ships, he’d mastered three languages, navigation, swordsmanship, and other skills required to captain a ship.
Nic favored rum and whisky to ratafia and wine, an unlaced shirt to a neckcloth’s choking embrace, and his women well-rounded and equally experienced rather than svelte, virginal misses likely to swoon at a vulgar oath. He didn’t dance or converse well either, and the discomfort his elevated position had already caused rivaled a prestigious carbuncle.
On his arse.
Not that he’d ever personally experienced that particular nastiness, but his first mate, Rhye O’Hearnan, had, and his bony bum still bore the impressive scar.
Nic preferred battling two pirate crews at once rather than finagle balls, parlors, or Almack’s. With absolute certainty, he’d make an utter arse of himself.
Miss Needham pressed her pretty lips together, and a spark glinted in her keen gaze. Whether compassion or chagrin or something else, Nic couldn’t determine. Noteworthy too, that she’d offered sincere sympathies but said not a word about his new status, which revealed what she valued.
To Tame a Scoundrel's Heart (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4) Page 2
