To Tame a Scoundrel's Heart (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4)

by Collette Cameron

  A gentleman privateer. No, a ducal privateer.

  Before she left the carriage, Katrina had assimilated a partial list of qualifications she believed made for Nic’s perfect bride, yet she couldn’t summon the name of a single female she deemed worthy to be his duchess.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon three days later, Katrina sat at her library writing desk, determined to have a list prepared for Nic when he came to dinner. Biting a fingernail and tapping her toes in an unsteady cadence, she deliberated the messy, crossed off duchess prospectus, as she’d come to call the list. Over the past hour, she’d scribbled name after name and found fault or exception with every lady she chose.

  She barely knew him; so how could she be so certain each of the ladies wouldn’t suit?

  Still, Katrina stubbornly refused to admit defeat. She’d made Nic a promise and meant to keep it. Who else would aid him if she didn’t? More on point, who could he trust not to have an ulterior motive? She was already affianced—almost—so he needn’t worry she’d set her cap for him.

  “Miss Delores Barringsworth?”

  Katrina scritched the name onto the foolscap. And promptly scratched it off.

  “Too flighty. She’d drive Nic mad, batting her eyelashes, and that horrid giggle ...? Sounds like cats drowning. He’d toss her overboard in a fortnight.”

  Katrina set the nib to the paper again.

  Think.

  She’d experienced two Seasons, and since half the ton owed Papa’s bank money, she’d been accepted into the most prestigious parlors. Well, accepted mightn’t be wholly accurate. Tolerated rang truer. Le beau monde might abide wealthy commoners, but they didn’t embrace them wholeheartedly.

  Still, she knew women. A myriad of them. Young. Old. Short. Tall. Slender. Portly. Innocent, fresh-faced, dewy-eyed girls and cosmetic-tinted, sharp-clawed hellcats.

  “Surely there must be scores of suitable ladies.” Many not altogether pleasant or the least compatible with Nic, however. She screwed up her face and pursed her lips. “Come now, Katrina. Put your mind to the task. In all of England, there has to be a handful of unobjectionable prospects.”

  She’d intended to have a partial list of acceptable candidates for Nic tonight, but every time she sat to assemble duchess-worthy females, her mind went emptier than a parsonage’s coffers. And then she’d get lost in daydreams of his swashbuckling heroics.

  What a dolt. Get to it.

  Closing her eyes, she dredged up the last ball she’d attended and the dozens of elegantly clad ladies swirling about the dance floor. Miss Belinda Newcomber? Not with her penchant for tears and whining. Lady Mary Somerton? Hmm. Perhaps ... Bother, she wouldn’t do either. Too loud, too haughty, and too confident of her position. What about that sweet, plump widow, Leticia Chapman? No, she’d been moon-eyed over Sir Gibson Armstrong.

  Katrina sighed, opened her eyes, and set aside the quill.

  This shouldn’t be so confounded difficult.

  A movement in the courtyard beyond the burgundy and gold brocade panels framing the window snared her attention. Had a dark-haired man passed? Her pulse leaped, and she dashed to the window, catching a glimpse of a deep cherry-red coat disappearing up the stairs.

  Richard? At last. He’d returned in time for tonight’s dinner, as promised. A few moments later, the knocker sounded, and Osborne’s measured stride echoed through the corridor as he strode to answer the door.

  Katrina had missed Richard, but her match-making undertakings for Nic had helped to pass the time as did planning her wedding. Also, Mama had several details she’d insisted on discussing with Katrina, admonishing, “It’s never too early to begin preliminary planning for such a special event, Kitty, and trust me, my darling, your major will be all the more grateful for not having to trouble himself with such trivialities.”

  Nonetheless, it seemed somehow premature, even slightly disloyal, not to include Richard in the preparations. Papa assured her the majority of men were content to leave such frivolous details to females to hash out. Hopefully, Richard was one of those men.

  Katrina hated to admit it, even to herself, but unease had niggled the tiniest bit when Papa hadn’t received his customary correspondence from Richard. Not permitted to write Katrina directly, another stuffy social protocol, Richard typically sent ’round a missive or two and until now, had steadfastly alerted them to his anticipated arrival time.

  A glance at the chinoiserie black mantel clock as she smoothed her hair then her simple morning gown earned a slight grimace. Not quite half past four. Too early to arrive for dinner, but perhaps he’d been as eager to see her as she to see him and dared breach decorum. Fine by her. She’d greet Richard, settle him in the parlor with a tot of brandy or a cup of tea before changing for dinner. Mayhap he could recommend a few acceptable ladies for Nic’s consideration, some a mite less pretentious than those in her parents’ social circles.

  Permitting a jubilant, relieved laugh, she whirled in a circle. Finally, her betrothal would become official, and in a short while, she’d be Mrs. Major Richard Domont. Sweeping around the corridor’s corner, she nearly plowed nose-first into a dark claret-covered chest.

  Not Richard. The duke. Nic.

  His manly scent wafted past, and she stifled the impulse to step nearer and sniff.

  How could one be simultaneously so disappointed and excited?

  “Easy, lass, what’s your hurry?” Momentarily grasping her upper arms to steady her, Nic cocked his head and winked. “Eager to see me?”

  “No. Er. Yes. That is, I am pleased to see you, Your Grace.”

  Nic and Osborne, the butler, exchanged an amused glance.

  “I thought you were Major Domont.” Katrina disentangled herself, refusing to acknowledge her breathless tone or the giddy pulse turning flip-flops behind her ribs.

  Beyond Nic, the entry stood empty, the heavy door firmly closed.

  Shouldn’t she be horridly frustrated? Perhaps pout or shed a tear or two?

  And have Nic believe her one of the ninnies she’d determined to protect him from?

  Nic’s eyes shadowed briefly before his jovial gaze lit once more. “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me. I’m confident your major will arrive soon. I’m quite anticipating making his acquaintance.”

  How kind of Nic to reassure her.

  Beside Nic, Osborne notched a regal brow upward. “Shall I escort his grace to the drawing room, miss?”

  “I’ll do it, but please notify Mama and Papa of his arrival. A tea tray would be most appreciated as well.” She touched Nic’s arm. “Unless you’d prefer something a big stronger?”

  “Tea will suffice until after supper,” Nic said, taking in the grandeur surrounding him.

  Hmm, didn’t he imbibe heavily? All sailors did, didn’t they? There appeared much about The Saint she didn’t know. Didn’t think his doting aunt knew either. “Just tea and a light repast, please, Osborne.”

  “I shall see to it at once, miss.” After angling his head deferentially, Osborne trod the corridor ahead of them.

  Conscious of her ink-stained fingertips, rather than hide them, Katrina lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers. “I’ve discolored fingers, Your Grace, but confess, other than a short list of desirable traits for your duchess, I’ve been woefully unsuccessful in compiling potential candidates’ names.”

  “Well, one is all I require.” Nic clasped his hands behind him. “I am confident you will find me a most compatible woman.”

  “I shall certainly try.”

  He fell into step beside her, their strides well-matched. “Thank you for suggesting Doctor Cutter. He said Aunt Bertie’s not eating enough, particularly red meats, and not getting enough exercise either. She’s not that old, just eight-and-fifty, but a life besieged by grief and anxiety ages a person.”

  “I’m sure it does. We’ve invited her to attend functions and dine with us several times, but she always refuses, saying the carriage ride would exhaust her.�
� More likely Miss Sweeting worried about Society’s reception as well as had nothing to wear. Katrina opened the drawing room’s doors then stepped aside. “I assume she’ll reside with you after your marriage?”

  “That is my intent, though I expect she’ll argue.” With the ease of a man accustomed to being in command and knowing his surroundings, he entered the room and swiftly scrutinized the interior. No doubt his life had depended upon his acuteness more than once.

  His attention hovered on Katrina’s newly completed portrait nestled between floor-to-ceiling windows. In the painting, she wore the blue and white gown she intended to wear for her betrothal announcement.

  “You cut your hair, Nic.” Trailing him, she slowed her steps. “I suppose it was necessary.”

  Gads, she sounded positively wistful, but his hair had been extraordinarily beautiful.

  He shot her an unreadable sideways look and fanned his fingers over his nape. “Aye, my solicitor advised me to. More respectable and all that. My hair hasn’t been this short since I was a lad.” His eyes twinkled as he rubbed his bare neck. “It kept my ears warm, and I confess to feeling rather naked. I keep jerking my head to toss my hair off my face. I suppose I look rather idiotic.”

  “It’s much darker, more of a burnished honey now rather than golden.” Which was why she’d mistaken him for Richard.

  Where was Richard?

  Why hadn’t he written?

  Uneasiness plummeted her stomach. Enough. Fretting wouldn’t produce him. She tilted her head. “I trust your trip to London proved successful?”

  Tugging his earlobe, Nic nodded slowly. “Aye, though contesting the guardianship of my sisters may take a month or two.”

  “I imagine matters of that nature cannot be rushed.” What would his sisters do in the meanwhile?

  “True, but it gives me additional time to seek my bride. I promoted my first mate to captain and bade my crew a temporary farewell. The Weeping Siren sailed for Tortuga with the tide this morning. I saw my sisters too. They weren’t exactly enthusiastic, but neither were they hostile. More than anything right now they are grieving and scared.”

  “This situation is profoundly difficult for you all.” Uncertain why—Richard’s continued absence or empathy for Nic’s sisters—she swallowed against a surge of emotion tightening her throat. “I truly wish we were acquainted with Lady ... Miss—” Katrina faltered. What was she to call Nic’s sisters? Never mind. They could discuss that particular later. “If we were, we could invite them to winter with us.”

  Nic sighed, his mossy gaze bleak and weary. “What happens if they refuse to accept me, Katrina? Cannot accept the change in their circumstances? Because of our sire’s duplicity, they’ve gone from coddled darlings to by-blows, and even at their tender ages, they understand full well what that means. They aren’t even ladies anymore, but the Misses Trehmain. He stripped them of everything, and I cannot help but think they must resent me, and rightfully so.”

  Katrina marched across the plush carpet, her sage skirts swooshing softly. She took his hand, though most improper, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “A child shouldn’t be blamed for his or her parents’ failings. You will love your sisters and affirm them and win them over in time. And we will find you a wife who will accept and nurture Daphne and Delilah. And trust me, a substantial purse opens many, many doors.”

  She jutted her chin up a notch. “Papa is a bastard too, and few haut ton members dare snub or cut him. He owns most of them in one way or another, yet he’s never abused his position.”

  Tenderness filled Nic’s lovely eyes, and he traced his thumb over her lower lip before caressing her cheek. “How did one so young become so wise?”

  Rustling at the doorway drew their attention, and Papa strode in.

  “Pendergast, pray tell, why are you holding my daughter’s hand?”

  Chapter Five

  Nic promptly tried extracting his hand from Katrina’s petal-soft palm, but she retained a firm hold. God’s bones, if Needham had seen him caress her face ... An enraged father calling him out would muck up his plans entirely and set his sisters’ futures tumbling pell-mell straight to Hades. He tugged and whispered, “Miss Needham—”

  “Don’t be silly, Papa. I’m holding his grace’s hand.” Aye, that made all the bloody difference. “And for a very good reason. I’m sure you’d approve.”

  Hardly.

  Unless betrothed, unmarried, ungloved ladies of quality did not clasp a gentleman’s hand for any reason. Surely she must be aware of the impropriety. Even Nic knew that tidbit.

  “I assure you, Needham, I am not holding your daughter’s hand.” Not precisely.

  Needham’s dancing eyebrows and pointed gaze alleged otherwise.

  Nic wiggled his fingers, and Katrina smiled into his face, giving his hand another squeeze, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand before her father clasping a man’s hand. A stranger’s hand, at that.

  Nic gave another tentative pull. Nothing except tingling fingertips.

  Christ, an alligator’s jaw had a weaker grasp.

  “I’m comforting him,” Katrina said without compunction.

  I’m dead.

  Bloody maggoty hell. A groan threatened, but Nic marshalled the involuntary noise. Only an innocent would admit to comforting a man and not comprehend her words’ significance. Ladies most certainly didn’t comfort gentleman acquaintances. Katrina’s naïveté, though charming, might land him on the field of honor.

  She dimpled and angled her father a guileless glance. “He frets for his sisters, and I’ve promised to help him find a bride. It’s all entirely innocent, I assure you.”

  The minx had the audacity to lift Nic’s entrapped hand, which he purposed to keep relaxed, rather like a dead octopus.

  Lord, but she must lead her parents a merry chase. She’d lead her husband a merry chase too, and God above, despite the impossibility, he wanted to be that damned lucky bastard.

  Mr. Needham chuckled and smoothed one side of his sandy mustache. “So I see from the beleaguered looks the duke keeps sliding me. Release the poor chap else he flees before dinner, and I have to explain to your mother why the table is a guest short.”

  After a final reassuring, finger-numbing pulse, she rushed to her father and kissed both his cheeks. “Have you heard from Major Domont?” she murmured softly.

  “Not yet, my dear.” Needham patted her shoulder, his gaze compassionate. “Be patient. He’ll return as promised. He adores you.”

  “Of course he does. How could he not?” An attractive brunette swept into the room, fairly beaming. “Don’t fret about the major. The army doesn’t keep to our schedules. He’ll be along, darling.”

  Greatly resembling Katrina, except for her violet eyes, Mrs. Needham dipped a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to learn of your good fortune, albeit it doesn’t portend well for your unfortunate sisters.”

  Nic bowed. “It is an honor to see you again, Mrs. Needham.”

  Once the greetings had been exchanged, Katrina strayed to peek out the window. Her shoulders slumped the slightest bit, and irritation toward a man he’d never met welled within Nic. True, the major’s military duties might have delayed him, but it only took a moment to jot a missive and send it off to the woman you’d professed to love and promised to marry.

  If Katrina waited for him, he’d not dally, but return at the first opportunity. Hell, he’d never leave her.

  Ever? Not even to take to the sea again?

  A mule’s kick to his ribs wouldn’t have cramped his lungs more, and his breathing stuttered. No, that commitment he couldn’t make. He loved the sea, and she wasn’t a mistress who took kindly to sharing her men. If he closed his eyes and held perfectly still, he could feel her seductive rolling and swaying beneath his feet.

  Nonetheless, he’d been damned disappointed to learn Katrina was practically betrothed. She’d quite captivated him in his short visit with Aunt Bertie.
Nic hadn’t minded her delicate hand wrapped in his the least and admitted he’d contemplated kissing her before her father barged in.

  Good thing Needham had interrupted.

  Nic needed her assistance—and her mother’s too, of course—and he’d be a sailless, rudderless ship if they refused to further his cause because he’d foolishly overstepped the bounds. Even dukes couldn’t always have what they wanted.

  “Please forgive our daughter for her forwardness, Your Grace.” Sending Katrina a doting glance, Mrs. Needham indicated he should have a seat on the settee beside her. “She possesses a tender heart and at times, forgets herself and what’s acceptable.”

  Katrina’s gaze meshed with his, and she cocked a shoulder. “I do. I try to remember all the rules, but when I get excited, they rush out of my head faster than water over a fall.”

  “It’s of no import.” Nic rather hated rules too, and now he must adhere to an entire litany of the wretched things. He sat, and his attention again gravitated to the portrait dominating the tastefully decorated room.

  Katrina’s clear blue eyes, containing the perfect blend of merriment and innocence, sparkled from the canvas. Her skin glowed like the marble statues he’d seen in Rome, and her lips perfectly matched the pink peonies she held—wherever had they acquired the blooms this time of year? A rich shade between pecan and sable, her glossy hair had been twisted into an intricate Grecian style, intertwined with pearls. More pearls as well as sapphires adorned her ears, throat, and the wrist of the hand clutching the peony bouquet. The jewels enhanced her eyes and the exquisite blue and white gown she wore.

  A gown which revealed tempting cleavage.

  Look away.

  “The likeness is superb,” Nic muttered at last, praying no one noticed his husky tone.

  “It is indeed.” Needham’s perceptive gaze swung between his daughter’s portrait and Nic several times.