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

by Collette Cameron

  Astute man. Had he heard and discerned Nic’s interest?

  Perhaps Needham would consider a duke rather than a major? No, a doting papa, he’d let Katrina make the choice, and she’d already picked her dashing soldier.

  And Nic had chosen the sea.

  “Mama, I confess, I’m having a deucedly difficult time contriving a list of seemly candidates for his grace’s bride.” Sinking into the chair opposite Nic, Katrina arranged her skirts and gave her mother an engaging smile. “Might I impose upon you to assist me?”

  Osborne entered with the tea tray, and a few moments passed as Mrs. Needham poured tea and everyone selected a scrumptious pastry. At last, she answered her daughter.

  “I should be happy to lend you my advice. I’m sure if we put our heads together, we’ll muster a few acceptable ladies.” She lifted the plate of assorted confections, offering Nic another, which he gratefully accepted. No flaky delicacies like this on The Weeping Siren.

  “How fare your sisters, Pendergast?” she inquired, returning the plate to the table. “I met the dears once, several years ago. Delightful and charming, and both quite bashful.”

  His mouth full, Nic gulped the half-chewed Shrewsbury tart, damn near strangling in the process. He swallowed twice more, cleared his throat, took a hefty sip of tea and scalded his blasted tongue before he could speak.

  Uncouth bumpkin.

  “Aye, they are timid, and they’ve been isolated for months with a crusty barnacle of a governess as the duchess and my brother toured the continent. If I had female relatives, besides Aunt Bertie, that is, I’d promptly move my sisters in with them until I marry. I’m afraid right now, they’d be uncomfortable with only me about. I am a stranger to them, after all.”

  “Too bad Miss Sweeting doesn’t have a bigger house. Your sisters could live with her for the time being. She’d adore it, for she’s quite lonely.” Katrina sipped her tea, a far-off expression on her face.

  At least she hadn’t noticed him nearly choking to death or ogling her portrait.

  Mrs. Needham set her china cup upon the oval tea table. “Hugo, what say you we invite Miss Sweeting and his grace’s sisters to stay with us until he marries?” She flicked her fingers ceilingward. “We’ve several empty bedchambers, and since I presume Miss Sweeting will live with Pendergast too, it will give the ladies a chance to become acquainted before he weds.”

  “Surely that would be an enormous imposition,” Nic demurred, though the notion appealed a great deal. Traveling between Chamberdall Court, Aunt Bertie’s, London, and his appointments with Katrina wouldn’t leave him much time for assemblies or courtship.

  Katrina nodded eagerly, the shiny, loose curls near her ears pirouetting. “That’s a splendid idea. And, since Mama and I shall work closely with his grace on finding a bride as well as helping him with a few other areas he has expressed an interest in polishing—”

  She swung him an expectant look, and Nic produced a bashful grin.

  “Dancing, properly knotting a cravat, which fork or spoon to use, a new wardrobe ... I’m sadly lacking in refinement,” he admitted.

  Needham leaned into his ornate chair, his tall frame almost too big for the dainty structure. Hands folded across his trim waist while clearly taking Nic’s measure, he wiggled his fingertip.

  Would Nic pass muster?

  “I have no objection, and as someone born on the wrong side of the blanket myself, I can empathize with what you’ve endured these many years, Pendergast. Also with what your sisters will bear.” He scratched his nose and hooked an ankle over his knee. “That’s why I extended you the funds to buy your ship, you know, though you were hardly more than a boy. I saw your potential, your determination, and might I say, you’ve not disappointed.”

  Such a rush of emotion engulfed Nic, he couldn’t find his tongue for a moment. “Thank you, sir. I cannot tell you how honored I am at your faith in me. And thank you for your generous offer to invite my sisters and aunt to stay here. I gratefully accept on their behalf.”

  “Wonderful.” Katrina beamed as she took a dainty nibble of her biscuit.

  Aunt Bertie would have a conniption at first, but she’d come round. She cherished the Needham women, and they’d encourage her to eat and exercise properly too.

  A commotion at the drawing room’s entrance preceded two young men around Nic’s age, a plumpish, dark-haired girl, perhaps a year or two younger than Katrina, and a very fat pug.

  Introductions were made to Katrina’s brothers, Simon, seven-and-twenty, and Theodore, four-and-twenty, as well as Shona Atterberry, the Needham’ permanent houseguest. A flat-faced, snarfing, fur-covered sausage with four legs that Katrina introduced as Sir Pugsley—Sir Pudge was more apt—begged treats from all present. A swift half an hour passed, filled with comfortable conversations, good-natured bantering, and usually two or three people talking at once.

  Wonderful chaos.

  A close-knit family, the Needhams’ warm interactions sparked an envious craving in Nic. Except for a handful of bristly sailing chums and Aunt Bertie, he wasn’t particularly close to anyone. He’d never experienced the familial intimacy the Needhams took for granted—honestly hadn’t realized he’d missed it. Until now.

  Needham slapped his knees before standing. “I’ve correspondence I must see to before dinner. Pendergast, no sense leaving only to return in a short while.”

  “Yes, Hugo is right, Your Grace.” Mrs. Needham rose and swept her arm in an arc. “Do stay and make yourself comfortable. Read, nap ... pen a letter. Osbourne can provide you with anything you might need. Katrina, may I impose upon you to help me bundle the remaining clothing for the unfortunates? I promised Mrs. Huntington I’d have them for her tonight when she and the vicar come to dinner.”

  “Of course.” Katrina curtsied prettily, bestowing one of her ever-ready smiles upon him. “Until later, Your Grace.”

  Nic bowed, murmuring, “I look forward to dinner.”

  Hopefully, he could manage the meal without a repeat of the tart episode or another maladroit incident.

  After the Needhams departed, Nic stared out the window. What warped providence had landed him in this household with the one woman he wanted, but couldn’t have, for his duchess? He dragged a hand through his hair. Or lack of hair. That would take getting used to.

  He snorted, startling Sir Pugsley from his slumber.

  Nic had a whole buggered new life to get used to.

  Osborne entered and, as he cleared the tea’s remnants, said, “Sir, might I suggest you partake in a rest in a guest chamber before refreshing yourself and joining the others for dinner?”

  “Yes, Osborne, you might, and I shall gratefully accept your offer.”

  Decent of the majordomo not to also suggest Nic change into something more appropriate for a dinner party. He brushed the front of his less-than-fashionable jacket. This coat was the nicest he owned, and compared to the Needhams’ fancy togs, he looked to have stepped from the poor house. The cast-off clothing Katrina and her mother even now wrapped for the unfortunates were likely finer garments.

  Almost two hours later, Nic stood before the grand, carved mahogany fireplace in the same drawing room, sipping a glass of superior brandy. The flames illuminated the umber liquid, much finer than the swill he regularly drank aboard ship, or in port, for that matter. He didn’t frequent lofty establishments, but the same hellholes his crew favored.

  Except when it came to his women and rogering.

  Chattering and laughter announced the other guests’ arrival several minutes ago, and they’d been ushered to the floral salon, which was probably where he was supposed to go too, and which explained why the drawing room was empty when he’d entered.

  Nothing like complete social ineptness.

  Still, rather than join them, he’d helped himself to a tot of brandy and, savoring the fireplace’s warmth, unabashedly goggled Katrina’s portrait across the room. He’d not bedded a woman in a goodly while as the slight swell in his
pantaloons confirmed.

  Nic had always been fastidious about swiving, to the point that his crew taunted and heckled him about his pernicketiness. His surname partially contributed to his nom de plume, The Saint, but his sexual selectiveness and abstinence had truly earned him the moniker. Not that he hadn’t ventured into carnal delights, but he restricted his pleasure to a very few, select, disease-free women, and he always used an English overcoat. He’d beget no by-blows and have his child grow up fatherless.

  Taking a healthy sip of the brandy, he savored the slow burn as it slid down his throat. Damned good stuff. This ducal business might well turn him into a dandified fribble. Rotating his neck to ease the stiff muscles caused by sleeping on a lumpy mattress two nights in a row, he sighed before wandering to stand before Katrina’s portrait again.

  Truly a vision. If only Fate had allowed him to meet her a few months ago, before she’d met Domont. Of all women, she might have tempted him to leave privateering behind.

  Sighing again, he tucked his chin to his chest and rubbed his sore nape.

  His worn boots contrasted glaringly with the immaculate Aubusson carpet. He raised one scuffed toe, squinting at his pantaloons. An inch-long tear in the seam disappeared into his boot top. Bloody damned perfect. Best ask Needham to recommend a reputable tailor. A bootmaker and glover too. He’d rather be keelhauled than stand for hours being fitted, but he’d suffer through the measuring and pinning for Daphne and Delilah.

  “You look woefully melancholy, Nic.”

  Nic lifted his head as Katrina, wearing virginal white with lavender ribbons, over-lace, and beading, floated across the carpet to stand before him. The charming gown’s purple hues turned her eyes light periwinkle, matching the gemstones at her throat and glittering on her ears.

  “You are exquisite, Katrina, a joyful sight to brighten this dreary tar’s ruminations.”

  She dimpled prettily, and holding her skirts wide, whirled around once. “Isn’t it unbelievable what a lovely gown, a few jewels, and a talented abigail can do? I feel like the princess I pretended to be as a little girl.”

  She took no credit for her loveliness? Could she really be so unassuming and modest? She’d led a pampered life, yet demonstrated none of the characteristics of an indulged and pampered society miss.

  “What were you thinking just now? You seemed much too serious.” She touched his arm but, considering the wide open doors, must have thought better of it and let her hand drop to her side.

  “Actually, I was contemplating the horror of having to acquire a new wardrobe.” He winked, and lowered his head conspiratorially. “I quite hate fittings.”

  Rising on her lavender-slippered toes, she grasped his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I do too.”

  Arousal surged, immediate and primal.

  If he rotated his head, a mere two inches, his mouth would brush hers. What would she do if he took the liberty? Slap him? Screech? Rant? Or would betrayed accusation fill her beautiful, trusting eyes?

  He couldn’t bear to hurt Katrina, so he kicked his ardor to the room’s farthest corner and commanded it to stay there.

  “Major Domont won’t be here for dinner. To Mama’s chagrin, the table will be uneven after all.”

  To Katrina’s chagrin as well.

  Settling her heels on the lushly carpeted floor once more, she sliced a sideways glance at the now-closed curtains. Though she valiantly hid her hurt, he recognized pain in her hushed tone, saw confusion in the less-than-vibrant gaze she turned on him.

  “I’m sure he has a valid reason.” Not unless he’d been abducted by highwaymen, pressed into service aboard a ship, or died, the mangy cur.

  “Yes, I suppose.” She conjured a cheerful smile. “Let’s start your lessons tonight, shall we?”

  So like her to put aside her worries and focus on someone else’s needs. Few people possessed such unselfishness, and even fewer within her social set.

  “I’ve asked that you be seated beside me, Nic. Observe what I do, and you will be fine.”

  She placed her hand on his arm, and lust sluiced to every pore. God help him. He was in bloody damned trouble when it came to her. Only an idiot would subject himself to her company day after day when he’d already fallen hard despite knowing full well she could never be his.

  Katrina’s sweet perfume wafted upward, and Nic’s groin pulsed. He needed a woman, moaning her pleasure beneath him. It had been months since he’d found release. That was why he responded to her like a rutting stag.

  Ballocks.

  “Everyone else has already left for the dining room. I asked Mama if I might wait and accompany you, since, when you didn’t join us in the salon, I suspected you might be slightly uncomfortable.”

  “Your consideration is touching, but I’m not suffering from discomfort as much as ineptitude. I failed to inquire where I should meet my host and hostess, and then succumbed to your father’s excellent brandy.” As he set his empty tumbler aside, he winked to lighten her mood. What a pair they were, both in the doldrums this evening. “I vow, I’ll commit a social faux pas. Use the wrong fork, speak to a guest about a taboo subject, gulp rather than sip my wine, talk with my mouth full ...”

  She shook her silky head, the candles catching the coppery highlights. “Nic, you’ll be fine. It’s just my family, Miss Atterberry, and a few other guests, none of whom outrank you.”

  Outside the dining room’s entrance, she hesitated. Conversation, occasional laughter, and the clatter of crystal, silver, and dishes carried into the corridor.

  “Do be mindful of that stunning blond sitting next to Simon. She’s Phoebe Belamont, a title-hungry termagant. She’d treat your sisters horridly. The woman wearing the garish turban is her aunt. A pushy fussock, so if you value your virtue, watch yourself. They’d trap you into marriage faster than a frog gobbles a fly.”

  His virtue?

  He nearly laughed aloud at Katrina’s concern for his honor. She took her ducal-wife- hunting duties seriously, precious darling.

  Leaning nearer, he inhaled her perfume again, enjoying the satiny skin exposed by her gown’s low bodice, even if the swells tantalized him unmercifully. “Why did your mother invite them if they’re so objectionable?”

  Katrina tightened her hand upon his arm, and Nic stole another glance at the Belamonts.

  “Mama didn’t. Wouldn’t either. Ever. They’re horrid,” she whispered, “and I cannot abide them. No one can.” Her nostrils flared, pink dotted her high cheeks, and her stiff shoulders, tense brows, as well as the hand clamping his forearm further revealed her distress. “You wait, Phoebe will say something nasty to me, and I’ll have to be polite and pretend I don’t know what she means.”

  “Why are they here then?” Another societal dictate—forced to endure the presence of people one couldn’t stomach. As a privateer, he’d been spared the ridiculousness and surrounded himself with people whose company he enjoyed.

  “They came on the Huntingtons’ coat sleeves, unannounced, as always. Osborne was quite put out, as was Cook. They had to scramble to accommodate two more guests.” She bent forward a mite and pointed to a cleric. “The Huntingtons are the kindly rector and his wife, and somehow the Belamonts are related. They visit quite often, usually arriving unexpectedly and staying past their welcome. By the time they depart, Mrs. Huntington is nipping the communion wine.”

  Nic couldn’t contain his low chuckle.

  “I wasn’t aware they’d returned since they were here a mere fortnight ago, or I’d never have invited you to dinner and subjected you to their company.” Katrina’s abundant lashes swept closed, and she inhaled a bracing breath. She opened her eyes a moment later. “The final couple is Lord and Lady Gervais.”

  As they entered the noisy room, Miss Belamont boldly met Nic’s gaze. Seductively arching, thrusting her full breasts upward, and half-closing her peridot-green eyes, she resembled a great indulged Persian cat. No innocent miss there, by George.

  “Why, Miss Ne
edham. Wherever is your handsome Major Domont?” Miss Belamont cooed, her pale green eyes wide and innocent while pointedly peering at the empty entrance before snagging on Nic’s groin.

  Avast, there’s the predicted snide inquiry.

  Katrina stiffened and lifted her pert nose fractionally, but didn’t answer. No, she definitely didn’t favor Miss Belamont.

  Neither did he, if he’d read Miss Belamont correctly in the few moments he’d assessed her. Beautiful, spoiled, full of her own importance, and a bully, hiding her malice behind politely worded, barbed questions and feigned concern.

  “Curse me for a lubber. A veritable shark. I shall heed your warning,” Nic whispered as he pushed in Katrina’s chair, grateful Miss Belamont and her generously exposed bosom sat across and near the table’s head, while his assigned seat put him safely at the foot.

  A pout upon her painted lips, the gilflurt cut Nic a ravenous, sidelong look and not-so-casually brushed a hand across her bosom.

  The chit was nothing but a prettily packaged trull.

  Aye, he saw Miss Belamont’s breasts gushing over her scarlet bodice. He also observed the other guests’ discomfort with her provocative exhibition evidenced in the vexed lines furrowing their foreheads and tense brackets framing their mouths. By God, if she shifted abruptly, her bubbies would pop loose of their straining confines and plop into her soup.

  “Wasn’t he to have returned by now?” Miss Belamont breathed a heavy, decidedly unsympathetic tsk.

  Her spiteful titter met with flat stares from those assembled and a glower from the younger Needham brother. Two four-stemmed silver candelabras’ glow lent a delicate radiance to Katrina’s composed countenance, enhancing her ivory skin as the air fairly sparked with charged tension.

  Miss Belamont’s brows winged upward in artificial distress, and she splayed her hand across her chest again.

  That game already grew tiresome.

  Mrs. Huntington, her lips pursed in displeasure, rolled her eyes while Mrs. Needham darted Katrina a sympathetic glance.