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

by Collette Cameron

  Even as she murmured the words, Katrina knew them only partially true. If she weren’t already romantically involved, Nic was precisely the kind of man who could capture her heart.

  “Hmph. Call it what you will, my dear.” After blowing out the candles, her mother looped her hand through Katrina’s arm as they left the library, their slippers swishing in unison. “But I was young once too, and the way he looks at you isn’t fraternal. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked him to stay.”

  Surely Mama misread Nic. He looked upon her with an acquaintance’s regard.

  “Mama, he needs friends, and I assure you, I’m not about to fall in love with a scoundrel who’ll return to the sea the moment his sisters are raised and wed.” No, she’d fallen in love with a soldier whose face she’d had a deuced time recalling since a certain oversized swashbuckler with ridiculously green eyes discovered her crawling across his aunt’s floor.

  At the stairs, Mama cupped Katrina’s face. “Dearest, I hope with all my heart Major Domont’s delay is nothing more than an army matter, but you may need to prepare ...” She inhaled a lungful and released it with a whoosh. “Well, I needn’t say it, my darling, need I?”

  Tears glimmered in her lovely violet eyes.

  “No, Mama, you needn’t, but I must know for certain.” Suddenly weary and fighting tears, Katrina cast her gaze to the first riser. Rejection stung. Brutally. The sooner she knew the truth, the sooner she could reevaluate her future. “Can you ask Papa to see to it for me? Send one of his men to Stratford-upon-Avon and discover why Major Domont is there? Out of uniform?”

  “I’ll have him do so first thing on the morrow.” Laughter and music echoed from the open drawing room doors, and Mama lowered her voice, two lines creasing her worried brow. “And if it’s discovered your major isn’t worthy, Kitty?”

  What a polite way to call Richard a philandering cockscum.

  “Well, I suppose I’ll need to seek elsewhere for a husband, won’t I?” In a decade. Either a man she hadn’t given her heart to, or one who wouldn’t mash the organ beneath his polished boots.

  “Yes, there’s always next Season.” Mama nodded, a falsely bright smile wreathing her face. “That will give you a chance to recover ... unless ... you’ve someone in mind already?”

  Katrina lifted her skirts, and placing a foot on the lowest stair, rolled her shoulders while issuing a pathetic little laugh before quipping, “The Duke of Pendergast seeks a wife.”

  Chapter Seven

  Eyes half-open, Nic yawned and stretched his legs before him. On the coach’s opposite side, his sisters slept, tucked into each other. Shy to the point of awkwardness, Daphne and Delilah hardly spoke since he’d collected them this morning and left instructions with Chamberdall Court’s housekeeper to send their trunks by wagon no later than the next day.

  They adamantly refused to address him by his given name, but instead whispered, “Yes, Your Grace or No, Your Grace.” Someone, likely their now-former governess, had filled their heads with twaddle that had them pale and terrified in his presence.

  Aunt Bertie snored softly beside him, her black-bonneted head resting on his shoulder as Percival napped in a basket atop her lap. Amidst his sisters’ muffled giggles, and Percival’s yowls and hisses, Nic, Dalton, and Aunt Bertie had maneuvered the obstinate cat into the hamper. Not without a few scratches, flying fur, and several muttered oaths.

  Cats—fat, pampered cats—were not meant to travel in smallish enclosures.

  To his delight and surprise, Aunt Bertie proved remarkably agreeable about trotting off to the Needhams’. So much so that he found himself almost asking why several times. After all, Daphne and Delilah weren’t directly related to her, so her zeal to become acquainted confounded a mite.

  Before falling asleep, she’d murmured something about a grand exploit. He’d hardly call an extended visit with a former pupil and her family an adventure, but then again, he’d traveled extensively and seen more in his six-and-twenty years than most people did in a lifetime. To his aunt, venturing to the Needhams’ for a few weeks might, indeed, be a splendid adventure.

  Daphne shifted, and Nic’s sisters captured his interest once more.

  For all Collingsworth’s blustering, he hadn’t bothered to collect the girls and ensconce them in his London house, even five weeks after their mother’s death. Probably because he already had four unmarried daughters underfoot and only cared about the guardianship’s monetary provision, with which he’d no doubt padded his thin pockets.

  Naming Collingsworth Daphne’s and Delilah’s guardian still didn’t make sense when Pendergast had intended to reveal Nic’s legitimacy, unless the old duke had meant it as a temporary arrangement until Nic could be notified of his inheritance.

  Nic scratched his cheek, unused to the smooth-shaven skin. No telling what maggot warped his sire’s reasoning, but he had a legacy of dubious decisions. Pray God the deficit wasn’t hereditary.

  Flexing his legs, he rested his head against the ducal carriage’s plush squabs. The old duke had a bloody fine coach house filled with more conveyances than anyone possibly had need of. The same could be said of the stables. How many horses did one man require? Or manors, for that matter? Nic’s man of business had advised him that he owned seven, not including the Berkley Square residence and a townhouse in Mayfair. Not for long. He intended to sell every unentailed property and, with the funds, establish trusts for his sisters.

  Daphne and Delilah would be quite wealthy in their own right, a distinct advantage with a tarnished pedigree. A derisive, and wholly gratified, grin tipped Nic’s mouth. Wouldn’t old Pendergast turn flips in his grave if he knew Nic’s scheme?

  Delilah sighed, the low sound forlorn, and in her sleep, Daphne snuggled closer, wrapping her arms around her younger sister, even as Aunt Bertie snorted and situated herself more comfortably against him.

  His family.

  They’d want for nothing, and more importantly, they’d know happiness again. He’d see to it. A foreign peace engulfed him, and he indulged the unfamiliar sensation for a few minutes, letting his mind wander to Katrina.

  Neither she nor Mrs. Needham had heard him step from the drawing room after saying his farewells. Unaware that he stood at the entry, they’d ascended the stairs, their heads close together and arms about each other’s waists. Hopefully his wife, whoever she should be, would treat his sisters thusly.

  The Duke of Pendergast seeks a wife.

  Had Katrina been serious?

  What rot. Of course not.

  More likely, the evening’s strain had her tossing the flippant remark. Not that he minded the path her mind had journeyed down. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though improbable, Nic found the notion most agreeable. Her heartache, he did not. Did he want to be the man she wed because another had rejected her?

  You don’t know that.

  Besides, wedding Katrina wasn’t an option, even if she already occupied a portion of his heart. A man didn’t embark on voyages and leave a woman with her buoyant, considerate temperament for months, or even years. She’d be lonely and miserable, and perhaps, in time, grow resentful and bitter. Her kind needed her husband close, to share life’s experiences with, especially if children came along.

  But never to sail again, even after his lettre de marque’s revocation? His pulse, his breathing, pulsed in rhythm to the sea’s tides. What could possibly compare to that magic?

  Just as well Domont had a prior claim on Katrina, and damn his eyes, he’d better have a blasted good reason for strutting around with another woman on his arm. Nic fisted his hands. And for not having the decency to contact Katrina ... Kitty.

  A curiosity-born grin tipped his lips. Soft and sweet kitten? Or playful and mischievous?

  He’d soon find out, as they’d be sharing a roof—a prospect simultaneously wonderful and awful. Nic could take his fill of Katrina’s presence, but coveting a woman whose heart belonged to another, and one he didn’t dare entertain wishful fantasies a
bout, would not end well for him. But none of this was about him. His sisters and his aunt must be kept at his mind’s forefront.

  What he did, he did for them.

  And someday, when Aunt Bertie had passed and Daphne and Delilah were happily married with children on their knees, he could say the sacrifice had been worth it. And what if he and his duchess were blessed with children? What then? Would he desert his children for the sea? Those troublesome musings he shoved to a dark corner of his mind, to examine later. Much later.

  By the time they arrived at the Needhams’ ostentatious manor, late afternoon had descended, with her predictable wintertime gloom and chill. In short order, his aunt and sisters were hustled inside, relieved of their outer garments, and shown to their chambers with the promise of warm baths, hot chocolate, and a light repast.

  Rather than avail himself of his chamber, Nic sought the library, intent on selecting a volume or two. Having never had access to so many books, he craned his neck, gaping at the top shelves. Thousands of books beckoned, row upon row of varying sizes, surely a goodly number generations old.

  Katrina slipped into the room, and he sent her a smile as he climbed a ladder to its topmost rung. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” Holding the ladder’s sides, he leaned away and grinned.

  Eyes twinkling, she smiled back. “Do what?”

  “Have so many books to choose from, I needed a ladder to reach the uppermost volumes.”

  She played with a sofa pillow’s tassels, stroking the silk threads. “I’m sure Chamberdall Court has an extensive library.”

  Probably a mammoth one. But he was here. Now.

  A gold-embossed red leather drew his eye, and Nic pulled the volume from the shelf. He inhaled the heady aroma. “What about this one?”

  Katrina perched on a chair’s padded arm, the pillow in her lap, and shook her shiny head, sending her pearl teardrop earbobs bouncing. “Unless you’re searching for a volume on animal husbandry,” she squinted at the book he held, “specifically, the reproduction of poultry, you may want to reconsider your choice.”

  “Hmph, can’t say I have a need to know which came first, the chicken or the egg, right now.” Or ever. Nic replaced the book and waved a careless hand. “Don’t suppose there’s anything here about how to raise decorous young women?”

  “Of course, but the reading is as dry as ash and utterly ridiculous.” After tossing the pillow onto the sofa, she stepped to a shelf near the door. “They’re located over here.” She bent and ran her fingers along a row of books before selecting two thin, blue-green tomes. “The Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment,” she raised the first book, “and The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living. Both guaranteed to bore your sisters and you to death.”

  She made a dramatic pose, eyes closed and the back of her hand pressed to her forehead.

  Was there a gentleman’s comportment equivalent? For him? One step at a time.

  “Excellent.” Deftly descending the ladder, he indicated the books with a nod. “Have you read either?”

  “Both, multiple times. Usually for penance after flouting a social rule.” After laying the books on the smallish desk, she leaned against it and chuckled, a light, joyful burble. “I fear they failed to transform me into a wholly proper miss. I tend to disregard the parts I think drivel, which, honestly, are most, yet I get along manageably well.” She wrinkled her nose adorably. “Mama and society might not agree, but I’ve become quite accomplished at acting the part.”

  His lips twitched. Good for her.

  “May I offer a word of advice, Nic?” She brushed her fingers along a quill’s feather lying in its feminine porcelain holder.

  “By all means.” A scribbled, crossed-off paper lay upon the desktop. Was that his bride list?

  “I’d give your sisters a bit of time before trying to transform them. I’m certain, as a duke’s daughters, they’ve already had comportment drilled into them until they want to scream. Let them breathe a little, come out of the shells they’ve retreated into.”

  “Sound advice, and a recommendation I’ll gratefully heed.” He had no more desire to read tedious decorum instructions than his sisters likely had to hear them. Once he’d reached the floor, Nick straightened his coat. “What do you suggest then? For my reading enjoyment?”

  “I rather like Chaucer’s works.” Speaking over her shoulder, Katrina glided to a shorter shelf adjacent to the desk. “We have them all, and The Canterbury Tales might be shared with your sisters too.”

  In the distance, carriage wheels crunched upon gravel.

  A visitor?

  Major Domont or one of the Needhams returning home?

  Katrina didn’t even glance toward the window.

  She’s given up on Domont.

  “Have you heard from your major?” Nic touched her shoulder. Far too bold and forward, but though she valiantly hid her doldrums behind bright smiles, ennui lingered in her troubled gaze.

  Absorbed in the lace edging her gown’s sleeve, Katrina gave one short shake of her head, the curls framing her face bobbing merrily. The sole part of her remotely cheery. Even her gown, a demure fawn edged in Spanish brown braiding and creamy lace, bespoke her low spirits.

  “No, but Papa’s sent a man to Stratford-Upon-Avon.” Her lower lip clenched between her teeth, her sable lashes swept downward, concealing her desolate blue eyes and fanning her porcelain cheeks. She released an unsteady sigh. “We’ve no word from Peters, Papa’s man, yet.”

  So vulnerable, yet so brave. So in need of comforting.

  True, there were worse things than being thrown over, but a woman in love couldn’t see beyond the pain rending her cracked heart and the mortification slashing her wounded soul.

  “My sympathies.” Condolences? What did one say in a situation like this?

  Certainly not what he truly thought. “You’re well rid of the inconsiderate bilge rat.” Or “Don’t waste your tears on the unmitigated arse.” Or even, “Allow me the pleasure of cobbing the blackguard for his villainy.”

  “Thank you, I think.” Katrina shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  Why didn’t she rail or cry? Protest the injustice? Damn Domont’s soul to Davy Jones’s locker? Because she wasn’t vindictive or vengeful. Emotion burgeoned behind his ribs, and in that instant, Nic would have willingly forsaken sailing to claim her as his.

  “Perhaps he’s been ill, Katrina, or—”

  She held up her hand, palm facing Nic, and raised tear-glassy eyes to his, her smile tremulous and pain-riddled. “Trust me. I’ve thought of every possible scenario, and only a turnip-brain refuses to see what’s clearly before them.”

  Again the urge to sweep her into his arms and soothe her worries overcame him.

  And if they were caught in an embrace, then what? Ruination, dishonor, and not a marooned sailor’s chance of marrying Domont if the jackanape came ’round in the end. She’d be forced to marry Nic.

  Would that be so awful?

  She brushed her fingertips across one brow and sighed softly. “You’ll forgive me for not wishing to speak on it.”

  “Of course.” Damn Domont’s eyes. Keelhauling was too good for him. So was running the gauntlet, the scamping cur.

  Putting her bent forefinger to her eye’s corner, Katrina averted her head, but not before she knuckled a tear away.

  Damn the risk.

  Nic gently drew her into his arms, one hand pressed to her slender waist and the other to her head resting against his chest. “I’m willing to bet you’ve been stoic and practical the past two days, and haven’t indulged in a good cry.”

  “I’m not given to waterworks,” she mumbled into his shirtfront. “Besides, my face becomes splotchy, and my nose reddens horridly. I resemble a squalling newborn, which, I assure you, is frightful on an adult.”

  Nonetheless, her throaty response revealed the tears clogging her throat.

  He tipped her chin and winked. “A beautiful, squalling newborn, I’d wager.”
r />   Pleasure lit her eyes, and a flush crept over her cheeks, pinkening them.

  So easily pleased. Didn’t Domont compliment her?

  “If you are this kind to your sisters, they’ll come to worship you in no time.” Her focus dropped to his mouth and remained there.

  Exactly what he’d been contemplating, had been yearning to do, these past five days.

  Slowly, to ease any alarm and give Katrina time to stop him, Nic bent his neck, edging his mouth nearer and nearer.

  She parted her lips, her breath sweet and faintly smelling of tea and lemon.

  He touched his mouth to hers, tentative, testing. Even that light, feathery touch thrilled to his soles. An electrical jolt seared his chest, spiraling outward to his limbs. Nic tightened his embrace and traced his tongue across her lips, nudging the soft pillows apart.

  A delicate gasp escaped her, but she didn’t yank away. Rather, she stood on her toes and crept her hands up his arms to clutch his shoulders.

  An unexpected, but oh so welcome and cherished, gift.

  Groaning, he availed himself of her delicious mouth, plunging his tongue into its honeyed recesses. God, she tasted sweet. And innocent.

  Bloody dangerous. Stupid!

  Her breathing raspy and irregular, she urged him nearer, her kisses that of a famished woman.

  “Is Miss Katrina in her bedchamber?” Needham’s voice cut through the passion fogging Nic’s brain, and he tenderly clasped Katrina’s hands, resting his forehead against hers.

  “We must not be discovered like this. You’d be compromised.”

  She kissed his jaw then his chin.

  “Let go, Kitty.” Soundly castigating himself, Nic pried her fingers loose. Anyone could have come upon them.

  Unless a promiscuous wanton, a woman in love with another man didn’t kiss the way she had. Katrina most definitely wasn’t the former. Was she the latter? How to find out?

  “No, sir, I believe she’s in the library with his grace,” Osborne replied.

  Katrina sprang away from him. Shaking her head, she slapped her palm across her mouth, her eyes huge and troubled. After sending a frantic gaze to the cracked door, she pointed to the desk, whispering, “Your duchess prospectus.”