Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  She unfolded—for there was no other way to describe the smooth, catlike elegance as she angled to her feet—and after sliding her obviously-mended stockinged toes into plain black slippers a trifle too large, and gathering her gloves, dipped a nimble curtsy.

  “Please excuse me, Your Grace.”

  “Wait, Jem.” Too forward, that. Addressing her by her given name, but she’d been Jem and he Jules for over a decade before their paths separated.

  She hesitated, her pretty blue-eyed gaze probing his.

  A swift glance to the mantel confirmed he might spare a minute or two more. He’d told Sabrina he’d be home no later than half past ten. Odd that he should be this happy to see Jemmah. But they were old friends, and as such, once together again, it was as if they’d never been apart.

  After all, he’d known her since, as a pixyish imp with eyes too big for her thin face and wild straw-colored hair, she’d tried to hide beneath the same table as he when Lord Lockhart, his godfather had passed.

  They’d seen each other intermittently over the years, but seldom traveled in the same social circles. Her father had died—heart attack in his mistress’s arms if the dark rumors were true—a year before Jules’s elder brother and sister-in-law were killed in the carriage accident that disabled Sabrina.

  Jules and Jemmah had much in common.

  Both had known grief and loss, endured the disdain of an uncaring mother, and lived in the shadow of an adored older child. But discovering her sequestered here, self-conscious about her unfashionable gown with salty dried tear trails upon her creamy cheeks, roused the same protective instincts he had for his niece.

  What you feel for Jemmah isn’t the least paternal.

  Sensation and sentiments long since dormant—so long in fact, he thought they’d died— slowly, and ever so cautiously raised their bowed heads to peek about.

  Jules stepped ’round to the settee’s front and offered her a sympathetic smile.

  She must’ve noticed his speculation, because she turned away and swiped at her face, erasing the evidence of her unhappiness.

  “I must go. I’ll be missed.”

  No. She wouldn’t.

  Other than, perhaps, by Theo.

  He doubted her mother or sister had given her a single thought the entire evening. Probably forgot she’d accompanied them altogether, so insignificant was she to them.

  That weird spasm behind his breastbone pinged again.

  Jemmah’s pale azure gaze—he couldn’t quite find anything to compare the delicate, yet arresting shade to—caught his, and she captured her plump lower lip between her teeth before shifting her focus to the frilly settee pillows.

  Her shoulders lifted as she pulled in a substantial breath and notched her pert chin higher, while something akin to defiance emphasized the delicate angles and curves of her face. The earlier light he’d glimpsed in her eyes faded to a resigned melancholy. When she spoke, a kind of weary, beleaguered desperation shadowed her gentle words.

  “No one, Your Grace, appreciates being the object of another’s pity.”

  At Jemmah’s frank pronouncement, Dandridge’s deep set amber eyes widened a fraction, immediately followed by a contemplative glint. He probably wasn’t accustomed to such candor, but in her limited experience, artifice seldom ended well.

  “Say what you mean and mean what you say,” Papa had always advocated. “Speak honestly, my precious Jem. But temper your words with kindness and gentleness so they’re diamonds, not toads. One is welcomed, even appreciated. The other detested and often feared.”

  Lord, how she missed her father’s jovial smile, perpetually rumpled hair and clothing, and his tender kisses upon her crown. Missed the fairytales he used to tell her as she sat upon his knee. “Toads and Diamonds,” “The Sleeping Beauty,” “Little Red Riding Hood,” and so many more.

  Tears stung behind her eyelids, but she resolutely blinked them away. She must continue to be strong. But at times—times like these when humiliation and shame sluiced her—it was so very hard. And she was so very weary and discouraged despite the cheerful mien she presented.

  A whisper of a sigh escaped her.

  Pshaw.

  Enough wallowing in self-pity. Imprudent and pointless.

  Perhaps recalling Papa’s counsel hadn’t been the best example for bolstering her courage, especially since he had died in his lover’s bed.

  Most mothers would’ve kept that tawdry detail from their children, but Mama used the ugliness to regularly and viciously besmirch Papa’s character to her daughters.

  Jemmah in particular.

  One didn’t have to think overly long and hard to understand why he’d sought another woman’s comfort. Not that Jemmah excused his infidelity, but neither could she deny he’d been miserable for most of her life.

  So had she, and she longed for the day she might finally, somehow, escape and know joy and peace, not constant ridicule and criticism.

  Her emotions once more under control, she returned Dandridge’s acute assessment, determined to show her lack of cowardice, and that she wasn’t a weak, pathetic creature deserving of his—or anyone else’s—pity or sympathy.

  Well? Have you nothing to say?

  The laurel wreath diamond cravat pin gracing his snowy waterfall of a neckcloth cheekily winked at her, and as if he’d heard her silent challenge, and with an unidentifiable gleam crinkling his eyes’ outer corners, the edges of his strong mouth twitched upward.

  She’d risked voicing her innermost thoughts, and the handsome knave laughed at her?

  Chagrin trotted a spiky path from her chest to her hairline, no doubt leaving a ribbon of ugly, ruddy blotches. No soft flare of flattering, pinkish color accompanied her blushes, but rather ugly splotches mottled her skin, very much resembling an angry sunburn or severe rash.

  Papa had attributed the tendency to their Irish heritage.

  If that were true, then why didn’t Adelinda with her coppery hair suffer the affliction?

  Jemmah knew full well why.

  Because in that, as was true of everything else, Adelinda took after Mama.

  Jemmah’s looking glass revealed daily, and objectively, that her light coloring and unremarkable features paled in comparison to her mother’s and sister’s flamboyant looks with their rich ginger hair and dark exotic eyes. Neither did she possess their high-strung temperaments nor delicate constitutions. All of which Mama contended a lady must possess in order to become a haut ton favorite.

  As if Jemmah cared a whit about any of that fiddle-faddle.

  People mattered far more than titles or positions.

  Her rather ordinary appearance, robust health, and kindly nature were more suited for docile cattle or sheep, and as such, frequently served to vex and disappoint her mother.

  Indeed, how many times since Papa’s death had Mama admonished—her voice arctic and condemning—“You look and behave just like your father, Jemmah. I can scarcely bear to look upon you. You’ll disgrace us one day, too. Just you wait and see.”

  I shall not.

  If anyone brought more shame on the Daments, it would be Adelinda. She’d become so bold in her clandestine rendezvous, someone was sure to come upon her and one of her numerous unsuitable beaux.

  Naturally, Mama knew nothing of Adelinda’s fast behavior.

  After attempting to broach the subject once, Mama had accused Jemmah of envying her sister. She then confined Jemmah to her room with only gruel and broth for two days, and thereafter Jemmah resolved to keep her own counsel on the matter.

  Adelinda could suffer the consequences of her rash choices, which likely as rain in England would bring shame and censure down upon all their heads.

  Jemmah eyed Jules from beneath her lashes. A partial smile yet curved his mouth.

  She knew full well how pathetic she appeared to others. Yet to see fellow feeling engraved on the noble planes of his face and glistening in his warm treacle eyes... Well, by cold, lumpy porridge, the injustice of it b
urgeoned up her tight throat, choking her.

  And her dratted tongue—blast the ignoble organ—saw fit to ignore even a scrap of common sense. Her mouth had opened of its own accord, spewing forth her innermost thoughts. Thoughts she took great care to keep buried in the remotest niches of her mind, even from herself at times.

  Still, pity was the last thing Jemmah wanted from anyone, most especially from The Sixth Duke of Dandridge, and for him to also find her an object of amusement, pricked hot and ferocious.

  Wealthy and powerful, much sought after, and too absurdly handsome for his own good—hers too—made her one-time friend’s mockery all the more unbearable.

  He slanted his head, the paler hues ribboning his rich honey-blond hair catching the candles’ light. Cupping his nape, his gaze traveled from her rumpled hair to her too-large slippers, and she wanted to melt into the floor or crawl beneath the side table and hide as she’d done so often as a child.

  “You needn’t stare. I’m perfectly aware of my deficiencies, Your Grace.”

  Hadn’t they been drilled into her almost daily for years?

  When he didn’t answer but continued to regard her with that amused, curious, yet confused expression, her seldom-riled temper chose to snap to attention.

  “You, Your Grace, are being rude.”

  Brow knitted into three distinct furrows, he finally veered his astute gaze away to contemplate the moon through the window and his familiar reserved bearing descended.

  The devil take her loose tongue. She’d offended him.

  Why, for all the tea in England, had she’d just insulted a duke?

  And not just any duke, but Aunt Theo’s beloved godson, a man more of a son to her than he was to his own mother. Her aunt, the only person in Jemmah’s memory, besides Papa, to show her any compassion or kindness, would not be pleased.

  Don’t forget how kind Jules—his grace—used to be to you, as well.

  Aunt Theo had always admired Jemmah’s pleasant disposition, and Jemmah would’ve been hard pressed to explain why he’d riled her to the point of insolence.

  It must’ve been humiliation-induced anger brought about because he’d felt sorry for her.

  Dandridge, the devilishly handsome, wonderful smelling, garbed in the first crack of fashion peer, regarded her with those darkened, hooded eyes and his lips tweaked downward as if she were a pathetic charity case or a poorhouse worker.

  He, for whom she’d harbored a secret tendre since the first time he’d joined her beneath a lace-edged tablecloth’s security almost fifteen years ago, when she’d been a five-year-old imp, and he a brawny, mature lad of ten.

  More fool she. But her dreams, no matter how trivial or silly or unattainable, were hers to entertain and treasure, and no one could take them from her. If one didn’t have dreams, something to look forward to, then life’s everyday tedium and drudgery, Mama’s harsh criticisms and fault-finding, might steal all vestiges of her joy.

  Jemmah mightn’t have much in the way of appearances or possessions, but she had a remnant of pride and a handful of wonderful memories. Still, the realization that Jules pitied her...

  Well, her very soul panged with indignation as well as mortification—each as unwelcome as vermin droppings in seedcake or oozing pox sores upon her face.

  At least he’d been forced to acknowledge her this time, unlike the half dozen other encounters over the past two years.

  In each of those instances, he’d looked straight through her as if she didn’t exist or was something as inconspicuous as tree bark, a pewter cloud in an armor-gray sky, or a fingerprint smudged upon a window.

  Present, but invisible to all.

  An accurate depiction of Jemmah’s life, truth to tell.

  That rather smarted too, for whenever he entered a room, passed her on the street, trotted his magnificent ebony mount down Rotten Row, she’d noticed him straightaway—discretely observing him through lowered lashes, her countenance carefully bland.

  She knew her place. Knew she was beneath his touch.

  But to gaze upon his somber handsomeness, and recall how infinitely thoughtful he’d always been to her.

  What possible harm was there in that?

  They were much like a diamond and a lump of coal.

  He the former; she the latter.

  The gem’s polished radiance and brilliance, its innate and intricate beauty, drew attention without trying, while the grubby fuel was only noticed and needed if a room or stove grew cool.

  Speaking of cool, the parlor had grown quite nippy, and Jemmah rubbed her bare arms.

  How long had she slept anyway?

  She examined the mantel clock.

  Only two hours?

  Surely it has been longer.

  She’d needed the rest after staying awake until a quarter past four this morning finishing Adelinda’s gown. But now, she truly must go. Even if Mama and Adelinda hadn’t wondered where she’d got off to, Aunt Theo might.

  “Please forgive my churlishness, Your Grace. I assure you, it’s not typical. I didn’t sleep much last night, and I find these sorts of assemblies trying, even under the best of circumstances.”

  Dressed in castoffs, unqualified to dance with any degree of skill, and aware she sorely lacked her sister’s grace and beauty, social events proved excruciating.

  Dandridge didn’t respond, and to cover the awkward silence, Jemmah bent and tidied the pillows she’d mussed. Satisfied the room appeared as it had when she entered, and that she’d done whatever she could to apologize for her peevish behavior, she swiveled toward the door.

  Eager to escape, she hoped to find another cranny to lurk in until Mama deemed it time to depart.

  Likely hours from now.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  His soft request halted her mid-step, and jaw slack, she flung an are-you-serious-or-mocking-me-glance over her shoulder.

  He extended his hand, the movement pulling his black tailcoat taut over enticingly broad shoulders and a rounded bicep. The gold signet ring upon his little finger gleamed, as did the jeweled lion’s head cuff link at his wrist.

  His unbearably tender smile caused Jemmah’s blood to sidle through her veins rather like honey-sweetened tea—rich and warm and strong—even as another sensation embedded behind her ribs, slowly burrowing its way deeper—and dangerously deeper, yet.

  Dandridge was dangerous for her peace of mind.

  Dangerous for the life she’d resigned herself to.

  Staring hard into his eyes’ unfathomable depths, Jemmah tried to gauge his sincerity and motives.

  “One dance, Miss Jemmah. I’ve never had the honor of partnering you.”

  More pity directed her way, or a genuinely kind, if somewhat irregular gift?

  She might be able to manage an English country dance with reasonable finesse, but a cotillion or quadrille?

  Utterly impossible.

  “Your Grace, I told you, I don’t know how.”

  More shame scorched her cheeks—probably red as crushed cherries—but she wouldn’t break eye contact.

  There hadn’t been funds for both her and Adelinda to learn. Though Jemmah had begged to be permitted to watch her sister’s instruction, Mama refused her even that. She’d taken to peeking through the drawing room window until her mother caught her one day.

  Ever after, Jemmah had been confined to her room during dance lessons, rather like in the tale of Cendrillon, except in her situation, there was no evil stepmother.

  No fairy godmother to rescue her or a prince to sweep her away, either.

  Merely Jemmah’s own haughty and proud mother, who hadn’t a qualm about voicing her partiality for Adelinda. And why shouldn’t she prefer the daughter who was practically a mirror image of herself, rather than the offspring resembling her detested, unfaithful spouse?

  “I’ll teach you.” Dandridge stepped forward and lightly grasped her hand.

  She’d forgotten to don her gloves, but he didn’t appear to notice h
er work-worn fingers, and Jemmah refused to be self-conscious about them. Not now anyway. Later she might examine the dry, reddened skin, the roughened cuticles, the overly-short nails, and her face would flame with renewed chagrin.

  “I really shouldn’t. I’ll tromp your toes.”

  But she would dance, for being in Jules’s arms, even for a few stolen minutes was worth Mama’s assured disapproval and Adelinda’s certain jealousy, as well as the resulting unpleasantness should they find out. The experience, committed to memory, was even worth the risk of scandal.

  Never mind all that.

  Jemmah melted into his embrace and placed her hand upon his firm shoulder, the muscles rippling beneath her fingertips.

  His smile, broad and delighted, exposed straight, white teeth and ignited every plane of his rugged face with joy. Rarely had she seen him smile from sincere happiness, and the transformation in his visage, temporarily robbed Jemmah of her breath.

  She managed to restart her lungs and ask, “What will we dance to?”

  “Listen.” Jules tilted his tawny head, his hair the color of ripe wheat at sunset.

  Lilting strains from the string quartet floated from the ballroom. The glorious music, enchanting and irresistible, almost fairy-tale like, nudged her few remaining, crumbling barriers aside.

  “It’s a waltz.” Jules planted a broad palm on her spine—Oh, crumb cakes, what utter deliciousness—and cupped her hand in his other.

  “Just follow my lead, Jem.”

  A waltz was most risqué and hardly acceptable in proper circles, which was probably why Aunt Theo permitted the dance. She, too, liked to push acceptability’s limitations, one of the things Jemmah adored about her audacious aunt.

  Jules proved an adroit partner, and in a few moments, Jemmah had caught on to the simple steps and the one-two-three rhythm.

  Much too aware of the broad chest mere inches from her face, she rummaged around for something to say. “I had the privilege of meeting your charming niece, Lady Sabrina, in Green Park last month.”

  “Out for her daily constitutional with her governess, no doubt. Sabrina likes to sketch the landscape. She’s asked to take lessons.” His palm pressed into Jemmah’s spine, sending her nerves jockeying. “I’ve been meaning to ask Theo if she could recommend someone.”