Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

She shouldn’t.

  Her parents wouldn’t approve. In fact, Father absolutely forbade it.

  Biting her lower lip, Theadosia closed her eyes for an instant.

  She really, really should not.

  But she would.

  She couldn’t bear to see the duke’s suffering.

  Reservations resolutely, if somewhat unwisely, tamped down, she passed through the gaping gate.

  “Your father had stomach cancer. I overheard Papa telling Mama one day after your father . . . That is, after he died. Papa felt guilty for not telling you and your mother, but the duke swore him to secrecy, and of course he had no idea your father would . . .” Why people choose to keep such serious matters from their families boggled the mind.

  Eyelids flying open, his grace jerked upright.

  His hypnotic gaze snared hers, and yes, moisture glinted there.

  Her heart gave a queer leap.

  She remembered his vibrant eyes, the shade somewhere between silver and pewter with the merest hint of ocean blue around the irises. Not cold eyes, despite their cool colors. No, his eyes brimmed with intelligence and usually kindness, and they crinkled at the corners when he laughed. He’d laughed often as a young man; her brother James had been one of his constant companions whenever his grace was in residence at Ridgewood Court.

  “Cancer?” His eyelids drifted shut again, and he nodded. “Ahhh.”

  That single word revealed he understood.

  Mayhap he’d find a degree of peace now.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said.

  “I’ve always thought you should know.”

  He should have been told years ago.

  Bracing himself on his father’s headstone, the duke maneuvered to his feet. With the whisky bottle dangling from one hand, he squinted as if trying to focus his bleary-eyed gaze.

  “Theadosia?” Uncertainty raised his deep voice higher on the last syllable as he looked her up and down, an appreciative gleam in his eye.

  “Thea, is that truly you?”

  Only her siblings and dearest friends called her Thea.

  His surprise was warranted. Mama said Theadosia had been a late bloomer. She’d almost despaired of developing proper womanly curves.

  She bobbed a half curtsy and grinned.

  “It is indeed, Your Grace. I’m all grown up now.” At sixteen—embarrassingly infatuated with him and possessing a figure a broomstick might envy—she’d believed herself a woman full grown. Time had taught her otherwise.

  The duke’s extended absence had caused a great deal of conjecture and speculation, and many, including her, wondered if he’d ever return to Colchester.

  She so yearned to ask why he’d come back after all this time, but etiquette prohibited any such thing.

  He hitched his mouth into a sideways smile as his gaze roved over her.

  “I’ll say you are. And you’ve blossomed into quite a beauty too. Always knew you would.”

  He’d noticed the thin, gawky girl with the blotchy complexion? She’d barely been able to cobble two words together in his presence.

  A delicious sensation, sweet and warm, similar to fresh pulled taffy, budded behind her breastbone. She shouldn’t be flattered at his drunken ravings. In fact, she ought to reproach him for his brazen compliment. After all, he was a known rapscallion, a man about town, “a philandering rake,” Papa avowed. Nevertheless, it wasn’t every day a devilishly handsome duke called her beautiful.

  Actually, rarely did anyone remark on her features.

  Her father frowned on the praise of outward appearances, which explained why the gentlemen he’d encouraged her to turn her attention to couldn’t be said to be pleasing to the eye.

  The Lord tells us not to consider appearance or height, but to look at a man’s heart, he admonished Thea and her sister regularly.

  Easier to do if the man didn’t boast buck teeth, a hooked nose to rival a parrot’s beak, or a propensity to sweat like a race horse: the last three curates, respectively.

  His grace, on the other hand, was most pleasing to the eye. Oh, indeed he most assuredly was.

  Deliciously tall—perfect for a woman of her height—and classically handsome, his face all aristocratic planes and angles. Even the severe blade of his nose and the lashing of his black brows spoke of generations of refined breeding.

  Papa, a plain featured, thick man himself, had married a Scottish beauty. It truly wasn’t fair he demanded otherwise of his offspring.

  Why couldn’t he find a good-hearted and somewhat attractive man to woo his middle daughter?

  Was that too much to ask?

  But she knew why.

  Because a handsome face had turned his eldest daughter Althea’s head, and she’d run off with a performer from the Summer Faire. For the past two and a half years, Papa had forbidden anyone to utter her name.

  Theadosia’s heart ached anew. How she longed for word from her beloved sister, but if Althea had ever sent a letter, Papa hadn’t mentioned it. His blasted pride wouldn’t permit it.

  Even Mama, more tolerant and good-natured than Papa, didn’t dare remind him what the Good Book said about pride and forgiveness.

  Sighing, Theadosia ran her gaze over the duke again.

  James would be delighted when he came up from London next.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Thea.”

  A charming smile flashed across his grace’s noble countenance as he bent into a wobbly gallant’s bow—dropping the whisky bottle and nearly falling onto his face for his efforts. He chuckled at his own clumsiness.

  She dropped the basket and rushed forward to brace him with one hand on his broad—very broad—shoulder and the other on his solid chest. Being a prudent miss, she dismissed the electric jolt sluicing up both arms. This was not the time for missish shyness or false pretenses of demureness.

  Imagine the scandal if his grace were found insensate, reeking of whisky, atop his father’s grave? This was not the homecoming she’d imagined for him over the years.

  “Do have a care, sir, or you will crack your skull.” Supporting his great weight, for his form wasn’t that of simpering dandy, but a man accustomed to physical exertion, she slanted him a sideways glance. “I believe you’ve over-indulged.”

  A great deal, truth to tell.

  “How ever will you manage your way home to Ridgewood Court?”

  “The same way I came to be here in this dreary place.” Giving her a boyish sideways grin, he waggled his fingers in the general direction of the lane. “I shall walk, fair maiden.”

  “I think not. ’Tis a good mile, and you’re in no condition to make the hike.”

  “Do you fret for me, Thea?” His rich voice had gone all low and raspy.

  He lowered his head and pressed his nose into her neck as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush with his body.

  Shouldn’t she be offended or afraid?

  Yet she wasn’t either.

  “Mmm, you smell good. Like sunshine and honeysuckle.”

  He smelled of strong spirits, horse, and sandalwood. And something else she couldn’t quite identify. She couldn’t very well lean in and sniff to determine what the scent was, as he’d boldly ventured to do.

  His grace inhaled a deep breath, another unnerving sound she couldn’t identify reverberating in his throat. “Intoxicating,” he rumbled against her neck, his lips tickling the sensitive flesh.

  Trying—unsuccessfully—to ignore the heady pleasure of being near him, Theadosia tilted her head away whilst bracing her hands against the wall that was his chest.

  “You are the one who’s intoxicated and don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Why must she sound breathless?

  The exertion of holding him upright. That must be it.

  “Your Grace.” She gave that unyielding wall a shove. “You must release me before someone sees us.”

  Not much chance of that with evening’s mantle descending, but it was foolish to tempt Pr
ovidence.

  “I’m not so foxed that I don’t know what to do with a beautiful woman in my arms.”

  There was the rogue Papa had warned her and Jessica about.

  The sharp retort meant to remind him of his place was replaced by a sigh as his lips brushed hers.

  Once.

  Twice.

  And again, with more urgency.

  Did she resist as a proper, moral cleric’s daughter ought to? Summon outrage or indignation? Even the merest bit?

  Lord help her, no.

  Was she as wanton as Althea?

  Did such wickedness run in families?

  She stood there, ensconced in his arms, and let him kiss her. She may have even kissed him back, but her mind was such a muddle of delicious sensations, akin to floating on a fluffy cloud, she couldn’t be certain.

  His soft yet firm lips tasted of whisky and something more.

  Passion, perhaps?

  “And here, Mr. Leadford, are the church burial grounds.”

  “We have graves dating over two hundred years ago, prior to the erection of All Saint Church’s current buildings.”

  Her father’s voice, drifting to her from several rows away, succeeded in yanking Theadosia back to earth and apparently sobered his grace as well. At once she disengaged herself from his embrace.

  She risked much if she were caught. Everything, in fact. Papa had expressly prohibited his remaining daughters to be unchaperoned in the company of males over the age of twelve.

  “I’m confident you’ll feel as blessed as I do as you assist in the shepherding of my flock.” Pride resonated in Papa’s deep voice, quite useful for his booming Sunday morning sermons. “I confess, I’ve been a trifle lax in my paperwork the past few months. The last curate was a Godsend when it came to organization, record keeping, and correspondences. Such matters are not amongst my strengths.”

  “Fret not, for those are my fortes as well, Mr. Brentwood,” a pleasant but unfamiliar voice replied.”

  “I’m well pleased to hear it,” her father replied.

  Another new curate?

  That made four in as many years. A quartet of unattached males seeking a modest woman of respectable birth to take to wife. Thus far, she and her younger sister, Jessica, had been spared.

  Fortunately, each of the former curates had selected a docile—ambitious—parishioner from the congregation to wed before moving on to their own parish.

  Unfortunately, All Saint’s Church had few unassuming, unattached misses of marriageable age left.

  “Thea . . .?”

  The duke reached for her again.

  “Shh!”

  She pressed her gloved fingers against his lips, and he promptly gripped her hand and pressed a kiss to her wrist.

  “Stop that,” she whispered, tugging her hand away whilst silently ordering the fluttering in her tummy to cease.

  “My father’s near. I cannot be found in a compromising position with you. He’ll be livid. Please. Let go, sir.”

  She’d be disowned on the spot. Cast out and shunned. Her name never uttered by her family again. She’d never see them again either. Ever.

  Imagining Papa’s infuriated reaction sent a tremor down her spine.

  Even in his stupor, the duke must’ve sensed her fright and urgency, for he released her at once and put a respectable distance between them.

  “I’d prefer you call me Sutcliffe or Victor.”

  What did she owe that honor to?

  Sutcliffe she might consider, but she could not use his given name, except in her mind. Only the closest of relatives and friends might address him by anything other than his title.

  As Theadosia stepped even farther away and righted her bonnet, her foot struck the whisky bottle. Her gaze fell on the forgotten basket outside the fence. Bother and rot. She could only pray her father’s tour didn’t include this portion of the grounds.

  An exclamation, followed by a flurry of whispers, made her whirl toward the lane paralleling the churchyard.

  The elderly Nabity sisters, bony arms entwined and heads bent near, stood on the pathway.

  What had they seen?

  Theadosia closed her eyes.

  Pray God, only her conversing with the duke, a respectable distance between them, and nothing more.

  His grace turned to where she peered so intently. Wearing a silly, boyish grin, he bowed once more, this time with more control, though he swayed on his feet in imitation of a sapling battered by a winter tempest.

  “Good afternoon, dear ladies. I do hope I’ll have the pleasure of speaking with you after services Sunday. I’ve missed your keen wit and your delicious seed cake these many years.”

  In unison, their sagging chins dropped nearly to their flat-as-a-washboard chests, before they bobbed their heads in affirmation and, tittering in the irksome manner of green schoolgirls, toddled off. Probably to make their famed confection.

  “I think you said that just so they’d make you seed cake.” The rascal.

  “You’ve found me out.”

  An unabashed grin quirked his mouth, and she pressed her lips together, remembering the heady sensation of his mouth on hers.

  “Theadosia? What the devil goes on here?”

  Papa.

  Stifling the unladylike oath she wasn’t even supposed to know, let alone think or say, Theadosia shot the duke a now-look-what-you’ve-done glance. Papa would be horrified to know what naughtiness she’d learned from her closest friends over the years.

  Where they came by the knowledge she had no idea, nor did she want to know.

  His grace had the good sense to arrange his face into a solemn mien, though she swore mischief danced in his half-closed eyes. Hard to tell with the fading light, however.

  Affecting nonchalance despite her runaway pulse and the fear of discovery tightening her tummy, she summoned a sunny smile and edged forward until her gown covered the forgotten bottle of “devil’s drink”, as her father called whisky.

  “Papa. Look who’s returned to Colchester.”

  She swept her hand toward the duke.

  Papa’s expression remained severe as he took the duke’s measure.

  Not good.

  Perchance if she distracted her father by mentioning his latest fundraising venture to improve All Saints, he wouldn’t become angry at what he was sure to deem her most indecorous behavior.

  “His grace was telling me how eager he is to hear you preach this Sunday, and he said he’d be honored to contribute the balance needed for the new chamber organ. You’ll be able to order it now. Isn’t that marvelous? Imagine how lovely the music echoing in the sanctuary will be every Sunday and at Christmastide.”

  One of Papa’s stern brows twitched in interest.

  Perfect. He’d taken the bait.

  Now to gently reel him in.

  Contriving her most grateful smile, she caught the duke’s eye.

  Distinct amusement and a mite of ‘what-are-you-about-now?’ danced along the edges of his face.

  “And his grace suggested it only fitting that the choir have new cassocks and surplices. He insists upon covering their cost as well. Isn’t it a blessing?”

  Would God judge her for fibbing?

  He well should.

  Even if the lies were well intended?

  Or contrived out of dread?

  More on point and of greater worry now, would the duke deny her declarations?

  The chamber organ’s cost was most dear. For over two years the congregation had fund-raised, but Papa said they still hadn’t collected half the necessary monies. To volunteer the duke’s purse was beyond the pale, but she truly must divert Papa from jumping to the wrong—actually accurate—conclusion.

  Why had she been so impulsive?

  She should’ve alerted her father that someone was in distress in the cemetery, and not taken it upon herself to intervene.

  But then she wouldn’t have been kissed until she forgot she was a reverend’s daughter.
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br />   “Naturally, if there is to be a new organ, the choir is deserving of new robes,” the Duke of Sutcliffe murmured in a droll tone.

  Was that a wink, the brazen bounder?

  Had Papa seen?

  Her father’s speculative gaze flicked between her and the duke, then the ostentatious marker behind his grace before his features relaxed, and he offered his version of a sanctimonious smile: mouth closed, lips tilted up a fraction, his expression benign.

  Placing his palms together in a prayer-like pose, he dipped his gray-streaked head the merest bit.

  “Your benevolence is much appreciated, Your Grace. I’m sure our Lord is as delighted as I that you’ve chosen to follow your parents’ practices of regular church attendance and generous patronage to the parish.”

  “As you say, Mr. Brentwood.”

  His grace inclined his head, all traces of his earlier boyishness and inebriation now concealed. Either the duke was practiced at artifice or he was a superb actor. Or mayhap he hadn’t been as tippled as she believed.

  Thank goodness he hadn’t disputed her grand declaration about his generous donation.

  Later she’d have to apologize and beg his forgiveness for her duplicity.

  “Permit me to introduce our newest curate, Your Grace.” Papa indicated the amiable clergyman who hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d rounded the tombstone. “Mr. Leadford, this is His Grace, Victor, Duke of Sutcliffe, and my daughter, Theadosia. Sir, Theadosia, this is Mr. Hector Leadford.”

  Possessing piercing blue eyes in an unremarkable, but kind face, Mr. Leadford bowed.

  Something about him raised her nape hairs, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.

  “Your Grace. Miss Brentwood. It is a pleasure to make both of your acquaintances.”

  His gaze lingered a mite longer than entirely professional, or necessary, on Theadosia, and distinct appreciation glinted in his striking eyes.

  Mayhap his interest is what she’s sensed.

  “I hope you enjoy our township, Mr. Leadford, and that you’ll feel at home here very soon.”

  Theadosia returned his smile, mindful to keep hers polite but slightly distant lest she encourage his regard. Exactly as she and Jessica had been taught to do. In Papa’s view, encouraging male attention was akin to running naked through Colchester banging on a drum.