How to Seduce a Scoundrel

by Vicky Dreiling

  Because of her refusal to talk, he’d assumed he’d caught a married lady waiting for her lover. So, he’d decided to test her resolve by kissing her. She’d not tried to stop him, though she’d been rather passive. And that had made him even more determined to wring a response out of her. When he’d suckled her, she’d made a little feminine sound in the back of her throat. He’d felt triumphant—until she’d stopped his straying hand from lifting up her skirts.

  He’d known a lot of women, but he’d never met one quite like her. Something about her was off, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He thought back over her reactions, and then he felt like a hammer had struck his head.

  She’d not known how to kiss him back.

  Good Lord, he’d dallied with an innocent. A shudder rolled up his spine. If anyone had discovered the two of them, he would have found himself snared in the parson’s mousetrap. To a lady he didn’t even know.

  Will blew out his breath, relieved at his narrow escape. A pity about Alicia, though. He supposed she wouldn’t be too eager for a tumble after he’d supposedly failed to show for their tryst. With a shrug, he rounded the sofa and noticed something on the cushion. Intrigued, he picked up the silk item. On a whim, he put it in his pocket. Then he strode out of the library, crossed the great hall, and climbed the stairs.

  After he entered the crowded ballroom, he found himself looking for a tall lady. Then he recollected that Alicia had called out his name. Will tugged on his cravat, realizing he might yet be in danger if the innocent young lady decided to confess to her mama. Then again, the mysterious lady had refused to identify herself. Undoubtedly, she didn’t want anyone to know she’d let a stranger kiss and touch her. Chances were he’d never discover her identity, and that was for the best.

  On the other side of the rectangular ballroom, he saw his brother Hawk and his sister-in-law Julianne. Shelbourne and his duchess were there as well. Will crossed the room, nodding occasionally at acquaintances.

  When he reached the other side, he clapped Shelbourne on the shoulder. “Well met,” he said. He bowed to his mother and the dowager duchess. Then he shook hands with the Marquess of Boswood. “Looks like a regular reunion,” he said.

  He caught sight of Boswood’s daughter Lady Georgette and her friend, the tall red-haired lady he remembered from his brother’s wedding. She glanced at him and turned away, not quite a cut direct, but close enough. Then he noticed something that nearly made him guffaw.

  Will strolled over to the ladies and bowed to Lady Georgette. Then he stepped right beside Miss Amy Hardwick. A becoming blush suffused her cheeks. She unfurled her fan and wafted it.

  He leaned closer to her. “I believe you’ve lost something.”

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I beg your pardon?”

  A grin tugged at his mouth. “I found something that belongs to you.”

  “You are mistaken.” She applied her fan faster.

  “I’m quite sure.” He reached inside his pocket and produced a pink silk rose with a stray thread. “I believe it matches the others on the back of your gown.”

  She winced as he set it in her palm.

  “I hope you enjoyed our little interlude as much as I did,” he said.

  She closed her fingers over the silk rose. “Hush. Someone might hear.”

  “What? That I kissed you?” He was thoroughly enjoying her embarrassment.

  Her green eyes flashed. “If you were a gentleman, you would not have dared.”

  “If you were a lady,” he said, purposely letting his voice rumble, “you would not have let me.”

  Tessa Mansfield is having a problem

  with the first rule of matchmaking:

  Never fall in love with the groom.

  Please turn this page for an excerpt from

  How to Marry a Duke

  Available now.

  Chapter One

  London, 1816

  The belles of the Beau Monde had resorted to clumsiness in an effort to snag a ducal husband.

  Tristan James Gatewick, the Duke of Shelbourne, entered Lord and Lady Broughton’s ballroom and grimaced. A quartet of giggling chits stood near the open doors, dangling their handkerchiefs as if poised to drop them. Determined to avoid playing fetch again, he strode off along the perimeter of the room.

  With a long-suffering sigh, he conceded he’d contributed to this national disgrace. Ever since the scandal sheets had declared him the most eligible bachelor in England, he’d rescued twenty-nine lace handkerchiefs, five kid gloves, and twelve ivory fans.

  If only he could have convinced himself to choose a bride based upon the inelegance of her fumbling, he might have wedded and bedded the most inept candidate by now. Alas, he could not abide the thought of spending a lifetime with Her Gracelessness.

  He surveyed the crowd looking for the hostess of this grand squeeze, a useless endeavor. The crème de la crème swarmed the place like bees. The din of voices competed with the lively tune of a country dance, making his ears ring. He’d rather eat dirt than subject himself to the dubious delights of the marriage mart, but with his thirty-first birthday approaching, he could no longer pretend he was invincible. The dukedom had been at risk far too long.

  Someone tapped a fan on his shoulder. He paused to find Genevieve and Veronica, two of his former mistresses. Seeing them together, he realized how alike the striking widows looked. Both were tall, dark-haired, and curvaceous. He canvassed the cobwebs in his brain and realized all of his past lovers had similar attributes. Well, those he could recollect.

  Tristan bowed and lifted each of their hands for the requisite air kiss. “Ladies, it is a great pleasure to see you again.”

  “Were your ears burning?” Veronica said in an exaggerated boudoir voice. “You are the subject du jour.”

  “I am delighted,” he lied. He’d grown increasingly frustrated with the notoriety the papers had whipped up. How the devil he’d ever find a bride in this circuslike atmosphere evaded him. But find one he must.

  Genevieve tittered. “We were comparing you to all of our other gentlemen admirers.”

  He’d bedded more than his fair share of mistresses, but this situation was certainly unique among his experiences. “What did you conclude?”

  Genevieve leaned closer and squeezed his arm. “We agreed you were the naughtiest of all our lovers.”

  He regarded her with a wicked grin. “Praise indeed.”

  Veronica glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “How does it feel to be England’s most sought-after bachelor?”

  High-pitched giggling rang out from behind him. He rolled his eyes. Not again.

  Genevieve’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Watch out, Shelbourne. A bevy of little misses are stalking you.”

  He grimaced. “Rescue me?”

  The two women laughed, blew him a kiss, and drifted away, leaving him to the predators. When he turned round, the four silly chits he’d seen earlier halted and stared at him, agog. Given their youthful faces and puritanical white gowns, he surmised not one of them was a day over seventeen. He needed a wife, but he’d no intention of robbing the proverbial cradle.

  When they continued to gape at him as if he were a Greek statue come to life, he took a step closer. “Boo.”

  Their shrieks rang in his ears as he walked off into the crowd. Ignoring the avid stares directed at him, Tristan squeezed past numerous hot, perspiring bodies, and not the kind one hoped to find naked and willing in bed. With more than a little regret, he banished thoughts of Naked and Willing in order to concentrate on Virtuous and Virginal. First he must locate Lord and Lady Broughton. Perhaps his hostess would introduce him to a sensible young lady of good breeding. Perhaps pigs would fly, too.

  He might have avoided all this nonsense if his dear mama had cooperated. When he’d informed her of his bridal requirements a month ago, she’d swatted him with her fan and told him he had rocks in his head.

  A loud bang nearly sent him ducking for co
ver. Feminine gasps erupted all around him. Alarmed, he sought the source of the disturbance and realized it was only the slamming of the card room door. The gentleman responsible for this discourteous act was none other than his oldest friend, Marc Darcett, Earl of Hawkfield.

  Tristan hailed Hawk with a wave and walked in that direction. Intent upon reaching his friend, Tristan failed to notice the impending danger until something crunched beneath his shoe. A quick glance to the floor confirmed his worst fear—the thirteenth incident of a dropped fan. Damn and blast, he’d crushed it.

  He lifted his gaze, expecting a devious mama and her blushing daughter. Instead, a petite young woman with honey-blond hair stood staring at his shoe. She said something that sounded suspiciously like ashes to ashes, dust to dust. With all the voices ringing in his ears, he assumed he’d misheard.

  Though he was tempted to walk past her, he couldn’t ignore the fan he’d broken. “I beg your pardon,” he said, bending to retrieve the mangled ivory sticks.

  “You are not to blame. Someone jostled my arm.”

  Her excuse was the worst he’d heard yet. He didn’t even bother to hide his cynicism as his gaze traveled up her white gown. Blue ribbons trimmed her bodice, drawing his attention to her generous décolletage. He continued his perusal to her heart-shaped face. She watched him with twitching lips. Pillow-plump lips. He inhaled on a constricted breath. Lord, with that mouth she could make a fortune as a courtesan.

  Her long-lashed eyes twinkled. “Sir, if you will return the remains, I will see to its burial.”

  Her witty remark stunned him. Belatedly, he realized he was grinning up at her. She probably thought he’d fallen for her ruse. Exasperated with himself, he grasped the broken sticks, rose, and placed the ruined fan in her small gloved hands.

  He met her amused gaze again, noting she did not simper or blush. She was no miss fresh out of the schoolroom. “I apologize for the damage. Allow me to make reparations,” he said.

  “It is quite beyond repair,” she said.

  “I insist upon compensating you for—”

  “My pain and suffering?” She laughed. “I assure you the fan’s death is a relief to me. Look, you can see it is exceedingly ugly.”

  They’d not had a proper introduction, and yet, she’d invited him to come closer. He decided to oblige her and find out if her intentions extended beyond droll quips. While she chattered about a dim shop light and putrid green paint, he stole another glance at her mouth, picturing those lips damp and kiss-swollen. Slow heat eddied in his veins.

  She continued speaking in an unreserved manner as if they were old friends rather than strangers. “Even my maids refused to take the fan,” she said. “So I decided to carry the pitiful thing at least once.”

  A footman carrying a tray of champagne paused before them. She lifted up on her toes like a ballerina to place the ruined fan upon it. Pint-sized she might be, but her flimsy skirts outlined a deliciously rounded bottom. He liked voluptuous women, and his practiced eye told him this one had the body of a goddess.

  His blood stirred. He wanted her.

  A warning clanged in his head. She was probably married, and he never dallied with other men’s wives. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. He found himself hoping she was a willing and lonely widow, but he meant to do more than hope.

  “Poor little fan. May you rest in peace.” She pirouetted and gave him a dazzling smile. “There now, I’m done mourning.”

  She was exceptionally clever, but without the brittle artifice common among the ton. He caught her gaze, willing her with his eyes. “Now that the funeral is over, perhaps you would allow me to escort you to the refreshment table.” And thence to a more private location.

  “You are too kind, but I must return to my friends.” Triumph surged inside him. She’d said friends, but made no mention of a husband. “Will you allow me the pleasure of your company a little longer? I mean to persuade you to accept my offer.”

  “I have dozens of other fans,” she said. “Your apology is more than sufficient.”

  She intended to play hard to get. Since he’d come of age, women had always pursued him. At the prospect of a chase, excitement raced through his blood. But he must proceed with caution. If he’d misjudged her, she would take offense. A smile tugged at his mouth. He knew exactly which card to play.

  He reached inside his coat and produced his engraved card. “Take it. In the event you change your mind, send round a note.” If she refused, he’d have his answer. But if she accepted, he’d have her name. And soon her.

  When she started to reach for the card, he held his breath. Take it, little charmer. I’ll ride you to the stars all night.

  She hesitated and then peered at his card. Her doll-like eyes grew round as carriage wheels. She curtseyed, mumbled something he couldn’t hear, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Her sudden departure caught him off guard. He took two steps, searching for her, but the crowd had swallowed her. Obviously she’d not known his identity beforehand. But why had she fled?

  “There you are.”

  At the sound of Hawk’s voice, Tristan turned.

  “I tried to save you,” Hawk said, “but that dragon Lady Durmont waylaid me. So who was the latest clumsy belle to accost you?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Tristan said. “I take it you do not know her.”

  “I never saw her face.” Hawk frowned. “What the devil were you doing engaging a strange lady in conversation?”

  “I stepped on her fan.”

  Hawk made a sound of disgust. “Follow me.”

  As he walked with his friend, Tristan frowned, wondering how he could have misread her signals. Then again, the women who pursued him made no secret of their illicit intentions with their risqué innuendos. The mysterious lady had surprised and intrigued him, but she’d not taken the bait, so he dismissed her from his mind.

  Hawk led him over to a wall niche displaying a winged statue of Fortuna, goddess of fortune and fate. “Old boy, you’ve got to be more careful,” Hawk said. “These chits are desperate. One of them might trick you into a compromising situation.”

  Tristan huffed. “A cautionary tale in reverse. Lady Rake seduces unsuspecting bachelor.”

  “There are plenty of schemers on the marriage mart who would throw away their virtue to marry a duke.”

  “Ridiculous.” He’d never fall for such tricks.

  “Forget this bridal business for now,” Hawk said. “You needn’t rush to the altar.”

  “I’ve left the dukedom unsecured for thirteen years.” With good reason, he silently amended.

  Hawk released a loud sigh. “You’re determined to wed.”

  “Determined, yes. Whether I’ll succeed is debatable.”

  “As usual, you’re making matters much too complicated. You’re in luck. I have a brilliant plan.”

  “This ought to prove entertaining,” he said.

  “It’s simple,” Hawk said. “Choose the most beautiful belle in the ballroom, get an introduction, and ask her to dance. Then call on her tomorrow and propose. In less than twenty-four hours, you’ll be an engaged man.”

  “You call that a brilliant plan?”

  Hawk folded his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong with it?”

  He huffed. “Most of the beauties I’ve met are vain, silly, and clumsy.”

  “You want an ugly wife?”

  Tristan scowled. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What the devil do you want?”

  “A sensible, respectable, and graceful woman.” He wanted more, but he wasn’t about to confess his fantasies.

  “If it’s a boring and plain bride you’re wanting, you need look no further than the wall,” Hawk said, indicating a group of pitiful-looking gels sitting with the dowagers.

  Tristan had started to turn away when he saw the amusing lady he’d spoken to earlier. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. She led two gangly young cubs over to the forlorn girls. The chandelier’s soft candl
elight illuminated her curly golden hair.

  Within minutes, both cubs were escorting wallflowers toward the dance floor. The lady responsible for this turn of events clasped her small gloved hands. As she watched the couples, her plump lips curved into a dreamy smile, and her eyes softened. Transfixed, Tristan forgot to breathe. He’d last seen that expression on a woman after a vigorous bout between the sheets.

  Then Lord Broughton and his new bride approached her. All signs of the temptress disappeared as the lady faced the couple. “That’s her,” Tristan said.

  Hawk squinted. “Who?”

  “The lady I spoke to earlier. She is standing with Broughton and his wife.”

  “Lord help us. It’s Miss Mansfield.”

  Miss Mansfield? She was a virtuous, unmarried lady? The devil. He’d almost made her an indecent proposition.

  Hawk laughed. “You’ve never heard about her?”

  “You’re obviously itching to tell me,” he grumbled.

  “She makes matches for every ugly duckling in London,” Hawk said, wagging his brows.

  Tristan scoffed. “You’re funning me.”

  “I’m not jesting. She’s not called Miss Mantrap for nothing,” Hawk said. “The woman is a menace to bachelors. Good old Broughton is a prime example.”

  Good old Broughton gazed down at his pretty blond bride. The man looked as if he were suffering from unbridled lust, a term women euphemistically called love.

  Hawk regarded Tristan with suspicion. “Why are you so interested in her?”

  “Mere curiosity,” he said with a shrug.

  Hawk smirked. “Cut line. You thought she was available for dalliance.”

  He’d never admit it. No doubt she was as poor as a church mouse, without noble family connections. She probably found matchmaking preferable to taking a position as a lady’s maid or governess. Most likely, she’d only received an invitation to the ball because she’d made Broughton’s match.

  He wished she’d not refused his offer to pay for the fan. But he understood her pride all too well, and though he thought her chosen career odd, he couldn’t deny she’d made a successful match for Broughton.