To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

by Kristen McLean

  “Are you satisfied?”

  His rumbling murmur sent shivers over her skin. He sounded like a lover asking if their lovemaking was as good for her as it was for him. Or, at least, what she would imagine that to sound like.

  “I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about,” she answered without taking her eyes off the passing scenery.

  “I daresay you ought, madam,” he returned plainly. “After spouting ultimatums and thrusting yourself upon me—an innocent man minding my own business—”

  “Your business is despicable!”

  “Be that as it may,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “It’s never enough. You know his reasons for eating his own bullet, but it’s never enough.”

  A familiar pain in his voice had Céleste turning from the window. His head was bowed, hidden from view, but she recognized grief when she heard it. It had been her constant companion her entire life, beginning with her aristocratic grandparents meeting madame guillotine, and then her parents sinking to the bottom of the Channel on their way to England. Had she not been sent to London ahead of them, the sea would have swallowed her, as well. She might have preferred that to being utterly alone at eight years of age, living with people she had barely known.

  She’d had no one to love or to love her until Pierre. He had been intelligent, kind, and soft-spoken. She could not have asked for a better companion. When they had wed, it had seemed as though the world had finally righted itself. If she had known grief would strike again, she might have avoided the pain and steered Pierre toward some other debutante. The pain of losing him to another would have been nothing compared to the pain of losing him forever.

  “No, it’s not enough,” she agreed. “But it’s better than nothing.”

  “Is it?”

  She took a deep, steadying breath. “I spent eight years agonizing over his death, wondering if it was because of me. Perhaps now I can let him rest in peace.”

  “Peace,” Nick snorted. “I hope he rots in the hottest corner of Hell.”

  Fury, hot and hostile, shot through her, and she nearly lunged at him with her claws drawn. However, her anger cooled when she realized he wasn’t talking about Pierre.

  “Who?”

  His blue eyes were hard as granite when they met hers. “My father.”

  She should have realized. Had he not been so adept at hiding his feelings behind a thick shield of humor and wit, she might have seen it before.

  Céleste understood his grief, his sense of abandonment, and his anger. She had been determined to ignore the same feelings for years.

  “Your mother must have been a great comfort to you.”

  His expression did not change. “She died when I was just a boy, long before my dear father sold England’s secrets to the enemy, drained the coffers dry, and then shot himself. He was a traitor, and a worthless sod of a businessman. When the money was gone, he became desperate, and as it turned out France paid dearly for the right information. I thought if I could only find the men he had sold the secrets to I would be able to let it go.” He shook his head. “That was years ago. Now, I know it wouldn’t make a difference, even if I could find them. It wouldn’t change the past.”

  His anger at his father’s betrayal was palpable, but so was his grief. He had lost his family, as had she, and it still hurt him deeply. Instead of pushing people away as she had, though, he had drawn them in with his jokes and light conversation. He had friends all over France and England because of that. Despite all her galas, and balls, and soirees, Céleste was always alone.

  She glanced down at her fashionably gloved hands and the stylish damask skirt they were resting on. She had designed herself to intimidate. Her clothes and cold veneer were her armor against anyone who might hurt her. It was so effective she had only two friends in the entire world, and neither of them truly knew how deep her grief ran or how utterly alone she felt.

  She blinked and two tears fell to her lap. She could no longer attribute her loneliness to Pierre’s death nor that of her parents or grandparents. She had no one to blame but herself.

  * * *

  He should have kept his big mouth firmly shut. His woes were not her problem. Now she was crying, and it was killing him. Perhaps because her subtle tears were real, coming from somewhere deep within, instead of being the grand show he was accustomed to, which included wailing, gut-wrenching sobs, and unlimited waterworks. Those were easy to handle, even when they were sincere. He would simply take the lady into his arms and speak soothingly until she quieted. It came naturally to him. But Céleste wasn’t hysterical, and this was no trivial matter.

  Her grief was a monster; one he was quite familiar with. An embrace and a few soft words were not going to help her. Nothing he could do would help her, but that didn’t stop his brain from frantically searching for some nonexistent solution.

  He had to make her stop, for the sake of his sanity.

  “It is very bad luck to cry in a carriage,” he lied. “If you do not stop this instant, we are bound to be struck by lightning.” He reached out to take her hand in his, ignoring the shocks of awareness running to every corner of his body.

  Big, honey-colored eyes lifted to his questioningly. It was all he could do not to lose himself in them.

  “I don’t think crispy will be a good look on either of us,” he added with a faint smile.

  Her hand was small, and warm and trembling, and all he wanted to do was slip off the glove, then kiss every inch of it. Then he would work his way up her arm, neck, jaw… He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He knew ways of making her forget all the injustices that had ever been done to her, and he longed to show her every single one of them.

  From the moment he had stepped foot in this carriage, he had been watching her from under his hat or mostly closed eyelids, purposely brushing his legs against her skirts. He would have tried everything in his repertoire to seduce her had Saint Brides not been present.

  She was intelligent, independent, and beautiful, and she needed someone to love her, probably as badly as he did. But that required marriage and children, and Nick couldn’t give her either of those things.

  He squeezed her hand before letting it go. “Poor Saint Brides wouldn’t know what hit him, waking up to a burnt carriage and drastic change of skin tone.”

  The carriage began to slow with still several hours remaining before reaching Le Havre. Nick glanced out the window to make sure they hadn’t made miraculous progress. If there were ever a time for miracles in his life, this was it. He was desperate enough to hope.

  He saw nothing except trees and dirt.

  “What are you doing?” Céleste exclaimed when he reached out and opened the door.

  He didn’t bother answering. It was rather obvious what he was doing—leaning out of a moving carriage to see why the blazes it was slowing down.

  A busted up cart lay strewn across the road ahead, its horse nipping at the grass nearby.

  “Upsy daisy, Steel Breeches.” Nick watched for movement in the trees as he stretched his leg to nudge Saint Brides. “Do you carry a pistol, by chance?”

  * * *

  Céleste felt her chest tighten. Why would he need a pistol?

  “Of course I carry a pistol,” Saint Brides answered groggily, scowling as he straightened and adjusted his coat and cravat. “Renaud may be involved. I am no halfwit with a death wish.”

  Nick pulled himself back into the carriage, holding out his hand to Saint Brides.

  Saint Brides’s irritated expression shifted between Nick and the open palm several times. “No.”

  “Come on, hand it over.” Nick smiled crookedly. “Trust me.”

  “I am not giving you my only gun,” Saint Brides said evenly. “Surely you have your own.”

  “Certainly.”

  Saint Brides nodded. “So use it.”

  “I need yours, too,” Nick said, waving his empty hand impatiently as the carriage slowed to a stop.

  “You cannot be ser
ious.”

  When Nick nodded, Saint Brides reluctantly reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol.

  “Thank you,” Nick said as he tucked the gun into his coat. He heard the coachman being pulled from his seat and hitting the ground with a grunt.

  “Stand and deliver!” someone shouted from outside the carriage. Then the door swung open to reveal a man holding a gun.

  “Deliver?” Nick looked himself over before turning back to the highwayman laughingly. “Do I look like an errand boy to you? I shan’t deliver anything.”

  Beside her, Saint Brides sighed and folded his arms over his chest, glaring daggers across the carriage. Céleste pursed her lips into a thin line. The scoundrel was going to get them all killed on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

  At least she would have the pleasure of watching him die first.

  The highwayman’s face reddened. “I want your coin and your jewelry!”

  “So does my mistress, but you don’t see her lurking about the French countryside, besieging me at gunpoint,” Nick pointed out casually.

  The highwayman cocked the pistol and aimed it at Nick’s chest. “Get out,” he ground out.

  Nick sighed. “Oh, very well.” He rose and stepped down from the carriage as if this were nothing more than a slight annoyance.

  “In fact,” the highwayman added once Nick had stepped out. “All of you get out.”

  Nick smiled up at Céleste as though he had not a care in the world as he offered his hand and helped her down.

  She hoped to God that he understood the death threat in her eyes, because if they somehow lived through this, she was going to kill him.

  Once on the ground, she lifted her chin and watched the highwayman, waiting with clenched fists for him to send his bullet through Nick’s heart.

  “Are you not a proud little thing?” the highwayman sneered at Céleste, lewdly looking her over. “I shall take your baubles first.”

  Céleste raised her brow slightly. “I am not wearing any.”

  That was the truth. It was all packed away in the trunk Nick had told her footmen to leave behind.

  The highwayman pointed to her hand. “The ring.”

  Céleste felt all the color drain from her face. She wore her wedding band. She always wore it. Not the giant amethyst Pierre had given her, but the matching gold band he had slid on her finger when they had wed.

  Céleste forced down the panic threatening to explode in her chest and shook her head calmly. “No.”

  “Yes,” he countered, donning a malicious smile. “Give it to me, or I shall start shooting.”

  She shook her head again and looked at Nick. Surely, he could do something. He must! She silently pleaded with him, but he only nodded at the highwayman.

  She closed her eyes against the threatening tears and pulled off her ring. Her hand shook as she held it out and dropped the gold band into the man’s hand.

  He flipped it into the air, catching it and tucking it into his pocket. Then his face twisted as he turned to Nick and Saint Brides. “What are you two whispering about?”

  “About how terrible a highwayman you are for demanding such meager spoils. My friend believes you are not desperate, but frugal, while I quite disagree.”

  The highwayman scowled at Nick. “Henri!” he yelled angrily.

  “Oui, Jean!” another man yelled from the other side of the carriage.

  “We cannot have them following us, can we?”

  “No, Jean.”

  “Take care of it.” Jean smiled smugly.

  One loud crack was followed by another as the yoke connecting the horses to the carriage was split in two.

  “Now, then,” Jean drawled. “It might take us a while to make sure we have everything worth having.” He gestured to the carriage with the pistol. “Go on; back inside.”

  Céleste let out a sigh of relief. At least they were going to live. They were stranded, and her wedding band had been taken, but at least they weren’t dying here.

  She was the first back in the carriage, but as soon as she sat, Jean cried out in pain. Nick had tripped into Saint Brides, pushing him aside and stepping on Jean’s foot in the process. Then Nick was spouting apologies, Jean was cursing outrageously, and Saint Brides was sprinting toward the horse by the broken cart.

  “Stop him!” Jean yelled, aiming his pistol at Saint Brides and firing twice, missing both times.

  Another shot was fired from the other side of the carriage, but Saint Brides had leapt onto the animal and was quickly disappearing down the road.

  Jean cursed. “We have an hour before he reaches the next village for help, so work quickly. I want to be long gone by then.”

  “Mind if I stand?” Nick asked. “I hate to be tied to a tree like our poor driver over there, and I have been cramped inside that carriage for hours now. Obviously, there aren’t any more horses ready for me to hop onto. Ours look very much still hitched together.” He gestured to the four horses still in their harnesses and tied to a tree.

  “Don’t be thinking you can run off like your friend,” Jean advised with narrowed eyes. “It’s only a surprise once.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Nick returned matter-of-factly. “Even if I were to free one of those beasts, riding without a saddle would absolutely ruin my trousers.”

  Jean scoffed and joined Henri, who was rummaging through her trunk. Nick turned and smiled at Céleste.

  She glowered. “I hate you.”

  The scoundrel’s smile widened, and he offered his hand. “Now would be the perfect chance for you to stretch your legs before we are off again.”

  Céleste desperately wanted to slap his hand and tell him to go to the devil. However, her rump was becoming terribly sore, and she was a lady.

  She narrowed her eyes at him as he helped her down from the carriage… again.

  “You are going to get us killed. You and your big mouth.”

  “Oh, posh,” he muttered. “I can get us out of this.”

  Céleste lifted a brow. “If I remember correctly, you are the one who got us into this.”

  “Shh,” he said, lifting a finger to his lips. “All I need is a little distraction… and soon. I don’t want Saint Brides to find André before I do.” He paused and shrugged. “Although, I suppose that was the entire point of having him ride ahead. We have not the time to play with highwaymen.”

  “Play?” she whispered incredulously. “He almost shot Saint Brides!”

  “My work is an art, not a science.” Nick grinned smugly as he leaned against the carriage. “Perhaps you would like a try. You could distract them, and I could grab their guns. I shall not have to say a word.”

  “And get myself shot?”

  “They are French. Frenchmen do not shoot beautiful women,” he argued. “Use your womanly wiles.”

  “What wiles?” she whispered back loudly.

  Nick cupped his chest with his hands and looked at her expectantly.

  Céleste’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “I shall not!” she nearly shouted.

  “Shh!” Nick used both of his hands to gesture for her to quiet down. “I don’t mean for you to strip. Just give them a little cleavage to get this axle fixed.” He donned a sulky expression. “It’s for André.”

  Céleste’s face and shoulders drooped at the mention of the boy. André had saved her life; therefore, she could swallow her pride to try to save his.

  She peeked around the carriage to where the two men were arguing over whether or not her prettiest dress would fetch a handsome price. It was her favorite dress.

  With a determined set to her jaw, she worked her bodice with several little tugs right and left until she began to see cleavage. After a little more tugging, she could see a whole two inches. That ought to satisfy even Nick, the cad.

  With one last black look in his direction, she started off and was pulled right back.

  Céleste found herself backed against the side of the carriage, inches away from a cro
ss-looking earl.

  “I thought you were using your womanly wiles,” Nick scolded in a hushed tone.

  “I was until you practically snatched me out of the air!” she argued indignantly.

  Nick’s hand flew to her mouth as he glanced around. “You have not done anything yet. I thought you were going to…” Nick gestured to her bosom.

  Céleste lifted a brow. “You are a scoundrel, yet you cannot say show my breasts?”

  Nick’s face didn’t change a bit, but Céleste felt hers turn crimson immediately. Still, she held her ground and refused to look away.

  “I was hoping to save you any further embarrassment and protect your feminine sensibilities,” he said evenly. “Forgive me if I surprised you by acting the gentleman. I am one by birth and station, and at times, it tends to come out.”

  Shame heated her face. “Pembridge, I—”

  “If you will notice, anyone standing more than two feet from you cannot see even the slightest dip in your chest. So, unless you intend to get close enough to tread on their toes, I do believe we shall be better off if I go. Excuse me.” Nick leaned past her to reach into the carriage.

  “I don’t think you are their type,” she said as she stepped aside, resisting the mad urge to stay put and enjoy his big, masculine body brushing against hers. Self-restraint was exceedingly difficult. Thankfully, her resolve only had to last a few seconds.

  Without a word, he pulled a pistol from under his seat and checked to see that it was already primed. His brow knit for a moment before he stuck the gun in the waistband of his trousers.

  Céleste stopped him just before he rounded the side of the carriage. “What will you do with that?”

  Nick frowned down at her. “I may fire it,” he said. “What else would I do? Make tea?”

  Fear coated the back of her throat. “Now is not the time for jests, Nick! You cannot just waltz over there and shoot. They may shoot back!”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Wait!” She clutched his sleeve as he turned to go. “If you die, who will take care of André?”