The Debutante and the Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 11)

by Collette Cameron

  He was a bloody damned idiot for encouraging her to come here again.

  Rayne tossed a fretful glance over her shoulder, then peeked up at him through those bronze-tipped, sooty lashes. Though she was tall for a woman and stood on a step, he still claimed several inches on her.

  “I mustn’t come again now that you are in residence,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I cannot risk ruination. We haven’t even been formally introduced, Your Grace.”

  “Rayne?” came the duchess again, this time much closer and with genuine concern weighting her voice.

  “I shall speak with Sheffield on the matter.” Fletcher lowered his head until his lips nearly brushed the graceful curves of Rayne’s shell-like ear. Only half an inch to spare.

  What would she do if he touched his mouth just there?

  To the tantalizing, petal-soft flesh just below her earlobe?

  He blew softly.

  Sucking in a sharp, irregular breath, she stiffened.

  He inhaled her essence, his pulse quickening with immediate arousal.

  “I’m positive an introduction willna be hard to arrange, lèannan. I’ll insist on it.”

  Hyde Park, London

  Four days later in the afternoon

  Feeling oddly out of sorts despite the day’s temperate weather and the adorable, fluffy ducklings paddling along the Serpentine, Rayne kept pace with Everleigh, Gabriella, Duchess of Pennington, Gabriella’s sister, Ophelia Breckensole, and Theadosia, Duchess of Sutcliffe.

  They were to meet Jemmah, Duchess of Dandridge, and Sophronie Slater for tea at Nicolette’s in just over an hour.

  Normally, Rayne would’ve keenly anticipated that particular gathering. These were her dearest friends, after all. But since her encounter with the Duke of Kincade four days ago, she’d been peculiarly restless and oddly discontented.

  Agitated even.

  He’d seemed so determined she visit his gardens again and had insisted on an introduction. Almost as if he were truly interested in her. However, it appeared his grace wasn’t so very enthusiastic after all, as four days had passed with nary a note nor an appearance.

  Four days wasn’t so very long—just over half a week, she reasoned.

  Are you listening to yourself? her logical self severely scolded.

  Since when did she desire a man’s attention?

  Honestly?

  Since she’d stumbled upon that enigmatic Scot in her secret oasis and, after overcoming her initial shock, had realized he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable or wary.

  No, indeed. That most assuredly wasn’t what the disarming Duke of Kincade made her feel at all.

  His grace’s last masculine purr in her ear, his warm breath a sensual caress, had sent all of her senses tumbling pell-mell. Like a frightened mouse, she’d fled his presence without another word or a backward glance. Rayne vowed she’d heard the rich, melodious tenor of his chuckle as she skirted the hedgerow and found her way to Everleigh.

  The handsome blighter.

  What if Everleigh had overheard Him? Them?

  She hadn't, thank the divine powers.

  That would’ve resulted in a slew of questions Rayne would rather not answer.

  As it turned out, Everleigh had received today’s invitation to take tea with Nicolette and wanted to ensure Rayne made no other plans.

  As if she would do so of her own accord.

  Everleigh had to gently prod her at almost every turn to venture into society. While some debutantes thrived on the social whirlwind, Rayne relished a more sedate lifestyle. Her aunt was never unkind, nor did she force her if she were truly opposed to attending any function. But she fretted about Rayne’s future which, in turn, caused Rayne distress.

  She didn’t want to be a burden to Everleigh or Griffin. But the unvarnished truth was that she was a penniless orphan, completely reliant upon the Sheffields. Uncle Albert hadn’t provided a dowry or any other provision for her, and if it hadn’t been for Eveleigh’s kind and generous nature, Rayne wasn’t certain what would’ve become of her when her guardian had unexpectedly died.

  In point of fact, he and Frederick had been murdered. Rayne still harbored a degree of guilt for feeling no remorse or sorrow at their passings. Only blessed relief that she’d be forevermore spared their vile presence and their even more abhorrent gatherings.

  “I simply want you to be as happy and content as I am, Rayne,” Everleigh had said during breakfast this morning as she spread strawberry preserves on her quarter piece of toast.

  How many times had Rayne heard that?

  Far, far too many to count.

  For at least as many times, Rayne had replied, “I know you do, and I am so very grateful.”

  She did know, and her heart overflowed with appreciation. Not all young women were nearly as blessed and privileged as she. Providence had smiled upon Everleigh too, and if ever a soul merited such good fortune, it was Rayne’s selfless aunt.

  Neither mentioned the heartbreak and misery Everleigh had suffered before Griffin came into her life at Theadosia’s Christmastide house party last year. Just as neither woman mentioned why Rayne feared most men, though, through years of practice, she kept her trepidation well-disguised on the outside.

  The turmoil and apprehension that beset her inwardly was another matter entirely.

  This afternoon, she wore one of the many new gowns Everleigh and Griffin had insisted that, as a debutante, Rayne required for her Season. Her arguments that she was two-and-twenty and well past the age for a formal come out hadn’t dissuaded either in the slightest. She’d welcomed her introduction to le beau monde with as much enthusiasm as having acquired a large carbuncle on her bottom or an oozing blister upon her upper lip.

  The same ability that enabled her to mask her fear of men also aided her in donning a pleasant mien at social functions. Not even her closest friends knew the whole ugly truth—just bits and buttons.

  None except Everleigh.

  The others knew enough to understand why she behaved as she did at times.

  Allowing a budding smile, Rayne ran a gloved hand over her skirt.

  This ivory-and-pink-striped gown was truly lovely, and despite her qualms, she appreciated the exquisite frock. The blush-colored spencer—the exact same shade of pink as the gown’s stripes—was made of the softest velvet Rayne had ever felt. Naturally, her white kid half boots, pink gloves, and silk bonnet with its plethora of pink-and-white silk flowers enhanced the ensemble.

  To be perfectly frank, she felt rather like a dressed-up doll on display. This gorgeous costume drew unsolicited attention to her.

  How could it not?

  Of the latest style and sewn by Mademoiselle Franciose Beauchêne, one of London’s most exclusive modistes, the becoming garment was meant to be precisely what it was—a beacon of fashion. A calling card and advertisement for Mademoiselle Beauchêne.

  Regardless, Rayne longed for a plain gown that she didn’t have to worry about soiling or tearing. Just as she yearned for the peace and quiet of the neighboring gardens. Gardens which—most tiresomely—were now off-limits to her unless she brought a maid and a footman along.

  And dragging bored servants with her defeated the very purpose in seeking a solitary place.

  “You’re awfully quiet today, Rayne.” Gabriella peered at her from beneath the brim of a fetching yellow-and-peach bonnet. “Are you quite well?”

  A small crease between her eyebrows revealed her genuine concern.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Ophelia piped in as she looped her hand through Rayne’s elbow. Winged eyebrows raised questioningly, she nudged Rayne gently in the ribs.

  No surprise there. Gabriella and Ophelia were twins and frequently not only voiced the same thoughts but finished each other’s sentences.

  “I’m perfectly fine.” Rayne tilted her mouth into a bright, if somewhat forced, smile. “I’ve just been thinking about Nicolette.” She had been—sort of. Before her mind had taken her down sev
eral rabbit trails. “I’m so very pleased for her.”

  A chorus of agreements echoed her declaration.

  Ophelia grinned as she leaned into Rayne’s shoulder. “Who do you think will be next?”

  “Next?” Rayne puzzled her brow.

  “Yes, goose. Next to become betrothed? Wed? Caught in the parson’s mousetrap? Leg-shackled?”

  Rayne lifted a shoulder as she regarded a curious jay watching them. It couldn’t possibly be Theopolis. Could it?

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” She did know, however, it would not be her. Unlike most women of her station, marriage had never been her end-all desire. “You don’t sound as if marriage is high on your list of priorities, Ophelia.”

  “I haven’t met the right man, I suppose,” Ophelia said a trifle too casually. “I have no wish to be a chattel or simply marry because I fear being on the shelf or growing long in the tooth.”

  All valid reasons Rayne commiserated with.

  Nonetheless, their little troupe of unmarried friends was dwindling. In addition to those wedded ladies presently strolling the wide pathway near the Serpentine with her, Jessica Brentwood had recently made a match with Crispin Rolston, Duke of Bainbridge.

  Perhaps Ophelia or Sophronie or their friend Justina Farthington would soon make a brilliant match as well. Eyeing Ophelia, Rayne teased, “Has any particular gentleman caught your attention?”

  “Me?” Ophelia scoffed and elevated her chin in a rather mutinous fashion. “Certainly not. You know how restricted my life with my grandparents was in Colchester. I have no intention of relinquishing my freedom—meager though it is—to a man’s dictates any time soon.”

  “Married life isn’t at all restrictive if you marry for love, sister dearest.” Gabriella winked naughtily, and the married women giggled.

  “Indeed, it is not,” Theadosia agreed, exchanging a pointed look with Everleigh, who returned her grin.

  “I’ve found marriage to Griffin most satisfying,” Everleigh declared, her cheeks pinkening becomingly.

  That brought on another round of mirth from the trio of married duchesses.

  Ophelia rolled her eyes skyward and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to Rayne. “It seems we cannot escape their protestations of wedded bliss.”

  Or their not-so-veiled sexual innuendos.

  Rayne knew more than most unmarried—supposedly virtuous women—did in that regard. Experience had been a harsh teacher. For Everleigh too, but she overcame her aversion. All-too familiar sourness stung Rayne’s tongue, and she swallowed away the bitterness.

  “I’m truly happy for them.” She just didn’t have the same yearning to marry and settle into domestic bliss, and apparently, neither did Ophelia.

  “You know I am as well,” her friend conceded. “But is it wrong to want something more too?”

  “Not at all,” Rayne said as they turned toward the entrance. A pair of laughing boys in navy-blue-and-white-striped skeleton suits raced by, their harried governess or nurse failing in her efforts to keep up with the energetic duo. “I want more too.”

  Rayne simply wasn’t sure what that more was. Unlike Ophelia, who enjoyed London and all the trappings that went along with a Season, Rayne could well do without the busyness and hullabaloo of town life. She supposed that made her an oddity amongst the ton. Amongst most gently-bred young women as well.

  Should she care about that flaw in her character?

  She didn’t. Not a blessed jot.

  “Good afternoon, Your Graces, Miss Breckensole, Miss Wellbrook.”

  Astride a magnificent bay roan, Stanford Bancroft, the handsome, extremely tall, and severe Duke of Asherford, greeted their little troupe with a polite tip of his black felt hat.

  “Asherford,” Everleigh greeted warmly. “Your business with my husband must’ve concluded earlier than anticipated.”

  Was everyone conducting business with Griffin these days?

  Something to do with shipping and imports and exports, and of course textiles, although no one had ever bothered informing Rayne exactly what that was. She supposed it wasn’t really any of her business, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.

  At one time, members of the peerage would’ve balked at any involvement in commerce. And if they did dabble in trade, it was done secretly, lest they be accused of smelling of the shop. Times were changing, however. Wise aristocrats knew that if they didn’t invest in business endeavors, all they might have left in a few years was a title and a bankrupt estate.

  “Indeed.” Asherford’s gaze lingered on Ophelia a fraction too long to be completely acceptable.

  Well, now…

  Mayhap Ophelia would indeed be the next of their circle to wed, despite her protestations.

  From beneath her bonnet’s wide brim, Rayne slid her friend a surreptitious glance.

  Was she aware of the duke’s interest?

  Ophelia had released Rayne's elbow and, absorbed in a loose thread on the braid of her periwinkle cuff, she seemed unaware of his perusal.

  Flicking his black-gloved hand, Asherford casually gestured to the two men flanking him.

  Rayne’s heart took on a frantic cadence when she swept her gaze over them.

  It was him: Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade.

  He was here. In Hyde Park. Just a few feet away in all of his glorious, male splendor.

  Her stomach quivered with equal parts giddiness and trepidation.

  Oh, my God.

  Surely he wouldn’t be so bold as to request an introduction in front of her closest friends and aunt. To do so would imply a genuine interest in her.

  Rayne barely resisted the impulse to let her eyelids drift shut and groan aloud.

  Had she been foolish enough to do so, the moment their graces departed, the ladies would be upon her like flies on sweets, demanding to know why he’d made such a direct entreaty and why she’d reacted the way she had. Naturally, they’d read all sorts of misconceptions into his request as well as her response. And then Rayne, quite naturally, would be obliged to lie to cover the truth.

  And she was a horrid—simply horrid—liar.

  “I believe you are all acquainted with Baxter Bathhurst, Duke of San Sebastian, and Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade,” Asherford said offhandedly.

  Oh, now that wrong assumption was most, most fortuitous indeed. The gloriously, wonderfully, wholly incorrect supposition let both Rayne and the Duke of Kincade off the proverbial hook.

  Before anyone could respond, the Duke of Kincade shook his head, that unusual gold hoop in his ear glinting in the sunlight. “I’m acquainted with almost everyone,” he said, flashing that bone-melting smile. “However, I’ve never had the pleasure of a formal introduction to Miss Wellbrook.”

  Drat, the disarming man.

  Drat, her wobbly legs and even wobblier tummy.

  He was, indeed, going to take advantage of the opening Asherford had unwittingly created.

  “Surely that cannot be.” Eveleigh’s fair brows arched high on her smooth forehead as she looked between the duke and Rayne. “Why, you were at our ball four nights hence.”

  “I was,” Kincade agreed amiably. “And I’m now yer neighbor as well. I’ve let the vacant house to your right.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” Everleigh declared with her usual genial warmth. “Most convenient for all of those meetings between you and Griffin. Why now, you can simply chat across the fence.”

  She laughed, and the others joined in the mirth. Everyone except Rayne and Kincade, that was.

  A guilty flush traced its way up Rayne’s neck to her cheeks, and she studiously avoided meeting the Duke of Kincade’s eyes.

  Looking speculative, Everleigh put a gloved forefinger to her chin. “No, I believe a stone wall separates the properties. Doesn’t it, Your Grace?”

  Everleigh knew about the wall?

  Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, Rayne swung her attention between her aunt and the duke.

  “
Indeed, it does,” the Duke of Kincade agreed.

  His expression unreadable, his mannerism perfectly proper to everyone present, the duke pretended like he and Rayne had never exchanged a word. Other than the brief, polite glance in her direction, he’d not indicated any prior meeting between them.

  The tension eased between her shoulder blades, enough for her to inhale a full breath again. He’d not give her away. Somehow, despite her earlier misplaced alarm, she’d known he wouldn’t, and that tiny trickle of trust that had sprung up that day in the garden grew stronger.

  Today the duke was clean-shaven, his strong jaw and the slight dimple in the middle of his chin on full display. As was his wont, he’d tied his hair back in what was becoming a familiar queue. His deep green riding jacket brought out the jade hues of his striking, thick-lashed eyes.

  Really. Must he have such ridiculously lush lashes?

  Even if she applied cosmetics to hers, they’d never compare to his.

  Rayne deliberately averted her attention from his buff-covered thighs and the way the muscles bunched and flexed as he expertly controlled his stunning mount. Memories of the way his shirt had pulled taut across his chest and shoulders the other day sent a wave of most inconvenient heat pitching low in her belly.

  Had she caught a fever?

  This hot-cold, hot-cold business was truly becoming most annoying.

  To distract herself from the peculiar sensation, she fixed her attention on his horse. Pitch-black except for a silvery-white mane and tail, the creature was perhaps the most beautiful animal she’d ever beheld.

  Rayne adored horses. She had done so for as long as she could remember. Griffin had purchased a sweet-tempered mare for her, and she rode Verity along Rotten Row several times a week.

  “Your gelding is magnificent, Your Grace.” Relief washed through her at how normal she sounded at the deft change of subject. A small satisfied smile pulled the corners of her mouth upward the merest bit.

  She’d steered the conversation away from introductions. Quite cleverly too, if she did say so herself. And she did say so, she thought rather smugly.

  “Aye, Spiorad—his name means spirit in Gaelic—is an exceptional horse.” A slight widening of the Duke of Kincade’s smile revealed he knew precisely what pathway Rayne’s thoughts had pelted down and exactly what she was up to.