Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Read online

  Maybe not her face, but what about the rest of her feeble form?

  Her crepey features softened, and the beauty she’d once been peeked through the ravages of age. “It was good of you to come, Dandridge, and I know it meant the world to Theodora.” The imp returned full on, and she bumped her cane’s tip against his instep. “Now git yourself gone.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Jules lifted her hand, and after kissing the back, waited a few moments to assess her progress. If she struggled the least, he’d lay aside his plans and disregard her command.

  A few feet along the corridor, she paused, half-turning toward him. Starchy silvery eyebrow raised, she mouthed, “Move your arse.”

  With a sharp salute, Jules complied and continued to reflect on his most successful venture into society in a great while.

  Somehow—multiple glasses of superb champagne might be attributed to helping—he’d even managed to converse—perhaps a little less courteously than the majority of attendees, but certainly not as tersely as he was generally wont to—with the young bucks, dandies, and past-their-prime decrepitudes whose trivial interests consisted of horseflesh, the preposterous wagers on Whites’s books, and the next bit of feminine fluff they might sample.

  Or, in the older, less virile coves’ cases, the unfortunate woman subjected to their lusty ogling since the aged chaps’ softer parts were wont to stay that way.

  Only the welcome presence of the two men whom Jules might truly call ‘friend,’ Maxwell, Duke of Pennington, and Victor, Duke of Sutcliffe, had made the evening, if not pleasant, undoubtedly more interesting with their barbed humor and ongoing litany of drolly murmured sarcastic observations.

  Compared to that acerbic pair, Jules, renowned for his acute intellect and grave mien, seemed quite the epitome of frivolous jollity.

  But, by spitting camels, when his uncles, Leopold and Darius—from whom his middle names had been derived—had cornered him in the card room and demanded to know for the third time this month when he intended to do his ducal duty?

  Marry and produce an heir...

  Damn their interfering eyes!

  Jules’s rigidly controlled temper had slipped loose of its moorings, and he’d told them—ever so calmly, but also enunciating each syllable most carefully lest the mulish, bacon-brained pair misunderstand a single word—“go bugger yourselves and leave me be!”

  He’d been officially betrothed once and nearly so a second time in his five-and-twenty years. Never again.

  Never?

  Fine, maybe someday. But not to a Society damsel and not for many, many years or before he had concluded the parson’s mousetrap was both necessary and convenient. Should that fateful day never come to pass, well, best his Charmont uncles get busy producing male heirs themselves instead of dallying with actresses and opera singers.

  Marching along the corridor, Jules tipped his mouth into his first genuine smile since alighting from his coach, other than the one he’d bestowed upon Theo when he arrived. Since his affianced, Annabel’s death five years ago, Theo was one of the few people he felt any degree of true affection for.

  Must be a character flaw—an inadequacy in his emotional reservoir, this inability to feel earnest emotions. In any event, he wanted to return home early enough to bid his niece and ward, Lady Sabrina Remington, good-night as he’d promised.

  They’d celebrated her tenth birthday earlier today, too.

  Jules truly enjoyed Sabrina’s company.

  Possibly because he could simply be himself, not Duke of Dandridge, or a peer, or a member of the House of Lords. Not quarry for eager-to-wed chits, a tolerant listener of friends’ ribald jokes, or a wise counselor to troubled acquaintances. Not even a dutiful nephew, a less-favored son, a preferred godson, or at one time, a loving brother and wholly-devoted intended.

  Anticipation of fleeing the crowd lengthening his strides, he cut a swift glance behind him, and his gut plummeted, arse over chin, to his shiny shoes.

  Blisters and ballocks.

  Who the devil invited her?

  Jules’s brusque sound of annoyance echoed in the corridor.

  Miss Phryne Milbourne, the only other woman he’d considered marrying—for all of a few brief hours—had espied him. Given the determined look on her lovely face, she again intended to broach his crying off.

  London’s perpetually foggy and sooty skies would rain jewels and flowers before he ever took up with the likes of that vixen again, no matter how beautiful, blue-blooded, or perfectly suited to the position of duchess others—namely, Mother and The Uncles—believed she might be.

  Within mere hours of his uncles and his mother taking it upon themselves to broach a possible match between Miss Milbourne and him, which she’d bandied about with the recklessness of a farmwife tossing chickens table scraps—Jules had observed her true character, quite by chance.

  And thank God, he had, or she might well be his duchess by now.

  The notion curdled the two servings of crème brûlée he’d indulged in at luncheon.

  Truth to tell, he would’ve been hard put to decide which rankled more: Miss Milbourne’s callousness or her promiscuousness. Or perhaps, her ceaseless, nigh on to obsessive, pursuit of him was what abraded worse than boots three sizes too small. In any event, he had neither the time nor the inclination to discuss the issue with her tonight.

  Or ever, for that matter.

  Familiar with the manor’s architecture, he ducked into the nearest doorway and sidled into an elegant, unlit parlor situated between dual sets of ornate double doors. Doors which provided him with another, less obvious, route from the house through an adjacent passageway.

  Unaccustomed to the room’s darkness, he blindly groped until he found what he searched for. With the merest scrape of metal, he turned the key, and chuckled softly, if perhaps a might wickedly, to himself.

  He truly was a social misfit, and that he rather liked the peculiarity made him more so.

  Staid, abrupt, off-putting, somber, reticent, taciturn, reserved...

  He knew full well what others thought of him and, for the most part, their descriptions were accurate. What they didn’t know was why.

  Jemmah Dament knew.

  As timid, overlooked children, they’d sought refuge in each other’s company and whispered their secret fears to one another, too.

  Peculiar that twice in a matter of minutes Jemmah had popped to mind. Must’ve been encountering her bothersome family that caused the dual intrusions.

  Feminine footsteps accompanied by a heavier, uneven tread echoed on the corridor’s Arenberg parquet floor as Miss Milbourne neared.

  “I’m positive I saw Dandridge a moment ago, Papa.” A hint of petulance flavored her words. “He’s still avoiding me, though I’ve repeatedly explained that he misunderstood what he thought he saw and heard.”

  The devil I did.

  Keaton’s arm had been elbow deep inside her bodice, and his tongue halfway that distance down her throat too.

  Far worse, in Jules estimation, was Miss Milbourne’s treatment of sweet, crippled Sabrina. Whorish behavior was repugnant, but cruelty to an unfortunate, doubly so.

  Intolerable and unforgivable in his view.

  There and then, he’d told Miss Milbourne as much and that she’d best cease entertaining notions of a match between them. His ire raised, he may have suggested he’d welcome starved chartreuse tigers at the dining table with more enthusiasm than continuing their acquaintance.

  “Why, the stubborn man dared return the perfumed note I sent him last week, Papa. Unopened too, the obstinate wretch,” she fumed, her footsteps taking on a distinct stomping rhythm. “How many times must I apologize before Dandridge forgives me?”

  “Tut, m’dear. I wish you’d let me sue the knave for breaking the betrothal,” Milbourne wheezed, great gasping rattles that threatened to dislodge the artwork displayed above the passage’s mahogany raised panel wainscoting.

  If wishes were food, beggars would eat cak
e, old chap.

  There’d have to have been an actual proposal and a formal agreement, including a signed contract.

  Not a mere wishful suggestion in passing, which Miss Milbourne latched onto like a barnacle to rock.

  She’d led her father on a deuced merry chase the past two years, setting her cap for, and then tossing aside, one peer after another, each ranking higher and with fuller coffers than the last. Served him and the late Mrs. Milbourne right for naming her Phryne after a Greek courtesan.

  Dotty business, that.

  Whatever could they have been thinking?

  Breathing heavily, Milbourne grumbled from what must be directly outside the door, “Would do the arrogant whelp good to be taken down a peg. He’d be lucky to have you, my pet, he would. I can pull some strings—”

  “No, Papa! That would only anger Dandridge further. He must be made to see reason. I’m confident he’ll come ’round in time. His uncles and her grace are easily enough manipulated, and they want me at his side. I shan’t be denied my duchy because of a prudish misunderstanding. I’d remain faithful to him until an heir was produced. Perhaps even a spare. Surely, he must know that.”

  How very obliging.

  The door handle rattled, kicking Jules’s pulse into a gallop.

  An unladylike snort carried through the walnut.

  “Locked. I suppose Lady Lockhart, the pretentious tabby, is afraid the guests will make off with her vulgar oddities.”

  Jules drew in a prolonged, grateful breath. By discovering Miss Milbourne’s vices early on, he’d been spared a lifetime of misery.

  “Papa, did you see her expression when we entered with the Wakefields tonight? Looked like she’d swallowed newly-sharpened needles.” Miss Milbourne’s scornful laugh faded as she and her father explored the rest of the passageway.

  Jules remained still, listening as doors swished open and clicked close as they snooped in room after room in their search for him.

  And here he cowered, like an errant child, his temper growing blacker by the minute. However, an ugly confrontation was the last thing Theo warranted at her birthday celebration. Hence her decision, no doubt, not to send the Milbournes packing when they showed up uninvited on the Wakefields’ coat strings.

  Zounds, Jules loathed manipulators.

  A stunning beauty—a diamond of the first water according to the haut ton’s standards— Miss Milbourne was intelligent, accomplished, versed in politics, a gracious hostess, and popular among the social set. In short, she possessed all the trivial qualifications Mother and The Uncles deemed necessary for the next Duchess of Dandridge, and of as much value and importance to Jules as a hangnail or pernicious boil on his bum.

  Naturally, his mother would approve of Miss Milbourne.

  She was cut from the same calculating, mercenary fabric, after all.

  Plato had it right, by Jove. Like does indeed attract like.

  Jules didn’t much care one way or the other who the next duchess was. Or, for that matter, if there was another while he lived. Young and smitten, he’d dared gamble on love once, and when Annabel—always petite and frail—died from influenza a mere month prior to their wedding, his ability to love must’ve been buried with her. For no sentiment stronger than warm regard or affection ever stirred him again.

  Except for where Sabrina was concerned.

  And long, long ago, Miss Jemmah Dament too.

  Contemplating a match with Miss Milbourne had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with benefiting the dukedom. More fool he for not having listened to Theo’s blunt warnings against such a hair-brained notion.

  Jules was capable of finding a diamond of his own choosing, thank you very much.

  One whose multi-faceted inner beauty glowed far more brilliantly than Miss Milbourne’s exquisite outward countenance.

  Shaking his head, he rubbed his brow against the slight twinge tapping there and glanced around the lavish parlor. The undrawn draperies permitted moonlight to stream through the emerald-and-gold brocade-festooned windows and cast a silvery, iridescent glow over the gilded, carved furnishings. Muted music filtered into the peaceful chamber even as the Sevres mantel clock lazily chimed ten o’clock.

  He’d best hurry or Sabrina would think he’d decided to remain at the ball longer and she’d retire for the night. She’d only been permitted to stay up so late because she’d obediently taken an afternoon nap. To disappoint the child after she’d already endured so much tragedy in her short life was unthinkable.

  eHe’d Jules didn’t make promises he didn’t mean to keep.

  Should he unlock the door before taking his leave through the other pair?

  No. Theo’s servants would see to the matter.

  She really ought to consider securing unused rooms when she entertained, especially with the likes of Miss Milbourne prowling about.

  He’d mention the subject when next he saw his godmother.

  Wending between the numerous pieces of furniture in the moon’s half-light, he smacked his shin into the settee. Pain spiraling from calf to knee, he softly cursed and bent to rub the offended limb.

  “Dammit. Must Theo constantly rearrange the furniture? Two hell-fired times since December.”

  A startled gasp, swiftly stifled, had him jerking upright, whacking his shoulder this time.

  Bloody hell.

  “Who’s there?”

  Silence met his inquiry. Had he stumbled upon a lover’s tryst? A thief? A wayward servant or inquisitive guest? He fingered his throbbing shoulder, pressing the pads against the pain.

  “Reveal yourself at once.”

  Silence.

  Running his fingers along the settee’s back, he located the pedestal sofa table.

  Other than shallow breathing, the culprit kept quiet.

  Squinting, he made out a light-colored form reclining on the dark blue-and-silver striped cushions. A woman, and by all the stampeding elephants in Africa, he bet his silver buttons, and the two new bruises he surely sported, he knew who lay there.

  Like a slowly uncoiling rope, the tension eased from his taut muscles.

  He fumbled a bit until he found the engraved silver tinderbox beside the candelabra, and moments later, a wax taper flared to life.

  “Hello, Your Grace.”

  Miss Jemmah Dament, her rosy lips curved upward in a small closed-mouth smile and her face still sleep-softened, blinked groggily.

  Hello, indeed. Adorable, sleepy kitten.

  He lifted the candle higher, taking in her svelte figure, her delectable backside pressed to the sofa, one hand still cradling her cheek. Surprise and carnal awareness, pleasant and unexpected, tingled a rippling path from one shoulder to the other.

  The plain, awkward little mudlark had transformed into a graceful dove. One who rivaled—no, by far exceeded—her sister’s allure.

  “Well, hello to you as well, Miss Jemmah Dament.”

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world to be found napping during a ball at her aunt’s house, and then awoken by a man crashing into her makeshift bed, she sat up and brushed a wayward curl off her forehead.

  Jules set about lighting the other three tapers. Their glow revealed striking pale blue, wide-set almond-shaped eyes, fringed by dark lashes, and tousled hair somewhere between rich caramel and light toffee.

  He hadn’t seen her up close in...?

  How long had it been?

  Cocking his head, he searched his mind’s archives.

  At least since last summer.

  Yes, that afternoon in August, in Hyde Park, when she’d walked past wearing a travesty of a walking ensemble. A sort of greenish-gray color somewhere between rotten fish and bread mold.

  Yawning delicately behind one slender hand, she smoothed her plain ivory gown with the other.

  Except for a yellowish-tan sash below her breasts, the garment lacked any adornment. The ribbon didn’t suit her coloring, and although he couldn’t claim to be an expert on feminine apparel
, the frock seemed rather lackluster for such a grand affair.

  Another of Adelinda’s cast-offs?

  Jules canted his head as he closed the tinder box.

  He couldn’t recall ever seeing Jemmah wearing anything new. And yet her sister always appeared perfumed and bejeweled, attired in the first stare of fashion. Such blatant favoritism wasn’t uncommon amongst the elite, nor did it shock nearly as much as appall.

  He, too, was his mother’s least-favorite child, but by all the candle nubs in England, if he ever had children—in the very distant future—they’d not know the kind of rejection and pain he and Jemmah had experienced because of their parents’ partiality.

  He’d love and treat his offspring equally as any good and decent parent should.

  “Ah, Your Grace, you’re surprised to see me, I think.”

  Rather than coy or seductive, her smile and winged brows indicated genuine amusement. Her vivacious eyes sparkling with secret knowledge, she ran her gaze over him, the full radiance of her smile causing something prickly to take root in his chest and purr through his veins.

  “I am, but pleasantly so. Your appearance at these farces is even rarer than my own, Miss Dament.”

  His by choice, but what about Jemmah?

  Did she want to attend and was prohibited?

  “I’m here at Aunt Theo’s insistence. Mama couldn’t put her off this time. But I’m afraid even I have too much pride to be seen in a morning gown from three seasons ago. Besides,” she lifted a milky-white, sloping shoulder as she fiddled with a pillow’s tassel, “I don’t know how to dance, and this is a ball after all.”

  No self-pity or resentment weighted her words, just honest revelation.

  Jules had forgotten how refreshingly forthright she was.

  Still, how had such an important part of her education been overlooked?

  Did Theo know?

  Probably, since she’d mentioned trying to intervene on Jemmah’s behalf many times. Much to Theo’s dismay, Mrs. Dament refused all offers benefiting Jemmah, but when it came to Adelinda...

  That was an entirely different matter. For that greedy puss, nothing was spared.

  Pity for Jemmah engulfed him.