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

  He’d found his diamond in the rough.

  Perhaps not so rough, except for her humble attire.

  Jemmah would polish up brilliantly, and then those who’d ignored her, overlooked her loveliness, would grind their teeth in vexation.

  She’d blossomed into a remarkable and sensuous young woman. Tall, lithe, and boasting delightful, rounded womanly curves, two of which had taunted him unmercifully above her bodice, her features and form had embedded themselves in his memory.

  A self-depreciatory, yet joy-filled chuckle, burgeoned in his chest then rumbled forth, filling the silent, fire-lit room.

  Mere hours ago, he’d avowed himself indifferent to marriage, and now, he calculated just how soon he might take the charming, witty, a trifle shy and awkward, but wholly delectable and precious Jemmah Dament to wife.

  If someone asked him how he could be so absolutely positive he should do so, he couldn’t have answered them with logic and reason, for neither had anything whatsoever to do with the giddiness—yes, by all the cigars at Whites’s, giddiness—humming through him.

  He just knew.

  Simple as that.

  Not a damned lucid thing about it.

  Like wild creatures recognize their offspring, a river discerns what course its waters must flow, wildfowls’ instincts urge them to fly south for the winter, or even the sun understanding that it must rise every morning and then slowly descend each eve—

  He knew.

  Drowsy, content, and resolute, Jules shut his eyes and daydreamed about when he’d see his precious, sky-eyed Jemmah again.

  Was tomorrow too soon to propose?

  “Miss Jemmah. You needs wake up. Now. The mistress wants you to run an errand.”

  At the frantic whisper and Mary Pimble’s small hand insistently shaking her shoulder, Jemmah cracked an eye open. A bit of drool leaking from her mouth’s corner and her head resting on her forearms, she surveyed the assortment of papers, pens, and drawings scattered mere inches before her line of vision.

  She must’ve fallen asleep over her sketches while trying to decide which to take with her to show Jules at tea today.

  After wiping her mouth, she yawned and blinked sleepily.

  By all the brandy in Britain, no one could fault her for her for dozing off.

  After all, the clock had struck two before she’d managed to undress Mama and Adelinda, see their sheets warmed, and their chamber fires stoked, the whole while subjected to their rancorous litanies of why Adelinda ought to have reaped the dowager’s favor, not Jemmah.

  Their mutual fury over Aunt Theo’s blunt threat to cease all monetary support had nearly sent Mama into apoplexy, and for the first time ever, Adelinda’s face had mottled bright red as she sobbed and ranted into her abused pillow.

  Jemmah arched her stiff back and stretched her arms overhead, almost touching the slanting ceiling’s rough boards with her fingertips.

  “A missive arrived for you, too. I hid it in my pocket.” Her eyes wide and curious, Pimble whispered, “It’s from a duke.”

  A thrill fluttered Jemmah’s tummy.

  Pimble fished the hunter green-beribboned rectangle from her apron and pitched a worried gaze toward the door as Jemmah stood and stretched again while glancing to the busy street.

  Bless Pimble.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Mama or Adelinda intercepted a missive meant for Jemmah.

  “Thank you, Pimble.”

  Jemmah accepted the note, stamped with Dandridge’s seal.

  Mama definitely would’ve confiscated the letter. She had Dandridge earmarked for Adelinda.

  Jemmah flipped it over to examine the bold, slashing strokes across the face.

  Too bad the duke had other plans.

  The smile quirking Jemmah’s mouth as she traced his writing with her fingertip might’ve been a teeny bit jubilant.

  Or a lot.

  For someone who seldom prevailed, this triumph was far more profound. Something to be cherished and kept private, away from prying eyes. Formerly servants’ quarters, perched three stories above the street, her tiny bedchamber allowed her that luxury.

  Mama and Adelinda loathed climbing the stairs, especially the last narrow, steep risers, and the room was generally either arctic frigid or blistering hot. But the chamber had served as Jemmah’s private haven for over a decade, and she was content here even if it lacked creature comforts.

  She cracked the seal and using the window for light, perused the unfamiliar writing.

  My Dearest Miss Dament,

  I eagerly look forward to renewing our friendship and would consider it the greatest privilege if you would permit me to escort you to the theater tonight.

  Theo is attending as well, so we’ll be well chaperoned.

  I anticipate the hours until I next see you today,

  Dandridge

  Pleasure, secretive and acute, bent Jemmah’s mouth again as she refolded the letter.

  Amazing, how in less than twenty-four hours, her prospects had changed so dramatically. Attending the theater was out of the question, of course. She quite literally hadn’t a single gown appropriate for such a lavish affair; not that she was complaining.

  Last night, she’d had scant to look forward to, and today...

  Well, for one thing, Jules would be at tea and perhaps Lady Sabrina also. So, too, would her soon-to-be employer, the Dowager Lady Lockhart.

  God love that dear, feisty woman.

  Last night, unperturbed and fully aware of her position and power, she’d regally looked directly at Mama.

  “You best teach that one to retract her claws.” The dowager bounced her gray head toward Adelinda, the ostrich feathers atop the dowager’s head pummeling one another with the motion. “Envy turns even the comeliest of young ladies into ugly, spiteful creatures no one wants about. Not at all becoming, I assure you. And if you both wish to continue to be welcome in Society, as Theo has implied, you’ll behave as is expected of someone awarded the privilege.”

  Jemmah had barely refrained from clapping.

  She would’ve permitted a triumphant smile, except, blast her worn-out slippers, she’d felt pity for Mama and Adelinda. More so that neither had showed the least chagrin or remorse, and the censure leveled at them from those eavesdropping on their conversation had Jemmah’s face flaming in embarrassment for her family.

  It had always been so.

  She might think uncharitable thoughts and on occasion grumble beneath her breath, and for good reason too. But in the end, a deep-rooted hope that Mama and Adelinda would change —or perhaps it was naught more than fanciful wishing—stirred the remnants of her compassion.

  A moment later, Aunt Theo’s carriage trundled to a stop before their humble cottage, earning curious stares from passersby. Only this time, Jemmah’s anticipation of leaving for a few hours meant even more than it usually did.

  Today might be the last she’d return to this house as a resident.

  Hereafter, she’d only be a visitor; if Mama deemed to invite her, that was.

  Jemmah had best not hold her breath waiting for that invitation any time soon.

  Unlike Jemmah, Mama did not possess a forgiving nature.

  “Good news, miss?”

  Pimble puttered about, not doing much of anything, but every moment the maid spent here was far more pleasant than returning below.

  “Of a sorts, yes.”

  Better not to divulge too much to Pimble, yet. Jemmah slipped the letter into her reticule, afraid to leave it in her room.

  “Mama’s up earlier than I expected.”

  The servant offered a lopsided, apologetic smile. “And if I may be so bold, in as a foul a mood this morning as I’ve ever seen her.”

  A wonder Mama had roused herself before noon; a guarantee she’d be crotchety the rest of the day. Far worse for poor Pimble when Mama or Adelinda felt peevish. Both were as prickly and hard to handle as an infuriated hedgehog.

  “Jemmah, are you going to da
wdle the day away?”

  Breathing heavily, her skirts swishing about her ankles, Mama trudged into Jemmah’s chamber. Her pretty, plump, slightly rosy face puckered in displeasure when her gaze lit on the many sketches pinned to the rafters, depicting drawings from new fashions to birds perched upon flowering tree branches.

  “I sent Pimble to fetch you a full half hour ago. Whatever is keeping you both?”

  Jemmah brushed the wrinkles from her simple Pomona green day gown, or at least tried to, before going to stand before the small, slightly blurry, rectangular looking glass hanging from a support beam.

  She smoothed her hair and repinned a few loose strands as she watched her mother in the reflection.

  Pimble ducked from the chamber, making good her escape.

  Smart girl.

  If only Jemmah might do the same.

  “It’s only been ten minutes, Mama, and I’m afraid the errand will have to wait until after I call upon Aunt Theo and the dowager takes me shopping this afternoon.” She flicked her fingers toward the arched, four-paned window, the lower right divided by a long crack. “The carriage already awaits outside.”

  Scrutinizing her reflection, she frowned.

  Dark circles ringed her eyes, and the dress, a brilliant shade on Adelinda, made Jemmah’s skin appear sallow. She did quite look forward to acquiring a gown or two in hues which flattered her coloring, rather than wearing more castoffs from Adelinda, as Jemmah had for as long as she could recall.

  Did that make her shallow, or simply a typical woman who enjoyed looking her best?

  Especially now that she had a reason to care about her appearance?

  Drat, if only she had a fichu to drape about her neck to diminish the gown’s ill effects on her appearance. Perhaps she could leave her redingote on?

  “Tell me what it is that you need, Mama, and I shall be happy to take care of it before I return home. Or perhaps, if the matter is terribly urgent, Pimble or Adelinda might attend to it for you.”

  Not the least mollified, her mother angled away from the table where she’d been poking about, occasionally scowling or grimacing at something she saw.

  “Don’t get impertinent with me, young lady. You know full well Pimble has more than enough to do, and whilst you reside here, you’re expected to do your share.”

  As Adelinda does?

  “You’re not Lady Lockhart’s pampered pet just yet,” Mama snapped, as she tossed the drawings she’d been examining onto the scarred, uneven table top.

  By King Solomon’s treasure, if Adelinda’s wasn’t still fast asleep—snoring—Jemmah would skip her breakfast. Her gaze fell to the unappetizing glob plopped in the wooden bowl atop her desk.

  Oh, that was right. She’d eschewed her plain porridge breakfast earlier.

  Mama cut Jemmah a disdainful look and crossed her arms. “You know full well, as the eldest, it ought to have been your sister receiving Lady Lockhart’s benevolence.”

  Ah, here came the true reason Mama dared the strenuous climb.

  “A dutiful daughter and affectionate sister would’ve insisted upon it. I cannot quite conceive your selfishness, Jemmah. I truly cannot. Excepting,” she notched her chin higher and gave a contemptuous sniff, “you are your father’s daughter.”

  A jab to Jemmah’s ribs with a short sword would’ve hurt less.

  She pivoted, incredulity and injustice spiking her temper to a heretofore new height.

  From their hook on the post’s other side she snatched her unadorned straw hat and seven-year-old faded blue redingote, more appropriate for an adolescent than a woman grown.

  “I’ve never been deliberately selfish, nor treated you or Adelinda with a margin of the unkindness you’ve both regularly bestowed upon me.” She blinked away the stinging tears blurring her vision and fastened the garment’s frogs at her throat. “I have an opportunity to leave this household. And by truffle-hunting pigs, I’m seizing it!”

  “Just like that.” Mama snapped her fingers, anger crackling in her slit-eyed gaze and strident voice. “You’d desert your family with no care of how we’ll manage?”

  “If you’d shown me even a jot of kindness or consideration. Ever asked what I desired. Ever set aside your self-centeredness, and your…” Jemmah inhaled a raggedy, tear-logged breath, “…hatred of me, I might’ve urged her ladyship to consider Adelinda too.”

  Eagerness, or perhaps desperation, gave the planes of Mama’s face a softer, more vulnerable mien.

  Almost like the mother of long ago, before she’d found everything about Jemmah objectionable and ridicule worthy.

  Mama wrung her hands and licked her lips. “Think of your sister. And me. We’re not as accustomed to hardship and want as you are.”

  Holy hypocrisy. Did Mama hear herself?

  Jemmah jerked her head up and clamped her jaw against the hot retorts tickling her tongue. Hell’s teeth, even now Mama attempted to use guilt to sway her. Not out of concern or thoughtfulness.

  Oh, no.

  Always—always, dammit!—to benefit her and Adelinda.

  Not this time.

  She must have seen the denial in Jemmah’s rigid form and compressed lips, because Mama rushed across the room, and clutching at Jemmah’s arm stuttered, “I’ll … I’ll permit you to attend more functions. And ... and even order material so you can stitch yourself a couple of new gowns. If funds permit, of course. However, surely you must know, I can’t possible manage the house without your help.”

  She procured what was no doubt meant to be a heartening smile. But the calculated glint in her eye and the rigidity of her barely-upturned lips revealed her true sentiment.

  Jemmah was far past politesse.

  Years of injustice and ill-treatment had taken their toll, and she feared—dreaded—becoming rancorous like her mother. So full of hatred and resentment, her presence was toxic to everyone who encountered her.

  “Tell me, Mama. Will Adelinda attend fewer functions then? And start contributing to the upkeep of our home rather than act the spoiled puss and lie abed till afternoon while I wait upon her?”

  Mama blinked at Jemmah as if she’d asked her to waltz naked covered in peacock feathers through Hyde Park.

  “I thought not.”

  Jemmah jerked on her gloves, putting her forefinger through the threadbare tip of the right one.

  Hounds’ teeth!

  Something very near a growl bubbled up the back of her throat. “The carriage awaits. I must go.”

  Before she vented every wounded, ugly, and pent-up thought now careening about in her head.

  “It’s not too late, Jemmah,” Mama pleaded. “You still can refuse the position. Insist that Adelinda have it instead. I’m certain Theodora and the dowager will yield to your wishes if you stand firm and tell them that’s what you want.”

  “But it’s not what I want. It’s what you want. And as always, it’s what benefits you and my sister without a care of how I’ll be affected.”

  Jemmah bit her tongue to stop the rest of her infuriated thoughts from spewing forth. After stuffing her hat on her head and tying the ribbon, she grabbed her reticule and the stack of sketches she’d set aside for today, then marched to the doorway.

  “I’m going now, lest I say something I’ll regret.”

  “Well, I most assuredly have no such misgivings.” Mama stabbed a finger toward Jemmah, all the malice and animosity she’d held partially in check until now, etched onto her harsh features. Undeniable, glaring, and meant to draw blood.

  To wound.

  “I regret the day you were born, Jemmah Violet Emeline. I shall be well rid of you, and the constant reminder of your blackguard of a father staring at me through your countenance. Go, and do not return. You are no longer welcome beneath this roof!”

  Jules whistled as he strode the several blocks to Theo’s house, his boots clacking in a comfortable rhythm upon the damp pavement.

  Given the cannon-gray clouds suspended across the horizon, perhaps not
the wisest choice. A more sensible man might’ve ridden or taken his curricle, but not only did he enjoy the exercise, he had an ulterior motive for choosing to walk.

  Theo had sent her carriage for Jemmah, which meant she’d return home the same way.

  His conscience chastised him.

  Conniving wretch.

  Righto, indeed, I am, Jules agreed cheerily.

  He intended to accompany her and ask her mother for permission to pay his addresses. The idea had taken root last night, and by this morning was firmly entrenched.

  Most likely, in fact, he’d wager on it, Mrs. Dament would initially object. However, no caring parent would deny their daughter a duchy, for that was Jules’s eventual intent. And that he believed, was fairly certain, truth be told, he was halfway—all the way?— to being in love with Jemmah already, well ... that was just a tremendous bonus.

  On the ride, he might very well hold Jemmah’s hand or even pinch another savory kiss or two. Or a dozen.

  At the provocative notion, his nether regions twitched. Again.

  Worse than a frog on August-heated pavement, by Jove.

  Since last night, he’d been hard as the cast iron statues gracing the corner pillars of Theo’s grand house too. He hadn’t slept more than fifteen uninterrupted minutes without his aroused, disgruntled body pulling him from slumber, demanding release.

  Touching his hat’s brim, he acknowledged acquaintances he encountered along the route, earning him several wide-eyed, stupefied expressions.

  London was unaccustomed to the Duke of Dandridge sporting a Cheshire’s broad smile or tipping his hat in a cordial manner. The spring in his step and the idiotic grin carved on his face took even him by surprise.

  Jemmah had done this.

  In a twinkling, his childhood friend, now turned into a gloriously lovely woman, had unlocked his dormant heart. Had him casting off his melancholic shroud and regarding the world with a newfound, optimistic view.

  Seeing her again last night...

  Everything had become as clear to him as newly-polished crystal.

  Jemmah was what he desired. She always had been.