Pickford Hill Park
August 1810
Jessica laughed as she guided her docile black mare, Midnight, around a boulder between the copse of towering oak trees. These past four months had been the happiest of her life. Months of being the Duchess of Bainbridge. Of being Crispin’s wife.
At first, she’d been afraid to learn to ride, but as he’d promised she would, she’d taken to the saddle like a duck to water. Pickford Hill Park now boasted eight ducks, four geese, another half dozen hens, two goats, two adorable spaniel puppies—gifts from him—and a very pregnant barn cat.
No donkey. Yet.
She fully expected to add more animals to her beloved menagerie, but he never complained. He had laughed, quite jubilantly, when she’d insisted on knitting cardigans for the kid goats. A few fervent kisses had shushed him quite effectively. That had led to an interesting bout of lovemaking before the hearth in the drawing room.
What was undoubtedly a dreamy smile curved her mouth. She did rather like that lovemaking business.
“Let’s rest here in the shade,” Crispin said over his shoulder. The summer’s heat yet remained, and their morning ride had left Jessica a trifle overheated.
A small, musical stream meandered along the meadow just beyond the tree stand they’d sought sanctuary within. She just might be persuaded to wade in the chilly depths.
“I’ve had another letter from Thea,” she said as he helped her dismount. He held her against him, permitting her to slide down the length of his sinewy body. When she encountered a familiar swelling, she grinned. She cupped his groin, earning a low growl and a smothered oath. “My, what do we have here?”
“I suppose she’s asking us to visit Ridgefield Court again?” He’d buried his face in her neck, muffling his voice. He nuzzled the sensitive spot at the juncture of her throat and shoulder, and it was her turn to moan.
“Yes,” she agreed, a trifle distracted when the lump against her hand began to swell. They’d only seen baby Amber twice since her birth. “Nicolette is back from her honeymoon and has promised to spend a week at Ridgewood.” Jessica stood on her toes and kissed Crispin’s jaw, relishing the faint brush of his clean-shaven skin against her lips.
“I seriously doubted Nicolette would ever marry. And to Westfall, no less.” He snorted and shook his head as he tethered the mounts to low-lying branches.
“I know,” she laughed and patted Midnight’s shiny withers. She’d come to adore the beautiful mare. “And I can scarce believe Rayne and Ophelia have wed, too.”
“At this rate, all of my friends will be married within a year,” he muttered, not nearly as disgruntled as he pretended. Married life agreed with him.
And with her.
She met her husband’s hungry gaze and gave him a seductive smile. “We’ve not made love outdoors yet.”
His eyebrows dipped low as he slowly scanned the area, his intense gaze coming to rest on the boulder she’d skirted earlier. “Are you suggesting I’ve been remiss in my husbandly duties, Duchess?”
She giggled then licked her lips. Crispin had always been able to turn her bones to jelly with one look from his quicksilver eyes. “Perhaps just a trifle negligent.”
“Then, I must remedy the oversight at once.” He stalked toward her, his strapping legs eating up the distance between them, and she retreated, enjoying the chase as much as being captured.
She continued retreating, until she bumped into the dratted boulder, coming up short.
“Oh.”
It wasn’t large enough to pass for a bed. Scanning the area, she spied a grassy spot, still relatively secluded by the trees.
Crispin was upon her now, passion already sharpening the angles of his dear face. “Turn around, lady wife.”
“I thought…what?” Turn around? Whatever for?
Oh. She complied and wiggled her hips when she felt his hands settle on either side of them. Of a sudden, she was shy, worried they’d be seen. “Crispin, are you sure this is private enough?”
“Quite sure.” Air caressed Jessica’s legs and then her bum as he raised her riding habit. “Trust me, darling. Spread your legs.”
“Always, my love,” she murmured as she complied.
“Let me make up for my negligence, sweetheart,” he breathed into her ear.
“If you insist.” She sighed breathlessly as he slid into her.
And he did. Most satisfactorily.
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USA Today Bestselling, award-winning author COLLETTE CAMERON® scribbles Scottish and Regency historicals featuring dashing rogues and scoundrels and the intrepid damsels who reform them. Blessed with an overactive and witty muse that won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she’s lived in Oregon her entire life, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-time. A self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic, you'll always find a dash of inspiration and a pinch of humor in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances®.
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Dearest Reader,
Thank you for reading WOOED BY A WICKED DUKE!
I hope you enjoyed a few hours’ escape from life’s stress and responsibilities and lost yourself in 19th Century Regency England. If you’ve been reading the other books in my Seductive Scoundrels series, you’ll know that Jessica was introduced in A DECEMBER WITH A DUKE.
Jessica is not your typical vicar’s daughter, and much like her sister in ONLY A DUKE WOULD DARE, she’s secretly been in love with the book’s hero. Only Crispin, the Duke of Bainbridge, has a wicked, wicked reputation. No self-respecting clergyman’s daughter would ever acknowledge a tendre for such a man.
Despite his roguish history, Crispin is a gentleman. Betrothed since he was a child, he won’t act upon his hidden feelings for Jessica. However, fate took matters into her own hands, and the results lead to a scandal but an unexpected chance at love as well.
If you enjoy reading friends to lovers, duke, arranged marriage, or class difference love stories with a pinch of mystery, a dash of humor, and gripping emotion, then you’ll adore my enthralling SEDUCTIVE SCOUNDRELS SERES. Settle into your favorite reading nook for page-turning, entertaining Regency world adventures you can’t put down.
You can read the first chapter of all of my books on my website and on Facebook. Please consider telling other readers why you enjoyed this book by reviewing it on Kobo. I truly adore hearing from my readers. You can contact me at my website below. I also have a fabulous VIP Reader Group on Facebook. If you’re a fan of my books and historical romance, I’d love to have you join me. That link is below as well.
Here’s wishing you many happy hours of reading, more happily-ever-afters than you can possibly enjoy in a lifetime, and abundant blessings to you and your loved ones.
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WHAT WOULD A DUKE DO?
Seductive Scoundrels Book Four
A Historical Regency Romance
He’s bent on revenge. She’s his enemy’s granddaughter. He’ll marry her…willing or not.
Maxwell, the Duke of Pennington, is a man focused on one thing: revenge. He’ll stop at nothing to achieve his goal, including marrying the beautiful, unpredictable granddaughter of the man he seeks reprisal against—whether Gabriella is willing or not. As Max inexplicably finds himself drawn to the spirited minx, unforeseen doubts and guilt arise.
Miss Gabriella Breckensole is astonished when the enigmatic Duke of Pennington turns his romantic attentions on her. Debonair and confident, he set her heart fluttering from their first meeting. Far beneath his station, Gabby never hoped to win his favor, and she soon risks losing her heart to the roguish lord.
Until she accidentally overhears Maxwell vowing to return her familial home to his dukedom and learns his courtship is a revenge-filled ploy. Even though he awakened feelings she never imagined possible, Gabriella now considers him an enemy. Can Max make the impossible choice between retribution or forever losing the only woman to ever touch his heart?
WHAT WOULD A DUKE DO?
Seductive Scoundrels. Book Four
December 1809
Ridgewood Court, Essex England
Humming beneath her breath, Gabriella Breckensole practically skipped down the stairs on her way to meet the other female houseguests to make kissing boughs and other festive decorations. The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity, as her hostess, Theadosia, the Duchess of Sutcliffe and one of her dearest friends, hosted a Christmastide house party, the likes of which Essex had never witnessed before.
The event was made all that much more enjoyable by the presence of Maxwell Woolbright, the Duke of Pennington. Since Gabriella and her twin sister had returned from finishing school almost two years ago, she’d encountered him at a few gatherings. He was quite the most dashing man she’d ever met, and despite being far above her station, she thrilled whenever he directed his attention her way.
Descending the last riser, she puzzled for a moment. Where were the ladies to meet? The drawing room, the floral salon, or the dining room? Forehead scrunched, she pulled her mouth to the side and started toward the drawing room. Halfway there, she remembered they were to meet in the slightly larger dining room. She spun around and marched the other direction, passing the impressive library, its door slightly ajar.
“Harold Breckensole will pay for what he’s done,” a man declared in an angry, gruff voice.
Gabriella halted mid-step, her stomach plunging to her slippered feet. She swiftly looked up and down the vacant corridor before tiptoeing to the cracked doorway. Who spoke about her grandfather with such hostility?
Breath held, she peeked through the narrow opening. The Dukes of Sutcliffe, Pennington, and Sheffield stood beside the fireplace, facing each other.
Pennington held a glass of umber-colored spirits in one hand as he stared morosely into the capering flames. “I shall reclaim Hartfordshire Court. I swear.”
“You say the estate was once part of the unentailed part of the duchy?” Sutcliffe asked, concern forming a line between his eyebrows.
Pennington tossed back a swallow of his drink. “Yes. It belonged to my grandmother’s family for generations, and after what I’ve recently learned, I mean to see it restored to the ducal holdings, come hell or high water. And I’ll destroy Breckensole too.”
Slapping a hand over her mouth, she backed away, shaking her head as stinging tears slid from the corners of her eyes.
Oh my God. She’d been halfway to falling in love with a man bent on revenge of some sort. Gabriella jutted her chin up, angrily swiping at her cheeks. The Duke of Pennington had just become her enemy.
Late March 1810
Colechester, Essex, England
“Miss Breckensole, what an unexpected…pleasure,” a man drawled in a cultured voice, the merest hint of laughter coloring his melodious baritone.
Unexpected and wholly unwelcome.
Gabriella froze in her admiration of Nicolette Twistleton’s adorable pug puppy and barely refrained from gnashing her teeth. She knew full well who stood behind her. The odious, arrogant—annoying as Hades—Maxwell, Duke of Pennington. His delicious cologne wafted past her nostrils, and she let her eyelids drift half shut as she ordered her heart to resume its regular cadence.
He didn’t know what she’d discovered about him. That he was a dishonorable, deceiving blackguard behind his oh-so-charming demeanor. And he meant to destroy her grandfather. That knowledge bolstered her courage and settled her erratic pulse.
One midnight eyebrow arched questioningly, Nicolette threw her a harried glance before dipping into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
Gabriella hadn’t confided in Nicolette. Hadn’t confided in anyone as to why she disliked him so very much. Quashing her irritation at his appearance and his daring to greet her as if they were the greatest of friends, she schooled her features into blandness before turning and sinking into the expected deferential greeting. “Duke.”
He bowed, his strong mouth slanted into his usual half-mocking smile. “What brings you to town?” He glanced around. “Your sister or grandmother aren’t with you? Or an abigail, either?” A hint of disapproval edged his observation. “Did you come with Miss Twistleton?”
Beast. Who was he to question her conduct? She wasn’t accountable to him.
“No, I am here with my mother.” Nicolette cast Gabriella another bewildered glance. “She’s at the milliner’s.”
Surely he was aware, as was the whole of Colechester, that a lady’s maid was an unnecessary expense, according to Gabriella’s grandfather. That the duke so offhandedly and publicly made mention of the deficiency angered and chagrined her.
Pennington turned an expectant look upon her. As if he were entitled to have an answer because, after all, he was the much sought-after Duke of Pennington.
Edging her chin upward, Gabriella clutched her packages tighter, one of which was her twin’s birthday present. She saved for months to be able to surprise Ophelia with the mazarine-blue velvet cloak.
“Grandmama is unwell, and Ophelia stayed home to care for her.” She wouldn’t offer him further explanation.
“I am truly sorry to hear that. May I have my physician call upon her?” he asked, all solicitousness, even going so far as to lower his brows as if he truly cared. A concern she knew to be feigned, given what she’d overheard at the Duke and Duchess of Sutcliffe’s Christmastide house party last December.
“That’s not necessary. She was seen by one only last week.” My, she sounded positively unaffected. The epitome of a self-possessed, gently-bred young woman.
Inside, she fumed at his forwardness.
How she wanted to rail at him. To tell him precisely what she thought of his nefarious scheme. Why did he—conceited, handsome rakehell—have to be in Colechester today too? He promptly turned her much-anticipated afternoon outing sour. Freshly cut lemon or gooseberry face-puckering, attitude-ruining sour.
And why he insisted upon trying to speak to her at every opportunity, she couldn’t conceive. Three months ago, and on the few unfortunate occasions they’d come across each other since she’d made her feelings perfectly clear—to-the-point-of-rudeness-clear.
She’d heard him vow to the Dukes of Sheffield and Sutcliffe that, “come hell or high water”—Pennington’s very sternly muttered words—he’d reclaim the lands that had once been an unentailed part of the duchy. Lands that had belonged to his grandmother’s family for generations.
Property, which included her beloved home, Hartfordshire Court. A holding that Grandpapa had purchased, fair and square, from the duke’s own degenerate grandfather decades before and which, with hard work and industry, he had made prosperous.
“Mama is so very pleased you are to attend our musical assembly, Your Grace,” Nicolette blurted. As if sensing the stilted silence and not understanding the reason why but wanting to defuse the tangible awkwardness.
Unable to contain her disbelief, Gabriella sent him a quick glance from beneath her lashes. He is to attend? Of all the dashed rotten luck. He rarely remained at his country seat past mid-March. London held far more appeal to a man of the world like him, and truth be told, she had anticipated—needed—a few months’ reprieve from his presence.
She and Ophelia were to attend as well, but now she no longer anticipated her first social foray, other than tea these past two months, as she had but a minute ago.
Nicolette shifted the puppy and received a wet tongue on the cheek for her efforts. “No licking, Bella,” she admonished whilst rubbing the pup behind her ears. “It’s also Gabriella’s birthday that day,” she offered with an impish twinkle in her eye. “She’ll be one and twenty.”
Gabriella shot her a quelling glance. The world—he—didn’t need to know she was practically on the shelf with no prospects save spinsterhood.
“I quite look forward to the entertainment.” Insincerity rang in his tone as he gave a gracious nod and continued staring at Gabriella. “And, also, to wish you a happy day, Miss Breckensole.” The latter held a note of authenticity. He flicked his gaze down the street, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. “Ladies, would you join me for a cup of chocolate or coffee?”
The Prince’s Coffee House was but four doors down and was acclaimed not only for its hot beverages but the ambiance and scrumptious pastries. Not that Gabriella had ever sampled either.
She’d wanted to, but Grandpapa frowned upon eating in the village. A waste of good coin, he grumbled.
Nicolette shook her head, no genuine regret shadowing her face. After being jilted, she bore disdain for every male, save her brother, the Earl of Scarborough. “I fear Mama is expecting me inside. I only came outside for Bella’s sake.”
“And I must return home straightaway.” Gabriella signaled her driver with a flick of her wrist and slant of her head. She’d finished her shopping before bumping into Nicolette and the newest addition to the Twistleton household.
Amid a chorus of creaks and groans, her grandfather’s slightly lopsided and dated coach pulled alongside her. Jackson, the groomsman, climbed down and, after three rigorous attempts, managed to lower the steps. She passed him her parcels, which he promptly placed inside the conveyance.
“Please allow me.” The duke stepped forward and offered his hand to assist her inside.
While she wanted to give him the cut by refusing to accept his offer, Nicolette was sure to interrogate her as to why she’d been so rude the next time they met. A year ago, even three months ago, Gabriella would’ve been overjoyed at his attention. Now, he was her enemy. A handsome, dangerous, cunning, and unpredictable nemesis.
As lightly as she was able, she placed her fingertips atop his palm and entered the rickety, out-of-fashion, forty-year-old coach. Lips melded, she studiously disregarded the alarming jolt of sensation zipping up her arm at his touch. She should feel nothing but contempt for him and most assuredly entertain no carnal attraction.
The duke didn’t immediately close the door behind her. His gaze probed hers for a long sliver of a moment, and suddenly the coach became very confining. And hot. She waved her hand before her face, having left her fan at home. “Might I call upon you tomorrow?” Is he utterly daft? “Perhaps we might take a ride? Naturally, Miss Ophelia is welcome too.”
That latter seemed more of an afterthought. He knew she couldn’t ride out alone with him, and he was mad as a Bedlam guest if he truly believed she’d willingly spend time in his company.
Gabriella met his gaze straight on. Something undefinable shadowed the depths of his unusual eyes—one green and one blue. “I must decline, Your Grace. I also must ask you, once again, to direct your attention elsewhere. I am not now, nor will I ever be, receptive to them.”
If she never spoke to him again, it would be too soon.
Did he really think just because he was a duke and she was the lowly granddaughter of a gentleman-farmer, she’d jump at the opportunity to spend time in his company?
You did at one time. And suffered a broken heart when his true character became evident.
Not. Anymore. Never again. Not when she knew his true motivation for seeking her company. How much her feelings had changed for him these past months.
At once, his striking countenance grew shuttered, his high cheekbones more pronounced with…anger? Disappointment? “We, shall see, chérie. We shall see.”
“What, precisely, do you mean by that?” Something very near dread clogged her throat, and the words came out husky rather than terse as she’d intended.
Instead of answering, he offered an enigmatic smile and doffed his hat, the afternoon sunlight glinting on his raven hair. “Good day.”
We shall see, chérie. We shall see. His words replaying over and over in her mind, she remained immobile, her focus trained on his retreating form until he disappeared into the Pony and Pint instead of The Prince’s Coffee House. At one time, she’d fancied herself enamored of him. She’d been flattered he’d turned his ducal attention on her: a simple country girl without prospects.
Firmly stifling those memories and the associated emotions, she tapped the roof. “Home. Jackson, and do hurry. Grandmama needs her medicines.”
And I need to put distance between myself and the Duke of Pennington. Because even though she knew the truth, a tiny part of her heart yet ached for him, and she loathed herself for that weakness.
Two hours later, shivering and briskly rubbing her arms, Gabriella bent forward to peer out the coach window again.
Tentatively probing her head, she winced. The knot from smacking her noggin on the side of the vehicle when the axle snapped hadn’t grown any larger. Neither did it bleed. Nonetheless, the walnut-sized lump ached with the ferocity of a newly trapped tiger. A superbly large, sharp-toothed, and foul-tempered beast.
“Really,” she muttered, exasperated and uncharacteristically cross from hunger, cold, and the painful bump. “Whatever can be taking Jackson so long to return? Hartsfordshire Court isn’t so very blasted far.”
Less than two miles, she estimated after another glance at the familiar green meadow sloping to the winding river beyond. The recent rains caused the brown-tinged water to run high and spill over its banks, as it did nearly every spring. In the summer, the lush grasslands fed Grandpapa’s famed South Devon cattle on one side and their neighbor, the Duke of Pennington’s, fluffy, black-faced sheep on the other.
An uncharitable thought about the distinction between the keen intelligence of cows and sheep’s lack of acumen tried to form, but she squelched it. It wasn’t the poor sheep’s fault she couldn’t abide their owner.
After repeatedly assuring her hesitant coachman she would be perfectly fine until he returned with the seldom-used phaeton, Jackson had swiftly stridden away. Not, however, without turning to work his worried gaze over her, the team, and the disabled coach’s crippled wheel thrice. Each time, she donned a smile wide enough to crack her cheeks and made a shooing motion for him to continue.
For pity’s sake. She wasn’t one of those silly, simpering misses afraid the hem of her skirt might become dusty or who shrieked hysterically upon a cobweb brushing her gloves or cheek. So long as the resident eight-fuzzy-legged spider had long since removed itself to a new home.
If it weren’t for her impractical footwear, Gabriella would’ve walked as well. But she’d no wish for bruised feet or the lecture certain to follow from dear Grandpapa about the cost of replacing ruined slippers. And that would probably produce another discourse about unnecessary trips to Colechester for what he deemed nonsensical fripperies.
Perhaps they were absurd to a man given to wearing the same staid suit and shoes for the past five years as Grandpapa had been. But Ophelia’s birthday present wasn’t a silly frippery. Neither was Grandmama’s medicine nor the chemises for Gabriella and her sister frivolous expenses. It had been three years since anyone had purchased new undergarments.
With her leftover pin money—one half crown every month—Gabriella had purchased the beloved hunch-shouldered curmudgeon his favorite blend of pipe tobacco. Oh, he’d grumble and grouse over the wasteful spending, but she hadn’t a doubt she’d earn a kiss upon her forehead before he shuffled off to enjoy a pipe and a tot in his fusty study amongst his even fustier tomes.
A wry smile quirked her mouth.
Did Grandpapa use the same tobacco five times as he insisted Grandmama do with tea leaves? Anything to save a penny or two. The Breckensoles didn’t enjoy neat lumps of white sugar in their tea, either but rather the golden-brown nubs chiseled from a cheaper, hard-as-a-blasted-boulder loaf. Since they never—truly never—had guests for tea, or for any other occasion for that matter, there was no need to feel a trifle embarrassed at the economy.
She ran a gloved finger over the lumpy parcel containing the umber-brown bottles for her grandmother. A month ago, a nasty cough had settled in Grandmama’s lungs, and she couldn’t shake the ailment.
Gabriella’s current discomfort tugged her meandering musings back to her immediate situation. For all of two seconds—fine, mayhap three—she’d considered riding home atop one of the horses still harnessed to the coach. But that would’ve required hiking her gown knee-high and riding astride. Even she daren’t that degree of boldness.
Nonetheless, on days she yearned to toss aside society’s and her strict grandparents’ constraints, she might’ve been known to sneak a horse from the stables and ride along the river, bonnet-free and skirts rucked most inappropriately high. Oh, the freedom was wondrous, though the tell-tale freckles that were wont to sprout upon her nose usually gave her recklessness away.
Her grandparents never lectured, but their silent disapproval was sufficient to quell her hoydenish ways. For a week or two.
The carriage made an eerie noise, the way a vehicle sounded in the throes of death. If a vehicle were capable of such a thing. Another juddering crack followed as the damaged side wedged deeper into the dirt.
She let loose a softly sworn oath no respectable woman ought to know, let alone utter aloud, as she grabbed the seat to keep from tumbling onto the floor. A labored groan and a piercing creak followed on the heels of her crude vulgarity, and a five-inch-long jagged crack split the near window.
“Blast and damn.”
A new chill skidded down her spine as she mentally braced herself for Grandpapa’s intense displeasure. He’d be aggravated about the damage to the coach, but more so about the cost to repair it. A frugal, self-made man, he was as reluctant to part with a coin as he was to leave Hartfordshire Court. Others who didn’t know him well called him stingy and miserly.
In the fifteen years since coming to live at Hartfordshire, Gabriella could count on two hands the number of times either grandparent had left the estate. She would shrivel up and die if forced to stay there months on end.
Yet her hermit-like grandparents had been diligent in assuring she and her sister never lacked for company or social interactions. They’d even conceded to send the twins to finishing school. At no little cost, either. What a juxtaposition. Her grandparents eschewed all things social, but she and her sister craved the routs, soirees, balls, picnics, musical parties, and all else that guaranteed a superior assemblage.
One troublesome, unignorable fact remained unaddressed, however: Grandpapa had never spoken of a dowry for either of them. They’d never wanted for necessities, but Gabriella suspected his pockets weren’t as flush as he’d have his family believe.
Her heart gave a queer pang. It wasn’t exactly worry or distress. But neither was the peculiar feeling of frustration or disappointment. Nevertheless, it left her unsettled. Discontent and restless. Disconcerted about what her future might entail. Ophelia’s too.
As improbable as it was, except for splurging on the matched team and phaeton, her grandfather had been noticeably less inclined to spend money after the twins returned home two years ago. Now, at almost one and twenty, with their aging grandparents’ health beginning to fail and their neighbor, the mercenary Duke of Pennington, bent on stealing Hartsfordshire Court from them, Gabriella fretted about what would happen to her sister if neither of them married soon.
There weren’t exactly men, noble or otherwise, scurrying to form a queue to court either of them. Or to dance with them at assemblies or request romantic strolls through opulent gardens. No posies, sweets, or poems found their way to the house’s front door on a regular basis, either. On any basis, for that matter.
Oh, the country gentlemen were kind and polite enough. Indeed, some aristocrats and gentry, even a rogue or two, had been downright charming and flirtatious. More than one had hinted they’d very much like to pursue an immoral liaison. But the simple truth was as obvious as a giraffe’s purple tongue sampling pea soup in the dining room: Dowerless, Gabriella’s and Ophelia’s prospects were few.
Nonexistent, truth to tell.
For one horrid, ugly fact couldn’t be overlooked: a woman without a dowry, no matter how refined, immaculately fitted out, or proficient in French, Latin, Spanish, painting, playing the pianoforte—or the violin in Gabriella’s case—and managing a household she might be, without the lure of a marriage settlement to entice a respectable suitor, such an unfortunate lady was labeled an undesirable.
And much like other hapless women in the same ill-fated predicament, spinsterhood, dark and foreboding, loomed on the horizon, a slightly terrifying fate for any young woman.
Which made the duke’s interest in her all the more questionable. He couldn’t possibly have honorable intentions.
She pursed her mouth, drawing her eyebrows into a taut line. Barbaric, this business of bribing a man with money, land, and the good Lord only knew what else to take a woman to wife. Why couldn’t love be enough?
Like Theadosia and Sutcliffe? Or her maternal cousin Everleigh and the Duke of Sheffield? Or even Jemmah and Jules, the Duke and Duchess of Dandridge? Once, not so long ago, Gabriella had yearned for that kind of love. Had dared to hope she might’ve found it, but the object of her affections had turned out to be a colossal rat.
Unfortunately, such was the nature of the Marriage Mart. Without dowries, Gabriella and her twin could look forward to caring for their grandparents into their dotage rather than marry and have families. Their lack of suitors could be laid at Society’s silk-clad feet. Strictures, along with a goodly portion of greed and hunger for power, dictated most matches. That, regrettably, was an indisputable fact.
Something uncomfortable and slightly terrifying, much like melancholy, turned over in her breast and swirled in her stomach. To distract herself from her somber reflections, she inspected the lonely road once more.
The fading afternoon sun filtering through the towering evergreen treetops on the other side of the deserted track confirmed dusk’s dark cloak and chill would blanket the countryside soon. For at least the sixth time in the past hour, Gabriella examined the dainty timepiece pinned to her spencer.
She frowned and gave it a little shake. Was the deuced thing working?
Yes, the big hand shifted just then. She huffed out a small, petulant sigh, for she recognized her own impatience.
Where the devil was Jackson, for pity’s sake? Had something waylaid him? Obviously. Yes, but what? The unbidden thoughts agitated her already-heightened nerves. Nerves that had been fraught since departing the village earlier.
Angered anew at Pennington’s audacity, she pressed her lips into an irritated line and fisted her hands. Only he had the ability to make her so peeved. Bloody, greedy bounder. By Jove, didn’t he have enough? Why must he covet what we have, too?
Chartworth Hall was an immense estate boasting some two thousand acres, a mansion—more castle than house—a hunting lodge, a dower house, embarrassingly massive and full stables, and numerous other outbuildings.
Why the duke focused on Hartfordshire’s acres and seventeen-room residence, quite desperately in need of refurbishing and restoration, made no sense at all. She didn’t know the particulars of the sale. Neither did she understand how the unentailed property came to be adjacent to the entailed lands, but she didn’t give a fig.
What she did care about was the duke’s callousness. His insensitivity and cold-heartedness. He hadn’t a thought for any of the Breckensoles, of displacing them from their home. Oh, no. His only concern was how to cheat Grandpapa out of his property and to expand the already enormous ducal holdings.
By God, she wouldn’t permit it. She would not.
Purchase WHAT WOULD A DUKE DO?
A DIAMOND FOR A DUKE
Seductive Scoundrels Series Book One
A Historical Regency Romance
A dour duke. A wistful wallflower. An impossible match.
Jules, Sixth Duke of Dandridge, disdains Society and all its trappings, preferring the country’s solitude and peace. Already jaded after the woman he loved died years ago, he’s become even more so since unexpectedly inheriting a dukedom’s responsibilities and finding himself the target of every husband-hunting vixen and matchmaker mother in London.
Jemmah Dament has adored Jules from afar for years—since before her family’s financial and social reversals. She dares not dream she can win a duke’s heart any more than she hopes to escape the life of servitude imposed on her by an uncaring mother. Jemmah knows full well Jules is too far above her station now. Besides, his family has already selected his perfect duchess: a poised, polished, exquisite blueblood.
A chance encounter reunites Jules and Jemmah, resulting in a passionate interlude neither can forget. Jules realizes he wants more—much more—than Jemmah’s sweet kisses or her warming his bed. He must somehow convince her to gamble on a dour duke. But can Jemmah trust a man promised to another? One who’s sworn never to love again?
ONLY A DUKE WOULD DARE
Seductive Scoundrels Series Book Two
A Historical Regency Romance
“Delightful, dazzling, and oh-so-delicious.” ~Cheryl Bolen, NYT Bestselling Author
A reluctant duke. A vicar’s daughter. A forbidden love.
Marriage—an unpleasant obligation
A troublesome addendum to his father’s will requires Victor, Duke of Sutcliffe, to marry before his twenty-seventh birthday or lose his fortune. After a three-year absence, he ventures home, intent upon finding the most biddable and forgettable miss in Essex. A woman who will make no demands upon him and won’t mind being left behind when he returns to London. Except, Victor meets Theadosia Brentwood again and finds himself powerless to resist her—even if she is promised to another and the exact opposite of what he thought he wanted in a duchess.
Marriage—an impossible choice
Secretly in love with Victor for years, Theadosia is overjoyed when he returns. Until she learns he must marry within mere weeks. When he unexpectedly proposes, she must make an impossible decision. How can Thea elope with him when he’s marrying out of necessity, not love? Besides, if she does wed Victor, her betrothed—a man she loathes—will reveal a scandalous secret. A secret that will send her father to prison and leave her sister and mother homeless.
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A DECEMBER WITH A DUKE
Seductive Scoundrels Book Three
A Historical Regency Romance
He’s entirely the wrong sort of man. That’s what makes him so utterly right.
After a horrific marriage, widow Everleigh Chatterton is cynical and leery of men. She rarely ventures into society, and when she must, she barely speaks to them. As a favor to a friend, she reluctantly agrees to attend a Christmas house party. Unfortunately, Griffin, Duke of Sheffield, is also in attendance. Even though Everleigh has previously snubbed him, she can’t deny her attraction to the confident, darkly handsome duke.
For almost a year, Griffin has searched for the perfect duchess to help care for the orphan he’s taken on. He sets his sights on the exquisite-but-unapproachable Everleigh Chatterton after her sweet interactions with the child impress him. He is convinced he can thaw her icy exterior and free the warm, passionate woman lurking behind the arctic facade. Only, as Griffin pursues her, it’s his heart that’s transformed.
Can Everleigh learn to trust and love again? Will Griffin get his Christmas wish and make her his bride? Or has he underestimated her wounds and fears and be forced to let her go?