Wooed by a Wicked Duke Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Quote

  Copyright

  Get Your FREE Digital Book!

  Seductive Scoundrels Series

  Other Collette Cameron Books

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  WOOED BY A WICKED DUKE

  Seductive Scoundrels, Book Five

  By

  COLLETTE CAMERON

  Blue Rose Romance®

  Portland, Oregon

  Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®

  “And I make you nervous?”

  His voice came out a silky purr, and her tummy turned over.

  He knew he did. Wretched man.

  WOOED BY A WICKED DUKE

  Seductive Scoundrels

  Copyright © 2019 Collette Cameron®

  Cover Design by Kim Killion

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By downloading or purchasing a print copy of this book, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, shared, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of the copyright owner.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publish­er, except where permitted by law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

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  A Diamond for a Duke

  Only a Duke Would Dare

  A December with a Duke

  What Would a Duke Do?

  Wooed by a Wicked Duke

  Coming soon in the series!

  Duchess of His Heart

  Never Dance with a Duke

  To Lure a Duke’s Lady

  Loved by a Devilish Duke

  Wedding her Christmas Duke

  When a Duke Loves a Lass

  How to Win A Duke’s Heart

  To Love an Irredeemable Duke

  The Honorable Rogues™

  A Kiss for a Rogue

  A Bride for a Rogue

  A Rogue’s Scandalous Wish

  To Capture a Rogue’s Heart

  The Rogue and the Wallflower

  A Rose for a Rogue

  Castle Brides Series

  The Viscount’s Vow

  Highlander’s Hope

  The Earl’s Enticement

  Heart of a Highlander (prequel to Highlander’s Hope)

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses Series

  The Earl and the Spinster

  The Marquis and the Vixen

  The Lord and the Wallflower

  The Buccaneer and the Bluestocking

  The Lieutenant and the Lady

  Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

  Triumph and Treasure

  Virtue and Valor

  Heartbreak and Honor

  Scandal’s Splendor

  Passion and Plunder

  Seductive Surrender

  A Yuletide Highlander

  Wicked Earls’ Club

  Earl of Wainthorpe

  Earl of Scarborough

  Heart of a Scot

  To Love a Highland Laird

  To Redeem a Highland Rogue

  To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

  Coming soon in the series!

  To Woo a Highland Warrior

  To Enchant a Highland Earl

  To Defy a Highland Duke

  To Marry a Highland Marauder

  To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

  Boxed Sets

  Lords in Love

  To Love a Reckless Lord

  When a Lord Loves a Lady

  Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances- The Culpepper Misses Series 1-5

  For Jessica Todd White my be the Heroine winner.

  I hope you enjoy the story!

  London, England

  Late April 1810

  With a nervous glance over her shoulder to assure no one had observed her ill-advised flight from the Duke of Westfall’s ballroom, Miss Jessica Brentwood hoisted the skirts of her white silk gown and dashed through the open French windows. She’d steal a few minutes of much-needed respite and return before anyone noted her absence.

  At least she hoped to do so. After all, this was London and a haut ton event. Dozens of busybodies’ tongues wagged and ears flapped, either spreading on dit or eagerly listening for a succulent tidbit to pass along to their cronies.

  Some claimed wealth and power the ruin of human decency. Jessica, however, believed the tongue far more destructive.

  As she slipped onto the terrace, the brisk night air hit her with the force of a wet towel thrown in her face. The temperature was such a drastic contrast to the over-heated ballroom, and she gasped in surprise. A shiver skittered across her almost-bare shoulders and slithered down her spine as she swept a wary glance about the deserted verandah and lawns.

  Good. No one she must avoid or offer explanations to about her hasty departure from the festivities. No one to raise a haughty eyebrow in askance. No one else to judge her.

  Constantly surrounded by people since she’d come to Town, she simply needed a few moments alone to compose herself. Unlike the practiced and polished members of the le beau monde, Jessica hadn’t acquired the ability to disguise her feelings and reactions behind a mask of disdainful politesse. She doubted she ever would, and she couldn’t claim remorse for the deficit.

  Her dratted expressive eyes gave away her every thought. She might as well blab them aloud, so transparent was she. Or so her sister, now the Duchess of Sutcliffe, claimed. In point of fact, Jessica wasn’t altogether positive she’d be better off if she’d been able to master such a facade anyway. Plainly put, she wasn’t deceptive by nature.

  Her gloved hands wrapped about her shoulders to help ward off the sharp chill, she hurried forward rather than return to the crowded ballroom, with its abundance of sweaty
bodies, cloying perfumes, and stifling atmosphere.

  Stealing a few calming minutes outdoors, gathering her equanimity, and reining in her seething temper wouldn’t result in a chill or ague. Possessed of a robust constitution, she rarely suffered from illness.

  Wrestling her anger into submission might take more than a few minutes, truth to tell. Much more, such restrained fury simmered behind her ribs. No, she mightn’t be dishonest by nature, but she did have a temper when incited. And, by damn, she’d just been provoked mightily.

  Guilt poked her for silently swearing. Her parents would be mortified. Jessica gave a mental shrug. Sometimes an expletive was required, if only in one’s thoughts, and despite being swathed in virginal hues.

  Even with the mansion’s windows aglow, her pale gown—unfortunately similar in color and style to those worn by every other insipid debutant present tonight—stood out in stark reprieve against the night’s crisp darkness.

  An image of dressed-up dolls on display came to mind—ladies on the Marriage Mart. Paraded before potential husbands, the misses’ qualifications—or lack thereof, in her case—were easily attainable with a murmured request in the right ear.

  She’d have preferred a rich emerald or royal purple gown, but young women were expected to appear pure and untouched in their shades of whites and ivories. Innocent. Unspoiled. Untouched. Bah. What poppyswallop and baldercock.

  Or was it poppydash and balderswallop?

  Jessica shrugged. What difference did it make? What did matter—a great deal, truth be told—was that she mustn’t do anything untoward to draw the acrid eye of an Almack’s peeress or other noble.

  Such as slap the faces of tart-mouthed, mean-spirited chits. No matter that they heartily deserved a harsh, public reprimand.

  To do so would’ve brought immense satisfaction. Oh, indeed, it would’ve done. She tightly pursed her lips. Alas, immense censure, too. Disapproval, she could ill afford, more’s the pity. Not that she’d give a hen’s tail feather about what anyone thought about her.

  Well, she might care a little, but not enough to change who she was. Such artifice sickened her. A grimace pulled her mouth downward.

  Still, Jessica had promised to try to conform. She wanted to embody the epitome of decorum. To display pretty manners and modesty. Truly, she did.

  Liar!

  Fine…not truly. But she did strive to—to the degree she wouldn’t knowingly disgrace herself or her family—and she still might also enjoy a lovely time. For London did offer ever so many entertainments and distractions. One Season ought to see her curiosity satisfied. Then back to the country for her, where she could be herself again. Where she wouldn’t have to worry about every word or action.

  Briskly rubbing her arms, Jessica wet her lower lip. As nippy as the outdoors was, she’d welcome a glass of lemonade or ratafia. She’d become quite parched while dancing in the ballroom’s sweltering heat.

  Her partners thus far had been amicable, the dancing passably good. She wasn’t a nymph on her feet, so she didn’t hold her partner to a higher standard than herself.

  In fact, unable to locate her sister, brother-in-law, or a friend to accompany her, she’d decided—perhaps unwisely, she grudgingly admitted to herself—to make her way to the refreshment tables in search of a much-needed glass of…anything.

  That was another silly rule. Why a young woman couldn’t traverse a room milling with people without a chaperone did not make sense.

  A most unpleasant encounter with a trio of claws-bared females had detoured her from her goal, and now her thirst remained unquenched. Three smugly satisfied female faces paraded before her mind. God save the poor chaps who ended up married to those mean-spirited shrews.

  Prior to that, she’d genuinely been having a grand time, her youthful bashfulness no longer a constant, exasperating presence. Why, her dance card bore the names of several gentlemen—including no fewer than three dukes. And although undoubtedly not the belle of the ball, she couldn’t complain that her first official foray into Polite Society was a dismal failure.

  She permitted the tiniest little proud smile to arc her mouth. It seems she truly had outgrown her shyness. Not that she’d ever be outgoing or seek attention. A diamond of the first water she was not, nor did she have any desire to be. Not that she was a dowd, by any means.

  Though appropriately white, her gown, with its delicately embroidered overskirt and seed pearls, was a confection straight from a fairytale, as was her sapphire parure and her intricately styled hair.

  Theadosia, her dearest sister, vowed the sapphires exactly matched Jessica’s eyes. Not exactly. Her eyes were green-blue. Nonetheless, she quite felt like a princess, silly as that might seem.

  As a little girl, she’d always pretended she was a princess. Only, as an innocent child, she’d believed a charming prince would fall madly in love with her. Never mind she was a humble vicar’s dowerless, youngest daughter.

  Not dowerless any longer.

  She shoved the intrusive thought aside and resumed her fanciful reverie. Dowerless worked better for her daydream, and fairytales weren’t based in reality, after all. It was much more romantic to wed for love than to be bartered off for a substantial marriage settlement, a title, or a parcel of land.

  Her handsome and oh-so-entrancing prince would place her before him on his magnificent white steed—for fairytale princes must always ride white steeds—and they’d gallop away into the burnished sunset to live happily, passionately ever after. Because, quite naturally, happily-ever-afters required passion.

  A wry smile tilted the edges of her mouth.

  Twaddle, rubbish, stuff and nonsense. The whole of it.

  Jessica had been all of ten when she first realized marriage was often something far different than happily-ever-afters. Nevertheless, good fortune did fall upon a lucky few, like her older sister, Theadosia, and her adoring husband, Victor.

  They boasted friendships with several prominent peers and could be credited with her pleasant reception and acceptance into le bon ton so far. Almost everyone she’d met had been agreeable, if a trifle stuffy, formal, and exuding self-import.

  But the upper ten thousand held pompous, elevated opinions of themselves and believed everyone else ought to as well. They also hid their true characters behind facades. At least, that was her perception of them thus far. Most were harmless, but a few—like the viper-tongued Medusas she’d just overheard—were the embodiment of cruelty and spite.

  Vicious gossips.

  She couldn’t abide tattlemongers in any form. People who had nothing better to do than spread rumors as casually as buttering warm toast. Or who were such miserable wretches they sought to make themselves feel better by disparaging others. The worst of the chinwag lot, however, were those that contrived on dit simply because they enjoyed the trouble their tarradiddles wrought.

  Such were despicable, contemptible dolts, and she had no patience for them or their nastiness. Nor did she have any desire to be their target, which meant she’d need to return to the ballroom before her next dance.

  Pulling her eyebrows together, she studied the elaborate fan-shaped dance card.

  If she recalled correctly, this set remained unclaimed. She’d be remiss to leave a partner searching for her. Such inconsideration wouldn’t do. Not when she must remain above reproach. Already, dishonor hovered about her family like a soiled gray mantle.

  Initially, she’d been eager to leave Colechester behind, mistakenly believing the mortifying shame and humiliation of Papa’s disgrace would lessen with a bit of distance between her and the parish he’d stolen from. How wrong she’d been.

  It was almost as if le beau monde was waiting, watching, expecting her family to misstep, and if they inadvertently did, those lofty denizens would pounce like a panther on a defenseless gazelle.

  After perusing the dance card in the filtered light, Jessica relaxed a fraction.

  Yes, she was free for the next thirty minutes. However, the dance af
terward was promised to Crispin Rolston, the enigmatic Duke of Bainbridge. The arresting nobleman had positively flummoxed her by explicitly requesting that particular waltz.

  She scrunched her forehead further, uncertain why a degree of unease coiled in her belly, making her shudder in apprehension.

  Bainbridge was a pleasant enough chap. Quite dashing, actually, if she were wholly honest. Oh, very well. Extremely dashing. From the moment she’d laid eyes upon him, she thought so. She’d encountered him several times in the past year, and he’d grown impossibly more stunning upon each occurrence.

  Why had God deemed the male of the species should be the more attractive? It was most unfair. As a young girl of perhaps eleven or twelve, she’d voiced that thought to her mother. Mama had laughed and said that was often true of birds but not necessarily of humans and other animals.

  The Duke of Bainbridge made her sweet, pious mother into a liar.

  His rakish smile could melt a glacier. And those eyes. Lord, those magnificent eyes. Quicksilver gray, they shone with a seductive gleam that had stolen her breath more than once.

  Not, by Jove, that she’d ever admit such a thing. Vicar’s daughters didn’t entertain such notions. Seductive gleam? Stolen breath? She shook her head in self-reproach but allowed her mind to wander a bit longer.

  Bainbridge’s wavy, dark-blond hair—a lovely shade similar to sugared pecans—had a tendency to fall over his noble brow, enhancing his devil-may-care roguishness. His sculpted cheeks, angular jaw and chin, striking, almost severe eyebrows—several shades darker than his hair—and the sharp blade of his nose all added to his masculine appeal.

  He was tall, of course, but not overly so. She didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his startling eyes. And he had nice hands: clean nails, square tips, a light smattering of honey-colored hair across the knuckles.