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

  Now there had been an evil, evil man, as had been his equally depraved son, Frederick. Both spawns of Satan now likely—and deservedly—warmed hell’s deepest bowels.

  A shiver scuttled down Rayne’s spine and lifted the flesh along her arms. Her earlier joy evaporated with the alacrity of a water droplet sprinkled upon a roaring fire, taking her cheerful smile with it.

  How very different Griffin was from Arnold and Frederick, thank God.

  Even so, Rayne didn’t doubt memories yet haunted Everleigh as much as they did her from the time they’d spent under Arnold and Frederick Chatterton’s cruel thumbs. At thirteen, Rayne had gone to live at Keighsdon Hall and had endured their vindictiveness several years longer than Everleigh.

  It had been a tumultuous, terrifying existence.

  With a determined shake of her head, Rayne pushed those morose musings away and focused on the present.

  Everleigh and Griffin intended to visit his lace and textile manufacturing plants today, which meant she had hours to enjoy herself in the wild tangle next door. If all went well, she’d be home—her hair properly piled atop her head in the manner of every respectable young miss on the Marriage Mart—and possessing sketches that she might later create watercolors from, well before they returned.

  As she reached the stone barrier, she took up her song once more.

  “In June there was a yellow rosebud…”

  Singing beneath her breath, she balanced her basket atop the wall’s slightly rounded top. Once she’d gathered her skirts in one hand, she ascended the narrow steps, using the wall for balance. After carefully turning around, she descended the other side.

  “And that is the flow’r for me.”

  “And that is…hmm, hmm, hmm.”

  Still humming, she’d hopped onto the slightly damp, shaded ground. Angling her face upward, she shook her hair so that it tumbled down her back.

  I should’ve at least tied it back with a ribbon.

  Oh well. Too late now.

  Her mind already moving to the pleasant mission she’d set herself, Rayne collected her basket. Today she meant to draw the glorious wisteria—a task that would strain her humble artistic talents. She didn’t draw for praise or recognition. No, she sketched because she enjoyed trying to capture moments in time.

  Everything she knew about drawing and painting had been self-taught, mostly while living at Keighsdon Hall. She had to do something with her time. Lonely, neglected, and an obvious inconvenience—Uncle Arnold hadn’t even bothered with a governess after she’d turned fifteen—Rayne had learned to entertain herself.

  The wisteria vine had escaped its staid arbor’s confines and had twisted and entwined itself up a plane tree, creating an enchanting, fairly-like effect. The usually unremarkable tree appeared to be festooned with streaming purple flowers.

  The result was quite stunning. Almost magical.

  No properly attended garden would ever be permitted something so unrestrained and beautiful. A shame, really.

  Why must everything be constrained by someone else’s strictures and dictates of appropriateness, acceptability, or propriety?

  Wasn’t there any room for originality and uniqueness?

  No. That was the unfortunate, undeniable if somewhat unpleasant truth.

  With a slight shrug for what she was powerless to change, Rayne took up singing where’d she left off.

  “I oftentimes have pluck’d that yellow rosebud…”

  “Wasna it a red rosebud?” an amused male inquired in a deep, melodious brogue.

  Shrieking, Rayne spun around and clutched the basket to her chest, certain her hammering heart was about to break through her breastbone.

  Searching the shadows cast by the abundant overgrown trees and unattended shrubberies, her frantic gaze landed on a tall—very tall—figure several feet away. Her pulse ran rampant, scrambling through her veins as surprise and shock momentarily rendered her mute.

  Good Lord.

  The brute had frightened the starch out of her, ambushing her reactions and her tongue. A tidal wave of unmitigated alarm engulfed her. Why, her knees actually trembled, so startled was she. Summoning her shaken composure, she attempted to look unaffected and not like a guilty trespasser caught completely off-guard.

  Which, in point of fact, was precisely what she was.

  “Yes, but I prefer yellow roses,” she managed, her voice quivering.

  Why must songs always be about red roses?

  Not everyone fancied that passionate shade.

  And why in God’s holy name was her mind rambling on about such nonsensical claptrap when an enormous man with shoulder-length hair as black as a moonless midnight stood with one knee bent, his big hands splayed on lean buckskin-clad hips, and calmly regarded her.

  “Och.”

  A single syllable. Nothing more.

  At her continued gaping, his lips slowly tipped up wolfishly. That was the only way to describe the upturned, confident, predatory sweep of his mouth. He was, she had to admit despite her discomfit, quite the most perfect display of masculinity she’d ever seen.

  Most perfect indeed.

  Her usual trepidation at seeing any man in a state of partial dishabille escaped her.

  Black hair covered this man’s muscled forearms, exposed by shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a tantalizing peek of more crisp raven hair. Indeed, he looked every bit as beautiful and feral as the grounds surrounding them. These gardens provided a perfect backdrop for his rugged, untamed appearance.

  Who was he?

  Why was he here?

  Perhaps he was a newly hired gardener. In which case, that meant someone was likely taking up residence, and her surreptitious forays to this secret hideaway must cease.

  Her heart plunked to her shoes, where it wallowed in abject disappointment and self-pity.

  Rayne scarcely had a moment to contemplate this most unsatisfactory turn of events before the man—Scots she presumed from his lyrical accent—prowled toward her. And even though her heart thumped as frantically as a caged bird behind her ribs and her mouth had gone as dry as the stale bread she’d tossed Theopolis, she couldn’t help but notice the stranger’s sleek, sinewy, male grace as he advanced.

  This was no dandified lord who padded his garments.

  Oh, God.

  Mayhap he wasn’t a gardener after all but a vagrant.

  Or a criminal.

  Or…or worse.

  She swallowed against another surge of dread. She despised being timid and fearful—a quaking, quivering little mouse.

  Squinting, she tried to make out his features.

  Unfortunately, she was looking into the sun, and a very annoying sunbeam seemed determined to shine directly in her eyes.

  Had he noticed the house was vacant and taken it upon himself to dwell there?

  She’d heard of the many homeless people inhabiting London, but to brazenly move into a house in this elite neighborhood was certain to garner attention.

  From beneath her eyelashes, she examined him.

  No. Not a vagabond.

  Though midnight bristle covered his granite jaw, he wasn’t filthy, nor were his clothes disheveled in the manner of the beggars she’d seen on rare occasions. Dirt did cling to his expensive boots, and a long, irregular smudge across his torso marred the white of his fine lawn shirt. Regardless, even across the distance, she recognized the quality of his attire.

  A breeze whispered past, cooling her flushed face. The sun sifted through the lacy entanglement of the overgrown trees overhead, casting his chiseled face in contrasting shadow and light—light and shadow.

  Equally sinister and stunning. Intriguing and chilling.

  He looked familiar, but Rayne couldn’t quite place him. It was possible she’d met him at one of the various functions Everleigh had towed her to these past months.

  If only the sunlight and shadows weren’t playing tricks with his arresting face and
her vision. Rayne pulled the inner corners of her eyebrows together in concentration.

  Where had she seen him?

  Not… Sweet Jesus. No!

  Her stomach sank sickeningly as her heart hammered with the power of a brawny blacksmith striking an anvil behind her ribcage.

  Please, please not at Keighsdon Hall—her former guardian’s home.

  Bile billowed, burning an acrid trail up her too-tight throat.

  Swallowing with difficulty, she adjusted her stance for a swift flight. Except, she instinctively knew, this wasn’t a man she could easily escape. Trepidation turned her blood cold, and sweat dampened her palms and beneath her arms.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Why hadn’t she turned tail and run the instant he’d spoken?

  Rayne could have been safely within the confines of Griffin’s manor by now.

  Had this Scot been one of Uncle Arnold’s guests at one of his debauched gatherings of the most depraved and dissolute lechers and reprobates? Was that where she’d seen this man previously?

  If so, the danger had just multiplied exponentially.

  Genuine panic sluiced through Rayne now. Her fingertips had turned to ice, and her stomach quivered from apprehension.

  Could she manage the wall’s little stairs before he was upon her?

  Would anyone hear her if she screamed?

  Had Griffin and Everleigh departed yet?

  Where was Fitzroy?

  The other gardeners?

  Questions buzzed around inside her head, a confusing cacophony, like a swarm of agitated bees protecting their hive.

  Blast it all.

  This was Thursday, which meant the gardeners were tending the front beds. Regular as clockwork—front beds Mondays and Thursdays. As if there was a single blade of grass brazen enough to peek higher than the precise two inches Fitzroy allowed the lush, verdant carpet.

  What was she to do?

  Rayne retreated until her back scraped against the rough, cold stone. Thrusting her basket straight out in front of her—a pathetic, inadequate shield—she attempted to ward the stranger off.

  “S…stay where y…you are. C…come no f…further.”

  She loathed that her voice trembled, and her hands shook so badly that the basket’s contents rattled like brass buttons in a tin. Truth be told, bravery and courage were not characteristics she possessed in abundance. However, she didn’t typically stammer and trip over her tongue either.

  Halting a mere ten feet away, the stranger chuckled and gave the quaking basket a pointed glance. The blasted capricious sun was doing its bloody utmost to blind her and made it impossible to see him clearly.

  Yet again, recognition tapped the recesses of Rayne’s mind.

  She had seen him before.

  Who was he?

  One hand clasped at the back of his neck, he dipped his head. The movement pulled his shirt taut across sculpted muscles and brought his face into sharp focus. The sun’s glow cast an iridescent aura around him. He smiled, almost boyishly, revealing a row of even, white teeth.

  Of course, he had perfect teeth. The man was practically a Greek god in human form. He put the statues in Griffin’s gardens to shame.

  Of its own volition, her attention sank to his groin.

  Was he better endowed there than those marble deities as well? She’d always thought their appendages rather inadequate for immortals.

  Fire heated her cheeks at her wanton musings, and her focus flew back to his face.

  Had he noticed her intimate, highly improper perusal?

  Lord.

  Rayne almost groaned aloud. Caught ogling a man’s private bits, as brazen as a ladybird or light-skirt. What in God’s precious name had come over her?

  A ghost of a smile twitched his mouth the tiniest bit at the corners. Fine lines bracketed those lips and pleated the edges of his eyes as if he smiled often.

  He possessed quite a nice mouth.

  Probably the pleasantest she’d ever seen on a man.

  Nicely shaped, the lips evenly plump—not too thick or thin. The dark stubble covering his jaw reminded her of the swashbuckler she’d read about in one of the romance novels Nicolette Twistleton had secretly given her to read.

  To be perfectly honest, dressed as he was, his longish hair shifting as the wind caught it, all he needed was a dashing crimson sash tied at his trim waist, a gold hoop earring, and a large sword to complete his buccaneer persona.

  Rayne canted her head, considering him.

  Mayhap a black hat with a vibrant purple ostrich feather or two as well.

  Have you completely lost your mind, Rayne Evie Leona Wellbrook?

  Once more, her stomach toppled over itself when he shook his head, tossing his hair back, and she realized he did indeed have a small gold band hanging from his left ear. As if reading her thoughts, he curved that strong mouth into a full, unfettered smile, transforming him from menacing to breathtakingly beautiful.

  Rayne forgot to breathe, and her jaw nearly went slack at the unexpected change in his appearance.

  She recognized his kind—confident, carefree scoundrels. Rakehells of the worst sort. Roués and rapscallions. Smoldering temptation fairly oozed off him, and she grudgingly accepted her frenetic heartbeat and hot face mightn’t be blamed entirely on fright.

  That unwelcome knowledge shook Rayne to her core. Never before had she experienced this immediate attraction to a man.

  In fact, the opposite was generally true. Men—strangers—usually frightened her.

  “I dinna think yer wee basket is a verra effective means of protectin’ ye, lass.”

  Definitely Scottish.

  Humor dripped from each word, his melodic burr rolling over her like a vocal caress. That voice. It did all sorts of unexpected things to her joints, thoughts, and pulse.

  He chuckled and, perversely irked, she came back to herself in a rush.

  Why, the uncouth brute was laughing at her.

  Rayne snatched the useless basket to her chest, and after fumbling beneath the cloth covering the food, her book, and the sketching materials, she found what she sought.

  “No, but this is.”

  She whipped out the small paring knife she’d intended to use to peel her apple.

  Throwing his head back and exposing the thick column of his sun-browned throat, he laughed heartily. Shoulders shaking and hilarity shining in his eyes—striking blue-green eyes the likes of which she’d never seen before—he shook his head. His slightly wavy hair gleamed blue-black where the sun kissed it.

  Marine-colored beams roved over her, steady and assessing.

  Why was she noticing any of this?

  Her virtue—her life—might very well be in peril.

  “Lass, ye dinna mean to stab me with that wee thing?”

  With considerable effort, Fletcher wrestled his mirth under control. The lovely English rose presently threatening to skewer him obviously didn’t appreciate his laughing at her expense.

  Damn, but she was an unexpected, refreshing delight.

  When he’d ventured into the gardens two hours ago to tackle some of the unmanageable shrubberies and, more on point, to work off some of the frustration his mother’s endless meddling had caused, his manservant and friend, Leith MacKettrick, had raised his skeptical, grizzled coppery brows.

  “Ye dinna mean to tend the grounds yerself, Fletcher?” Leith had asked with a dubious wrinkling of his forehead and downward slant of his mouth.

  “Nae, only until ye see to hirin’ the staff.” Fletcher slapped Leith on his broad shoulder. “Ye ken, I prefer the outdoors and bein’ active. Two months of livin’ like a dandified London sot has me as fidgety as a panther in a too-small cage.”

  At this very moment, Leith was putting notices at the various agencies and registrar offices for a cook, two maids of all work, a footman-butler, and a groundskeeper. As Fletcher meant to leave London soon, there wasn’t a need to fully staff the house. Those few servants would suffice just
fine until he departed.

  He congratulated himself on his good fortune that this property had just become available and that it was a goodly distance from his mother’s residence. It was also fortunate that he wasn’t a man who minded getting his hands dirty. He and Leith had spent the early morning hours removing Holland cloths and rearranging furniture to his satisfaction.

  A throaty contralto had originally alerted him to his unexpected visitor.

  His first sight of this spitfire had been a delightfully turned ankle and trim, pale blue stocking-clad calf swinging over the wall. Naturally, as any tenant worth his salt would do, he’d watched the brazen intruder with avid attention. That well-shaped leg had turned into an even lovelier plump bottom. When she’d wriggled back and forth as she shimmied onto the top stair, his groin had pulled with carnal male appreciation.

  At present, color flagging her high cheekbones, her amber-brown eyes flashing gold sparks, and her gorgeous gold-and-bronze-threaded sable hair tumbling around her shoulders and down her back, she looked like a startled garden nymph caught popping uninvited into his grounds.

  He glanced downward, half-expecting to find bare feet peeking from beneath the hem of her gown.

  Nae, pink toes.

  Just sensible black half boots he’d seen earlier as she gracefully scaled the wall with an efficiency that suggested she’d done so many times before.

  A most intriguing and peculiarly welcome discovery.

  From beneath half-closed eyelids, Fletcher took in her gown and the lusciously rounded curves that the quality fabric gave a tantalizing hint of. Garden nymphs didn’t wear expensive marine-colored gowns either.

  Her fierce, determined expression as she wielded the tiny blade caused a surge of admiration. Most Englishwomen would’ve had a fit of histrionics or the vapors upon being so startled. At least, most of the ones he was acquainted with would’ve done. None would’ve dared exit a house without gloves and a bonnet either, as this spitfire had.

  Instead, this trespassing little minx with her unbound hair acted as if he were the intruder.

  Fletcher had a fairly good notion of who she was—his neighbor, the Duke of Sheffield’s niece by marriage, Rayne Wellbrook. He’d seen her at numerous ton events since he’d arrived in London last April, although they’d never been formally introduced.