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

  In general, he kept well clear of unmarried English misses, particularly innocent debutantes. They all had one thing on their minds. Marriage. No, make that two things—marriage and marrying well, which meant snaring a coveted title.

  Fletcher wasn’t opposed to marriage per se—just marriage to a pampered and cossetted Englishwoman. As he was half-English himself, the hypocrisy of his aversion didn’t escape him.

  Hopefully, he’d wrap up his business dealings soon and could return to Dumfries in short order. His mother strenuously objected, of course, preferring he remain in London at her beck and call.

  So she can bleed more funds from me.

  Rather insincere for a woman who had abandoned her husband and children to return to her native England and take up with her equally discontented and spoiled cohorts.

  Mother justified her desertion by vowing her gently-bred constitution was too delicate and the Scots too uncivilized for her to remain in Scotland any longer.

  Greg, four years Fletcher’s junior, had cried for weeks. Then one day, he simply stopped grieving, and the cheerful little boy he’d been had disappeared as well. Now, at nearly six-and-twenty, he seldom smiled, let alone laughed. He’d become jaded, cold, and somber.

  Fletcher’s parents’ union had been an arranged marriage of convenience. After a dozen years of constant complaining, Mother had flown the nest. She’d provided the heir and spare, and her duty was complete. Or so she declared with cold disdain that day she’d climbed into the coach and hadn’t looked back.

  That had been eighteen years ago.

  In point of fact, Father hadn’t been positive that Florence was his daughter, but Mother had left the almost one-year-old infant behind, nonetheless. At one-and-thirty, Fletcher’s mother had been determined to enjoy the lifestyle her status afforded her and indulge in all the things she had missed by marrying straight out of the schoolroom, a man two-and-twenty years her senior.

  Now nearing fifty and still quite beautiful, Rosalind, Duchess of Kincade, was known far and wide for her flamboyant lifestyle, her many, many younger lovers, her penchant for gambling and drinking champagne, and her ridiculous obsession with shoes and bonnets.

  The last milliner's bill had Fletcher gnashing his teeth.

  Bloody hell.

  How many damned shoes or bonnets did one woman need?

  Mother had been none too pleased when he’d informed her last week that if she overspent her allowance in the future, he’d not pay her creditors. Her whining and theatrics had affected Fletcher not at all except to reaffirm his resolve to depart her company at the earliest convenience.

  After two months of her hospitality, petulant pouts, manipulations, and machinations to wed him to a proper English chit, he’d been determined to obtain his own residence in any event.

  Or take to the bottle as his daffy, brokenhearted father had.

  It was most opportune that not only was Sheffield one of his business partners, but the fellow also had knowledge of an empty house in a respectable neighborhood Fletcher could move into straightaway.

  And so here he was. Letting 19 Bedford Square, of all places. Like a bloody damned proper English duke, to boot.

  Only, Fletcher was a Scottish duke and didn’t give ten shillings what le beau monde thought of him. He’d never sought the favor of English peers. He conceded, amongst the ton’s upper ten thousand, there were several decent chaps, including Sheffield, the dukes of San Sebastian and Asherford, as well as a half dozen or so others. There were also a great number of absolute, unmitigated asslings.

  His new accommodations were in need of a good clean and the grounds a bit of rigorous attention, but all in all, for a Sassenach residence, it was quite pleasant. He especially liked the untamed gardens. They reminded him of Levensyde House, his home a couple of miles outside of Dumfries.

  Fletcher had considered letting rooms at one of his clubs, but his brother and sister might want to stay in London at some point. Florence longed for a proper Come Out and a Season in London. Something his grasping mother fully supported, naturally.

  Mother would likely try to insist Florence reside with her, though she knew her own daughter not at all. No doubt the conniving duchess already had some randy decrepitude in mind for his sweet sister as well. All to advance Mother’s social standing and circle of influence, of course.

  The idea made him shudder. Florence was too sweet and innocent for London.

  Dragging his thoughts from his unpleasant ruminations to the very pleasant creature before him, Fletcher offered her a friendly grin, intending to lessen Miss Wellbrook’s unease.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, bending at the waist into an exaggerated formal bow he’d never before had cause to use, with one hand across his middle and the other flung wide like a courtier.

  He knew full well it wasn’t done. No one introduced themselves. They must go through all of the falderol and balderdash of asking a mutual acquaintance to do the honors.

  Asinine and inconvenient when he wanted to speak with this imp now.

  “Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade,” he informed her, only half-mockingly instead of his usual full-on jeer.

  Her leery expression didn’t fluctuate, nor did she so much as blink. She continued to regard him like a skittish doe prepared to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

  This was very telling indeed.

  An unwed young woman who didn’t turn into a simpering, pretentious numpty immediately upon learning he possessed a title, and a dukedom no less. Dukes were just this side of royalty, and Fletcher knew all too well the fawning and toadying that accompanied most introductions to a duke.

  So accustomed to deflecting unwanted attention, at her unexpected lack of response, he almost let his guard down. Almost.

  “I’m acquainted with Sheffield.” He sought to reassure her while shifting his regard for a second over her head in her house’s general direction. “In fact,” he said with another genial smile, “we are in business together. I also put in an appearance at last night’s ball.”

  A very short appearance.

  Which was Fletcher’s habit.

  Never dally at any haut ton function long enough for politesse to trap him into conversing or otherwise engaging with those on the prowl for a husband. When he chose a wife, she’d be a hearty and hale, wide-hipped, sturdy Scottish lass with red cheeks and a robust constitution. A sensible woman who knew full well what hardships to expect as a Scottish duke’s wife.

  At last, a bit of the suspicion and tension eased from Miss Wellbrook’s refined features, and she partially lowered the inadequate blade. Forehead furrowed in neat little lines, she cocked her head, taking his measure. Her expression cleared, and her berry-red, kissable rosebud lips swept upward at the edges in a closed-mouth smile.

  “Ah, yes. I recognize you now, Your Grace.” Her inquisitive, coppery brown-eyed gaze took in his loose hair. “Your hair was pulled back into a queue.”

  Indeed, it was.

  There was neither approval nor disapproval in Miss Wellbrook’s voice at Fletcher’s unfashionable choice. He refused to grow side whiskers or wear his hair in the popular dandified styles: Brutus, Caesar, Titus, or the frightened owl.

  Who in God’s name wanted to go about looking like a bloody terrified fowl had gone to battle with one’s hair? A fop or a dandy who gave more than two damns about his appearance, Fletcher would never be—to his mother’s utter and complete vexation.

  All the more reason to refuse to abide by society’s strictures.

  “And you escorted Lady Sheldon-Furnsby.” Miss Wellbrook’s tone took on a cooler and far less neutral edge.

  That, too, was most telling.

  Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby’s tenacious, hell-cat reputation preceded her, it would seem. And by God, not a word about her unpleasant character was a bloody exaggeration.

  The woman had sought him out as aggressively and doggedly as a crazed hound on the fresh scent of a fox. Ever determi
ned, she’d cornered Fletcher last evening and latched onto his arm, much like a tick on a dog or a barnacle on a ship’s hull. Each required considerable effort and resolve to dislodge.

  As had Lady Sheldon-Furnsby last night.

  He’d only managed to pry her talons off when he’d pled a fabricated need to use the necessary to relieve himself.

  She’d offered to accompany him and help.

  Brazen as a dockside strumpet.

  Fletcher hadn’t a doubt last evening’s unpleasant encounter with her ladyship was more of his mother’s high-handed interference. Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby was a wealthy widow.

  “She’s a blueblood, Kincade, descended from centuries of bluebloods. Her breeding is impeccable.” Mother’s strident invections yet rang in his ears. “She is everything one could want in a duchess.”

  Everything his mother wanted in a duchess.

  Cecelia’s flawless lineage was all that the current Duchess of Kincade cared about.

  The fact that if Cecelia didn’t bear a title, she’d be labeled a mean-tempered whore didn’t faze Dear Mama. Cecelia made the Biblical Jezebel look like an innocent, fresh-faced milkmaid.

  However, her mother just happened to be his mother’s closest confidant for most of their adult lives—just under two-and-thirty years. Those two conspirators had plotted a union between him and Cecelia since they’d both been in leading strings.

  To the ladies’ meddling chagrin, Cecelia had married another, much older lord of the realm five years ago when Fletcher had made it quite clear he wasn’t taking a woman of the same ilk as his mother to wife. He’d seen firsthand what kind of misery a mismatch like that caused, and he wasn’t having any of it.

  Now that she was out of mourning—damn my eyes—it would appear Lady Sheldon-Furnsby had set her sparkling cap for him.

  She was going to be highly disappointed again.

  As was Mother.

  Eventually, Fletcher would marry, and when he did, it would be to a woman who hadn’t a qualm about rusticating and moldering away in Scotland, as his mother put it.

  When his uninvited garden guest still did not offer to introduce herself but, instead, bit her lip and peered longingly over his shoulder at the moss-covered folly, he said, “And ye are Miss Rayne Wellbrook.”

  Her light brown, bronze-tinged eyes wide, Rayne swung him a disconcerted glance.

  “I am. How did you know?” Brushing that glorious hair off her shoulder, she gave him a self-conscious smile. “That was a silly question. I suppose Griffin told you.”

  She dropped the knife into her basket with a little clink.

  Evidently, she’d decided Fletcher posed no immediate threat to her wellbeing.

  Nodding, he angled sideways, giving her an unobstructed view of the gardens behind him. “I’ve let this property for at least the duration of my time in London.” He swept his contented gaze over the area. “I may decide to purchase the place. My sister would like a London Season.”

  “Oh.” There was no mistaking the disappointment shadowing Rayne’s pretty features.

  He dropped his gaze to her basket. “I gather ye come here often?”

  “Umm, yes.” Pink tinging her cheeks, she fiddled with the basket’s handle. “It’s very peaceful. I like to read and sketch here. It doesn’t feel like I’m in the middle of a large city. Griffin’s gardens are quite lovely, but I find these much more relaxing. What’s more, I don’t have to worry about appearances here.”

  She gestured to her shimmering hair.

  A woman who preferred these neglected grounds to Sheffield’s fervently attended ones?

  Enchanting and no’ a little attractive.

  Despite himself and the discordant warning bells clanging in his head, Fletcher became even more fascinated.

  “Rayne is an unusual name.” If he recollected correctly, there was a place in Aberdeenshire called Rayne.

  “It means song. My mother was an opera singer. Well, she was until she married Papa. She said music was a balm to the soul.”

  A lovely name for a lovely lass with a lovely voice.

  Fletcher almost winced at the rather appalling poetic codswallop mincing through his mind.

  Another charming flush stole up her creamy cheeks as if she’d realized how much she’d revealed to a perfect stranger. “I beg your pardon for intruding.”

  She turned and placed her basket on the rounded ledge, then gathered her skirts. Bracing her other palm upon the stones, she stepped onto the narrow foothold.

  “I dinna mind if ye stay and sketch, lass.”

  Why the hell had he blurted that?

  Of course, she couldn’t stay.

  She was unmarried, and they had no chaperone.

  Nae one will ken. Och, someone will see and say somethin’.

  Things like that always had a way of leaking out, no matter how discrete one attempted to be. Aye, it was much wiser all the way around for Rayne Wellbrook to leave. Promptly.

  Fletcher didn’t need or want any entanglements or complications. Nor did he relish infuriating the Duke of Sheffield. He valued the man’s friendship every bit as much as he needed him as a business partner and investor.

  Rayne’s focus veered to the folly once more, and she caught the corner of her mouth between her teeth.

  Was that where she’d intended to spend the morning?

  The moment lengthened, stretching out, and he held his breath. His stomach muscles tightened in anticipation of her answer. She flexed her fingertips on the stone, the neat round oval of her nails digging into the uneven surface, her indecision a tangible thing.

  After another half a dozen heartbeats, she finally gave a little reluctant shake of her head. Her long hair swirled around her shoulders.

  Could those tresses possibly be as silky as they looked?

  Warm chocolate or impossibly soft velvet?

  “No. It wouldn’t be seemly. But I do thank you for the generous offer, Your Grace.”

  Generous, my ass.

  He simply wanted to get to know this astonishing woman better.

  Danger, danger, danger, chimed his exasperating and intrusive conscience.

  Go to hell, he thought mutinously.

  “I’ll stand here to make sure ye dinna fall.” Fletcher might’ve let her exit through the kitchen door, but the truth was that he hoped to see another delectable length of female leg.

  Ye’re a rotter through and through, Fletcher Anthony Patrick McQuinton.

  Aye, he was, because he didn’t even blink so as not to miss a single moment of the shapely spectacle.

  Hitching her knee over the top of the wall, she chuckled, a lyrical husky sound that sent awareness of her as a woman winging through his veins.

  “I assure you, I’ve done this many times.”

  Just as he’d suspected.

  “I shan’t fall.” She finished climbing over the top. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  A nascent smile curving those ripe lips, she collected her basket and disappeared.

  Arms folded and feeling oddly discontent and put out, Fletcher remained staring at the spot he’d last seen her bronze-tinged sable hair.

  What a captivating creature.

  She’s nae for ye. She’s English. A Sassenach.

  English roses such as Rayne Wellbrook wilt and die in Scotland.

  Her face appeared over the wall’s rounded top, and he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face.

  “Forget somethin’, lass?

  “Yes.” A small furrow appeared at the bridge of her nose. “Please forgive me for taking it upon myself to make use of the gardens, Your Grace. It won’t happen again. I give my word.”

  Too bad, that.

  She appeared adorably flustered as she met his gaze before she dropped her attention to her hands, gripping the top of the wall. “I’d…uh…would very much appreciate it if you…uh…kept this between us.”

  Och, so Sheffield and his duchess didn’t know about Miss Wellbrook’s clandes
tine horticultural excursions onto Fletcher’s grounds. Well, his for the time being, that was.

  He flexed his shoulders in a casual shrug.

  “Nae one was usin’ the gardens. I canna find fault in ye enjoyin’ them.” He winked and was immediately rewarded by another pretty blush. “Yer welcome to visit anytime, Miss Wellbrook. Just send a note around, and one of my staff will let ye in through the kitchen door.”

  A narrow, cobbled alley ran between the two grand houses where deliveries were made to the kitchens and which also led to the mews behind the manors. She should be able to enter and exit without notice, thereby alleviating tongue wagging.

  “I don’t think that would be wise.” She thinned her ruby lips into a flat ribbon. “Even the most loyal of servants gossip on occasion.”

  “Ye may bring yer maid and a footman if ye wish to appear perfectly proper.”

  Why was he so bloody persistent?

  Just let her go.

  No good could come of his fascination with the wood nymph.

  “Rayne? Rayne?” The duchess’s dulcet tones filtered through the greenery. “Are you out here, dear?”

  “Bother. I thought they’d left already,” Rayne whispered.

  She put her forefinger to her lips, drawing Fletcher’s attention once more to their plump redness. Had she eaten berries for breakfast?

  Would her mouth still taste of their sweetness?

  Her big brown doe eyes begged him to remain silent and not give her away.

  “Oh, look,” she breathed, pointing toward the pale blue butterfly hovering near a tree branch shading the wall. She cast him a delighted smile, and his heart skipped a couple of beats.

  “It’s a holly blue,” she said. “I’ve never seen one in the city before, although they are known to frequent town gardens.”

  Fletcher stepped onto the lowest step. Balancing on the small protrusion with ease, he murmured low into her ear, “Promise ye’ll visit again, Miss Rayne Wellbrook.”

  Her fragrance surrounded him, a heady, enticing aroma. Gardenia and carnation and woman. Sweet and spicy and—God help him for a fool—tempting as hell.