To Tame a Scoundrel's Heart (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4) (3 page)

Dalton entered, her shoulders and neck every bit as starched as the pristine apron covering her plain, black gown. Her genial tone and the affection glimmering in her eyes belied her stiff demeanor. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Please take this basket to the kitchen and prepare a tea tray. Nic will be joining us after all.” From her delighted expression, Miss Sweeting couldn’t have been more pleased if Prinny had taken tea with her. She pointed to the basket then drew her shawl snugger. “Oh, and do add another log to the fire, please. I’m quite chilled today. My stiff bones and the pouting clouds tell me a storm’s coming.”

Gads no, not another bloody log. Sticky with sweat, Kristina would require a bath when she returned home as it was. Her alarm must have shown, for Captain St. Monté collected a surprisingly charming cream blanket from the couch’s humped back.

“Let’s wrap another throw around you, Aunt Bertie.” He slipped the soft, knitted afghan about her thin shoulders. “I fear your guest is about to melt into a puddle, though I confess, I’m accustomed to much warmer climes, and the heat doesn’t bother me overly much.”

Of course it didn’t. The devil quite enjoyed gallivanting about in hell’s bowels. Probably paraded about his schooner’s decks half-naked too.

That I should like to see ...

“Thank you, Nic.” Miss Sweeting scrunched her nose a mite, still raking her fingers through Percival’s fur. “You do appear quite flushed, Miss Needham. Perhaps you should remove your spencer.”

And reveal her damp bosom and back? The fabric would cling most inappropriately. “I’m not all that warm. I shall be fine.”

As soon as she stripped naked and plunged into an ice bath.

In three strides, Captain St. Monté reached the fireplace and set about poking the cavorting flames into a demure blaze. “There, this should keep you warm, Aunt Bertie, without overheating Miss Needham.”

Not a jot of moisture glinted on his face while distinct dampness pooled beneath Katrina’s arms and trickled down her spine. Between her breasts too, dash it all. A saturated sponge oozed less moisture than her at the moment.

And there he stood, bronzed and
dry
, the flickering fire illumining his noble profile. When he extinguished the incense, Katrina almost whooped with gratitude.

“Next time, Bertie, love, light one incense when you can ventilate the room well. I wouldn’t want you to suffer ill-effects from my gift.”

“You’re so considerate of me, Nic.” Miss Sweeting sank further into her chair and shut her eyes.

A faint frown drew Katrina’s brows together. Mayhap she’d suggest Mama have Doctor Cutter pay Miss Sweeting a visit. She’d lost more weight, and her pallor troubled Katrina.

Line’s bracketed The Saint’s eyes, too, as he scrutinized his aunt.

A droplet seeped onto Katrina’s temple.

God help her, but ripping off her spencer and dumping the vase’s water over her head truly tempted. Instead, she withdrew the scented lacy accessory passing for her handkerchief and, the instant St. Monté sauntered to his aunt, swiftly patted her face and scooted as far from the fire as the sofa allowed.

Ladies didn’t mop perspiration from their person in front of gentlemen, though why they weren’t permitted to boggled. Women sweated too.

Think of something else.

“What brings you to Richmond, Captain St. Monté? Do you sail again soon?” She couldn’t very well ask him what ships he planned to plunder next. Or what salacious ports he most preferred.

Miss Sweeting’s eyelids popped open. “Oh, dear. You don’t know. I’d quite forgotten.” She rested a gnarled hand upon his fingers cupping her shoulder. “Nic’s circumstances have undergone a rather unexpected and dramatic change.”

“I’ll say they have.” An undercurrent of derision weighted The Saint’s flippant remark.

Had his
lettre de marque
been rescinded? What would he do now?

The sea had been St. Monté’s life these past fourteen years, since he’d stowed away on a cutter at twelve, and his near legendary exploits traveled High Society’s most elite circles.

A fortune nudged open many doors, as Papa and Mama had discovered. Aristocratic by-blows sipped Champagne and enjoyed caviar and truffles side by side with those born on the right side of the blanket. Might The Saint now enter the social fray he’d formerly scorned?

“May I assume we’ll have the pleasure of your presence more often?” Katrina oughtn’t to have been so giddy at the notion. Richard wouldn’t approve, even if he wasn’t overtly jealous. Really, betwixt the two, rough pirate or polished officer, only Richard should’ve appealed. That Captain St. Monté also did, perplexed her no end.

St. Monté’s left eyebrow elevated in a lofty and sardonic manner again.

Did he use that expression when facing the captains whose ships he’d pillaged?

“Some mightn’t consider my presence all that pleasurable,” he said, that same mockery tinging his words.

“I beg your pardon.” Oddly discomfited, Katrina directed her gaze to her wadded handkerchief, crushing the tormented scrap. “It wasn’t my intent to pry.”

Burning curiosity piqued, nonetheless, and she studied him through her lashes.

Satire, rather than humor, kicked his well-formed mouth upward on one side. “No need to apologize, Miss Needham, and I must ask forgiveness for my boorish behavior.”

“Truly, your plans are none of my concern.” But she’d like to make them hers. She might love another, but her fascination with the infamous Scoundrel of the Sea hadn’t waned a jot.

“Oh, pooh.” Miss Sweeting flapped her bony hand. “Tell her, Nic. No doubt the news has swept all of London by now.” A gleeful smile pleated her eyes’ wrinkled corners even more. “I’d love to see the faces of those pompous highbrows now, I would. We’ll see who cuts whom.” She tittered before coughing again.

“Oh, and why is that?” Katrina’s attention vacillated between Miss Sweeting and The Saint.

“It seems, Miss Needham, my sire was more of a cockscum than I’d formerly comprehended. Upon the death abroad of my half-brother and stepmother last month, certain information has come to light. Information my father made certain be revealed in order for
his
seed to retain the dukedom, no matter the scandal or disgrace doing so caused innocent others.”

All traces of the lighthearted swashbuckler vanished, replaced by a pitiless pirate.

Immobile, hardly daring to breathe, Katrina ceased fiddling with her handkerchief. A frisson—no, more of a chilling shudder, truth to tell—jolted her from shoulder to toe. Only an idiot would cross him.

“What sort of information?” Blast her impetuous, babbling tongue and infinite inquisitiveness.

Chapter Three

Nic swept her a courtly, albeit mocking bow. “Formerly Dominic Horatio St. Monté, the Duke of Pendergast’s bastard eldest son, I am—always have been, it seems—the dukedom’s true, legal heir.”

Aunt Bertie clapped her hands and laughed. “Isn’t it absolutely brilliant?”

Brilliant? Not by half.

Familiar rage-induced restlessness gripped Nic, and, jaw set, he paced the threadbare carpet to the shabbily curtained window before marching the return route. A growl, part frustration and part fury, lurked deep in his throat, choking him. He repeated the journey across the room until he’d reined his ire in a modicum.

Astonishment darkened Miss Needham’s eyes from a tropical lagoon’s clear, vivid blue to the sea’s cobalt horizon before a hurricane, and her lips, more ripe plum than petal pink, rounded delightfully in shock.

“I’d not heard of his grace’s and her grace’s passing,” she said, quietly, sympathy brimming in her eyes. “Please accept my sincerest condolences.”

Nic dipped his head. He hadn’t grieved, and guilt jabbed needle-sharp darts into his conscience. How could he grieve for people he’d never met? Nor had he rejoiced upon learning the title legally belonged to him.

Unexpectedly inheriting a dukedom and his sisters’ potential guardianship splayed him, leaving a gaping chasm he’d no idea how to fill or breach, except with fury. Yet he refused to give Pendergast that power over him. Anger and rage turned a person bitter, ate away until hatred directed their every thought, every decision.

Still, he was woefully unprepared for his new role.

Lacking his peers’ polished manners—artificial though they might be—he claimed but a rudimentary education. Letters and numbers he’d learned at Aunt Bertie’s small, square kitchen table, and upon the coarse decks of various ships, he’d mastered three languages, navigation, swordsmanship, and other skills required to captain a ship.

Nic favored rum and whisky to ratafia and wine, an unlaced shirt to a neckcloth’s choking embrace, and his women well-rounded and equally experienced rather than svelte, virginal misses likely to swoon at a vulgar oath. He didn’t dance or converse well either, and the discomfort his elevated position had already caused rivaled a prestigious carbuncle.

On his arse.

Not that he’d ever personally experienced that particular nastiness, but his first mate, Rhye O’Hearnan, had, and his bony bum still bore the impressive scar.

Nic preferred battling two pirate crews at once rather than finagle balls, parlors, or Almack’s. With absolute certainty, he’d make an utter arse of himself.

Miss Needham pressed her pretty lips together, and a spark glinted in her keen gaze. Whether compassion or chagrin or something else, Nic couldn’t determine. Noteworthy too, that she’d offered sincere sympathies but said not a word about his new status, which revealed what she valued.

People over position. Another point of admiration.

But, God, how Nic loathed the old duke—conniving, manipulative bugger—and God, how he craved the sea’s brisk, salty air spraying his face, tangling his hair—her waves frolicking beneath
The Weeping Siren
’s hull. For his young sisters’ sakes, he must relinquish his captaincy and venture into Society. A mélange of outrage, grief, and loathing ensured that a steady surge of bile burned his throat and injustice lashed his soul.

Needing a moment, he strode to the dingy window once more and stared outside. The surly, ashen sky mirrored his bleak soul.

A month after Pendergast had secretly married Nic’s impoverished, yet gentle-bred mother and tucked her away in a humble cottage, his scheming father wed an heiress—sweet, plain Lady Sarah Trehmain—for her immense fortune. The lying cull had the ballocks to inform Nic’s mother, already ailing from pregnancy difficulties, that their marriage had been a farce. When his heartbroken mother died during childbirth, the duke had pawned Nic off on Aunt Bertie, forcing her to vacate her governess position to care for him, a premature, sickly infant.

Aunt Bertie hadn’t complained. Not one single word. Ever. She’d loved and nurtured him with a mother’s devotion, and he would do anything for her.

Pride and stubbornness prevented her from accepting the house he’d offered to buy her, as well as the bulk of the funds he regularly deposited into an account for her use. And she wondered where
his
mulishness originated. She’d only accept enough money to live modestly and retain her maid of all work, but she kept the trinkets he sent her, wrongly assuming the knick-knacks cheap, worthless baubles. If she ever comprehended the ugly trifles’ values, she’d swoon, but in a financial pinch, they could be sold.

The pittance Pendergast had intermittently sent to provide for Nic had ceased after five years—once the duchess produced an heir—leaving Aunt Bertie as her and Nic’s sole provider. His father sired two more sons, each dying in infancy, before Nic’s sisters, Lady Daphne’s and Lady Delilah’s births.

Blister and damn, they weren’t even ladies any more.

Silence hung heavily behind him, and summoning an enigmatic smile he didn’t feel, he faced the ladies once more.

Miss Needham’s curiosity-laden expression begged for an explanation, but she’d not ask the questions no doubt tapping at her teeth and fairly shouting from her bright eyes.

Nic would’ve wagered on it.

As a wealthy banker’s daughter, she’d been carefully, and thoroughly, schooled in decorum and propriety. Yet, an untamed glint deep within her expressive eyes hinted rebellion lay buried within her politesse trappings.

Might as well appease her curiosity.

He flicked an orangey cat hair from his sleeve then plucked another off. “Irrefutable evidence has come forth, proving my sire married my mother before he wed the duchess. Wainwright, his grace’s solicitor, produced the documents.”

A noise somewhere between a hiss and a gasp burst from Miss Needham. “Good heavens. What an unconscionable cawker! I’d run him through, if I were you. Except, he’s already dead. Good thing, the rotting fiend.” She shook her head, sheer disgust pinching her pretty face. “Go stomp on his grave then. You’ll feel better for it.”

Aunt Bertie snickered, really snickered. “Oh, if I were only able, I’d dance a jig, I would.”

One knew precisely where one stood with Miss Needham, for certain. Nic found her transparency, honesty, and unpretentious mien extraordinarily refreshing, if a mite outrageous.

He rather liked outrageous. They’d rub along quite well.

“Oh, your poor sisters. Surely they’re confused and frightened. Whatever will become of them?” Miss Needham sucked in a deep—most indelicate—breath and tossed a thoroughly crumpled handkerchief on the tea table. Her anxious gaze leaped to Nic’s. “Hounds’ teeth. Did they even know you existed?”

“No.” He shook his head, his hair brushing his shoulders. “But they do now. I saw to that straightaway. As you can imagine, they are in shock and frightened about their futures. That’s what their sour-faced governess told me when she met with me at my solicitor’s. More likely she’s worried about
her
future. As she should, after calling my sisters empty-headed corkbrains.”

Holding his chin between his forefinger and thumb, he dipped his head. His hair swept forward, and he flicked the tawny strands behind him. Ought to see about hiring a valet and having his hair cut, except his spirit mutinied at the notion of having the last vestige of his former life hacked away.