To Tame a Scoundrel's Heart (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4) (8 page)

Except when it came to his women and rogering.

Chattering and laughter announced the other guests’ arrival several minutes ago, and they’d been ushered to the floral salon, which was probably where he was supposed to go too, and which explained why the drawing room was empty when he’d entered.

Nothing like complete social ineptness.

Still, rather than join them, he’d helped himself to a tot of brandy and, savoring the fireplace’s warmth, unabashedly goggled Katrina’s portrait across the room. He’d not bedded a woman in a goodly while as the slight swell in his pantaloons confirmed.

Nic had always been fastidious about swiving, to the point that his crew taunted and heckled him about his pernicketiness. His surname partially contributed to his
nom de plume,
The Saint, but his sexual selectiveness and abstinence had truly earned him the moniker. Not that he hadn’t ventured into carnal delights, but he restricted his pleasure to a very few, select, disease-free women, and he always used an English overcoat. He’d beget no by-blows and have his child grow up fatherless.

Taking a healthy sip of the brandy, he savored the slow burn as it slid down his throat. Damned good stuff. This ducal business might well turn him into a dandified fribble. Rotating his neck to ease the stiff muscles caused by sleeping on a lumpy mattress two nights in a row, he sighed before wandering to stand before Katrina’s portrait again.

Truly a vision. If only Fate had allowed him to meet her a few months ago, before she’d met Domont. Of all women, she might have tempted him to leave privateering behind.

Sighing again, he tucked his chin to his chest and rubbed his sore nape.

His worn boots contrasted glaringly with the immaculate Aubusson carpet. He raised one scuffed toe, squinting at his pantaloons. An inch-long tear in the seam disappeared into his boot top. Bloody damned perfect. Best ask Needham to recommend a reputable tailor. A bootmaker and glover too. He’d rather be keelhauled than stand for hours being fitted, but he’d suffer through the measuring and pinning for Daphne and Delilah.

“You look woefully melancholy, Nic.”

Nic lifted his head as Katrina, wearing virginal white with lavender ribbons, over-lace, and beading, floated across the carpet to stand before him. The charming gown’s purple hues turned her eyes light periwinkle, matching the gemstones at her throat and glittering on her ears.

“You are exquisite, Katrina, a joyful sight to brighten this dreary tar’s ruminations.”

She dimpled prettily, and holding her skirts wide, whirled around once. “Isn’t it unbelievable what a lovely gown, a few jewels, and a talented abigail can do? I feel like the princess I pretended to be as a little girl.”

She took no credit for her loveliness? Could she really be so unassuming and modest? She’d led a pampered life, yet demonstrated none of the characteristics of an indulged and pampered society miss.

“What were you thinking just now? You seemed much too serious.” She touched his arm but, considering the wide open doors, must have thought better of it and let her hand drop to her side.

“Actually, I was contemplating the horror of having to acquire a new wardrobe.” He winked, and lowered his head conspiratorially. “I quite hate fittings.”

Rising on her lavender-slippered toes, she grasped his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I do too.”

Arousal surged, immediate and primal.

If he rotated his head, a mere two inches, his mouth would brush hers. What would she do if he took the liberty? Slap him? Screech? Rant? Or would betrayed accusation fill her beautiful, trusting eyes?

He couldn’t bear to hurt Katrina, so he kicked his ardor to the room’s farthest corner and commanded it to stay there.

“Major Domont won’t be here for dinner. To Mama’s chagrin, the table will be uneven after all.”

To Katrina’s chagrin as well.

Settling her heels on the lushly carpeted floor once more, she sliced a sideways glance at the now-closed curtains. Though she valiantly hid her hurt, he recognized pain in her hushed tone, saw confusion in the less-than-vibrant gaze she turned on him.

“I’m sure he has a valid reason.” Not unless he’d been abducted by highwaymen, pressed into service aboard a ship, or died, the mangy cur.

“Yes, I suppose.” She conjured a cheerful smile. “Let’s start your lessons tonight, shall we?”

So like her to put aside her worries and focus on someone else’s needs. Few people possessed such unselfishness, and even fewer within her social set.

“I’ve asked that you be seated beside me, Nic. Observe what I do, and you will be fine.”

She placed her hand on his arm, and lust sluiced to every pore. God help him. He was in bloody damned trouble when it came to her. Only an idiot would subject himself to her company day after day when he’d already fallen hard despite knowing full well she could never be his.

Katrina’s sweet perfume wafted upward, and Nic’s groin pulsed. He needed a woman, moaning her pleasure beneath him. It had been months since he’d found release. That was why he responded to her like a rutting stag.

Ballocks.

“Everyone else has already left for the dining room. I asked Mama if I might wait and accompany you, since, when you didn’t join us in the salon, I suspected you might be slightly uncomfortable.”

“Your consideration is touching, but I’m not suffering from discomfort as much as ineptitude. I failed to inquire where I should meet my host and hostess, and then succumbed to your father’s excellent brandy.” As he set his empty tumbler aside, he winked to lighten her mood. What a pair they were, both in the doldrums this evening. “I vow, I’ll commit a social
faux pas
. Use the wrong fork, speak to a guest about a taboo subject, gulp rather than sip my wine, talk with my mouth full ...”

She shook her silky head, the candles catching the coppery highlights. “Nic, you’ll be fine. It’s just my family, Miss Atterberry, and a few other guests, none of whom outrank you.”

Outside the dining room’s entrance, she hesitated. Conversation, occasional laughter, and the clatter of crystal, silver, and dishes carried into the corridor.

“Do be mindful of that stunning blond sitting next to Simon. She’s Phoebe Belamont, a title-hungry termagant. She’d treat your sisters horridly. The woman wearing the garish turban is her aunt. A pushy fussock, so if you value your virtue, watch yourself. They’d trap you into marriage faster than a frog gobbles a fly.”

His virtue?

He nearly laughed aloud at Katrina’s concern for his honor. She took her ducal-wife- hunting duties seriously, precious darling.

Leaning nearer, he inhaled her perfume again, enjoying the satiny skin exposed by her gown’s low bodice, even if the swells tantalized him unmercifully. “Why did your mother invite them if they’re so objectionable?”

Katrina tightened her hand upon his arm, and Nic stole another glance at the Belamonts.

“Mama didn’t. Wouldn’t either. Ever. They’re horrid,” she whispered, “and I cannot abide them. No one can.” Her nostrils flared, pink dotted her high cheeks, and her stiff shoulders, tense brows, as well as the hand clamping his forearm further revealed her distress. “You wait, Phoebe will say something nasty to me, and I’ll have to be polite and pretend I don’t know what she means.”

“Why are they here then?” Another societal dictate—forced to endure the presence of people one couldn’t stomach. As a privateer, he’d been spared the ridiculousness and surrounded himself with people whose company he enjoyed.

“They came on the Huntingtons’ coat sleeves, unannounced, as always. Osborne was quite put out, as was Cook. They had to scramble to accommodate two more guests.” She bent forward a mite and pointed to a cleric. “The Huntingtons are the kindly rector and his wife, and somehow the Belamonts are related. They visit quite often, usually arriving unexpectedly and staying past their welcome. By the time they depart, Mrs. Huntington is nipping the communion wine.”

Nic couldn’t contain his low chuckle.

“I wasn’t aware they’d returned since they were here a mere fortnight ago, or I’d never have invited you to dinner and subjected you to their company.” Katrina’s abundant lashes swept closed, and she inhaled a bracing breath. She opened her eyes a moment later. “The final couple is Lord and Lady Gervais.”

As they entered the noisy room, Miss Belamont boldly met Nic’s gaze. Seductively arching, thrusting her full breasts upward, and half-closing her peridot-green eyes, she resembled a great indulged Persian cat. No innocent miss there, by George.

“Why, Miss Needham. Wherever is your handsome Major Domont?” Miss Belamont cooed, her pale green eyes wide and innocent while pointedly peering at the empty entrance before snagging on Nic’s groin.

Avast, there’s the predicted snide inquiry.

Katrina stiffened and lifted her pert nose fractionally, but didn’t answer. No, she definitely didn’t favor Miss Belamont.

Neither did he, if he’d read Miss Belamont correctly in the few moments he’d assessed her. Beautiful, spoiled, full of her own importance, and a bully, hiding her malice behind politely worded, barbed questions and feigned concern.

“Curse me for a lubber. A veritable shark. I shall heed your warning,” Nic whispered as he pushed in Katrina’s chair, grateful Miss Belamont and her generously exposed bosom sat across and near the table’s head, while his assigned seat put him safely at the foot.

A pout upon her painted lips, the gilflurt cut Nic a ravenous, sidelong look and not-so-casually brushed a hand across her bosom.

The chit was nothing but a prettily packaged trull.

Aye, he saw Miss Belamont’s breasts gushing over her scarlet bodice. He also observed the other guests’ discomfort with her provocative exhibition evidenced in the vexed lines furrowing their foreheads and tense brackets framing their mouths. By God, if she shifted abruptly, her bubbies would pop loose of their straining confines and plop into her soup.

“Wasn’t he to have returned by now?” Miss Belamont breathed a heavy, decidedly unsympathetic
tsk
.

Her spiteful titter met with flat stares from those assembled and a glower from the younger Needham brother. Two four-stemmed silver candelabras’ glow lent a delicate radiance to Katrina’s composed countenance, enhancing her ivory skin as the air fairly sparked with charged tension.

Miss Belamont’s brows winged upward in artificial distress, and she splayed her hand across her chest again.

That game already grew tiresome.

Mrs. Huntington, her lips pursed in displeasure, rolled her eyes while Mrs. Needham darted Katrina a sympathetic glance.

Nic clamped his teeth and, for Katrina’s sake, forced himself to remember his ragged manners and abstained from telling the Belamont chit to shut her goddamned yawp and cover her teats. However, his rigid jaw didn’t stop the stream of salty oaths directed at her that paraded through his head. Pity his ducal role didn’t permit him the same freedoms a privateer enjoyed, or he would’ve laid a verbal lashing on Miss Belamont the twopenny wench would not soon forget.

“Oh dear, never say you’ve had a lover’s spat?” Would Miss Belamont never leave off harping? “Should we assume the expected betrothal announcement won’t be forthcoming?

The shrew needed her tongue pruned.

As she’d no doubt intended, every eye focused on Katrina, although, with the exception of Miss Belamont’s corpulent aunt greedily slurping her soup, concern or compassion colored their gazes.

With poised deliberation, Katrina unfolded her serviette and, after draping the cloth across her lap, regally lifted her head and calmly met the other woman’s probing stare. “Nothing of the sort. Major Domont’s been detained in Cambridge on army business.”

Miss Belamont’s lips edged upward in feline satisfaction.

Damn my blood.

A shrieking alarm pealed in Nic’s brain, the same warning that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Miss Belamont meant to draw blood. Katrina’s blood.

Katrina tilted her head at an endearing angle, refusing to cow to the hellcat.

Bravo, plucky darling.

He slipped his hand beneath the table and found her icy fingers. She responded with her alligator clamp, and he welcomed the numbing vice. It showed her strength even amidst her trepidation.

“Cambridge? Are you quite certain?” Miss Belamont dipped her spoon into the cream of asparagus soup, her smile brittle. “Aunt Miriam, didn’t we see Major Domont in Stratford-Upon-Avon last week?”

Katrina’s grip tightened, and Nic hid a wince. Hell’s bells. Who knew a woman could have such strong hands?

“Oh, yes, we did indeed.” Mrs. Belamont took a noisy sip of soup before looking ’round the table at everyone’s stunned or distressed expressions. “He had a young lady on his arm. A very pregnant young lady.”

Chapter Six

Katrina managed to drag a shallow expanse of air into her lungs. And then another slightly bigger breath. Though only due to Nic’s reassuring hand clasping hers and his thumb trailing back and forth across her knuckles, calming her fitful pulse and even more juddery thoughts. Scandalous and ruinous if anyone caught them holding hands beneath the lattice-patterned tablecloth.

Propriety be hanged.

She squeezed his fingers and rejoiced in the immediate counter-pulse. Stunned from the verbal pummeling she’d just endured, Katrina required the strength he lent. Springing from her chair and bolting from the room, though tempting, would give Phoebe Belamont a satisfaction Katrina would never permit. And tearing the burgundy ribbons from Phoebe’s perfectly coiffed curls, though immensely gratifying, would shame Katrina’s parents.

Was
Richard in Stratford-Upon-Avon?

No, no, the Belamonts must be mistaken.

She’d not jump to hasty, emotional conclusions without evidence.

They’d seen him.

Perhaps they’d only
thought
the man was Richard.

“Men oft’ look similar in uniforms,” Simon said, leveling Miss Belamont a cold stare.

“Yes, indeed,” Shona piped in, nodding enthusiastically while marshalling a how-could-you? scowl for Phoebe. Fork in hand, Shona looked ready to stab her across the table. “That might very well be the case. Why, half the time, I cannot tell one officer from another unless I stand directly before him.”