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Authors: Collette Cameron
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To Tame a Scoundrel's Heart (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4)
Other books by Collette Cameron
From the desk of Collette Cameron
The Other Waltz with a Rogue Novellas
TO TAME A SCOUNDREL’S HEART
A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4
By
Collette Cameron
Blue Rose Romance LLC
in partnership with Windtree Press
Portland, Oregon
To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart-a Waltz with a Rogue Novella
Copyright © 2016 by Collette Cameron
Cover Design by Victoria Vane
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Portland, Oregon 97203
ISBN eBook
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9781944973148
www.collettecameron.com
Other books by Collette Cameron
A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Series:
Castle Brides Series:
Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Series:
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series:
Heart of a Highlander-A Scottish Short Story
Embraced by a Rogue: A Trilogy of Second Chance Romances
Dedication
For B
Beautiful and Beloved
Acknowledgement
A special shout out to Lady Katherine Bone for all of her help with pirate language and to my Beta quintuplets: DF, JH, LB, MD, and JM.
You ladies always come through! I love you!
I must also thank my street team, Collette’s Chéris, for helping choose TO TAME A SCOUNDREL’S HEART’S title and for suggesting names for Dominic’s Aunt, Miss Sweeting.
You, my dear readers are the reason I write.
Xoxo
Collette
Chapter One
January 1819
Richmond, Parish of Kingston Upon the Thames, England
Bother and blast. Charitable intentions gone straight to Hades and scorched to ashes.
On all fours, Katrina Needham peered beneath the ugly-as-sin floral, chintz-covered couch, and in the process, snagged a hairpin on its braided edge. Several tendrils tugged loose, and an exasperated noise escaped her when the strands flopped across her forehead and eyes.
The sofa’s colors—somewhere between sickroom tosspot and stall muck—made her faintly nauseated. Or perhaps the potent fragrance hanging heavily in Miss Sweeting’s overly hot parlor triggered Katrina’s uncharacteristic queasiness.
A spicy-earthy scent permeated the stifling room, and, sweeping her hand behind the sofa, Katrina scrunched her nose in distaste.
Incense?
Yes, there atop the mantel beside an Oriental vase, unbelievably even more hideous than the couch. Heat-wilted blossoms sagged over the vase’s rim and drooped against each other in a futile effort to survive the ungodly temperature. Probably the revolting incense too. What could Miss Sweeting have been thinking? Surely she must have an inkling how unbearably warm and
smelly
the parlor was?
Most likely the incense was another exotic gift from the infamous Captain Dominic St. Monté
.
Despite his aged aunt’s adoration, Miss Sweeting’s privateer nephew would never claim sainthood, no indeed.
A seducing scoundrel? A well-earned title, most assuredly.
At least according to the not-entirely-disapproving whispered titters and wistful sighs Katrina had overheard at numerous
le bon ton
gatherings. One learned ever so many improper—
and delicious
—tidbits by listening and observing. Gentlemen either admired St. Monté’s prowess and daring, in and out of the boudoir, or disdained him as a reckless rakehell.
Katrina hadn’t a doubt he’d earned his devilish reputation in every arena.
A rare, unladylike snort escaped her, and she shoved a burnished curl out of her eyes while heaving a frustrated breath. How far could the thimble have rolled, for pity’s sake? And where had that rotten cat vanished to?
If the indulged, fur-covered, hissing ball of podgy unpleasantness Miss Sweeting called Pretty Percival hadn’t waddled his tubbiness across the sewing table, knocking the diamond-encrusted trinket to the floor, Katrina wouldn’t be creeping about on silk-clad knees, frantically trying to find the treasure. She must locate it before her hostess put in an appearance and Katrina’s hoydenish behavior required an explanation.
“Pretty Percival, my bum. More like peevish, petulant, spoiled-to-his-stubby-whiskers puss.”
Maybe,
please God
, the thimble had bounced beneath a chair or table.
Katrina crawled the few feet to an equally garish chair situated between the fireplace and a shelf laden with gaudy knick-knacks. Miss Sweeting truly possessed the most atrocious taste in furnishing. Ghastly stuff.
Remorse immediately poked Katrina. Given Miss Sweeting’s modest finances, everything she owned, including the threadbare carpet Katrina kneeled on, was a cast-off.
If the gold thimble hadn’t been a gift from The Saint, she wouldn’t have been as concerned. But the valuable bauble’s absence—
purportedly
once part of a Spanish treasure—would surely be noticed and distress the already feeble, too trusting Miss Sweeting. She doted on her nefarious nephew, though believing everything he said mightn’t be altogether prudent. Actually, not wise at all, considering privateers and pirates were opposite sides of the same coin.
St. Monté, otherwise known as The Saint of the Sea, according to the twittering elderly spinster, regularly sent her unusual trinkets,
hideous things
, and not once during Katrina’s visits had Miss Sweeting, Mama’s former governess, failed to display the thimble and various other foreign bric-a-brac proudly. His thoughtfulness and obvious affection for the woman who’d raised him contrasted starkly with his privateer repute.
Katrina patted about the chair’s legs before sinking lower and scowling at a lone bunny-sized dust ball snuggled contentedly between a gouged rear leg and the faded wall. No thimble hid there either. Where had the dratted thing disappeared to? It wasn’t as if the room was vast or stuffed with furnishings and whatnots.
“Percival, you rotten, flea-ridden hair ball, where is it?”
“I regret,” a rumbling male voice said, “I cannot stay for tea today, Aunt—”
Percival yowled plaintively, and Katrina, her pink-clad derrière indelicately raised, froze.
Oh, God no
.
That sounds like—
“Percy, darling. What is it, sweetums? Nic, do be a dear boy and pick him up for me,” Miss Sweeting cooed, her tinny tone frailer than usual. “Come, here. There’s a love, my pretty, pretty boy.”
Perhaps they hadn’t seen Katrina yet, and she could ...
Daring a peek, Katrina met a golden, grinning Adonis’s amber-hued gaze. The Saint, devil it. And he most certainly
had
seen her.
His attention fixed on Katrina’s bottom, he passed the now-purring Percival to Miss Sweeting, and Katrina swiftly angled to her knees, confident her face matched her gown’s rosy hue.
When had Captain St. Monté arrived, and why hadn’t Miss Sweeting mentioned she expected a visit from him? Shouldn’t he be cavorting on the seven seas, plundering ships, ravishing damsels, doing whatever illegitimate, highborn, swashbuckling—devilishly handsome—privateers without responsibilities or scruples did?
The blasted cat languidly blinked his big brandy—
gloating
?—eyes at Katrina and gave a toothy yawn.
“Miss Needham, whatever are you doing on the floor, my dear?” Sparse gray brows knitted in confusion, Miss Sweeting kissed Percival’s head and stroked the thick fat rolls layering his tawny, striped spine.
He arched, and his contented rumblings reverberating louder. Beast.
“Looking for your gold thimble, I’m afraid. Percival knocked it onto the floor, and I’ve spent five minutes searching for the dashed thing.” Katrina bit her lip. Ladies shouldn’t say dashed, especially bankers’ daughters already under the
haut ton
’s disapproving scrutiny. Not all
le beau monde
members took kindly to hoi polloi infiltrating their exclusive parlors—even gently-bred, refined commoners with vulgarly full coffers.
She scrambled to her feet before haphazardly repinning her wayward tresses. Mama would’ve tutted and fussed if she’d seen Katrina’s bare hands, but better to be caught gloveless by a gentleman than risk soiling her new gloves scuttling about the floor like a beach shore crab. Katrina refused to contemplate Mama’s reaction if she saw her daughter, rump in the air, on the floor.
The suntanned god chuckled, a deliciously wicked vibration that hadn’t any business coming from a man already claiming his striking looks. He possessed features too bold and rugged to be considered handsome in the classic sense, but as a buccaneer? Well, even her heart dared putter faster for a beat or two. His faintly bent nose and the convoluted scar from left eyebrow to temple marred his countenance, but in a dangerous, roguish way.
Those hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him four—no, five—years ago.
She opened her mouth to ask him how he’d come by them, but instead, firmly pressed her lips together. Ladies didn’t ask personal questions of gentlemen they scarcely knew. Most especially gentlemen of questionable standing.
Grinning—he
always
grinned—St. Monté bent and retrieved a shiny spot of something near his scuffed boot. No polished Hessians or Wellingtons for him, but well-used footwear. “Is this what you’re searching for?”
His voice’s timbre—deep, smooth, and assuredly broiling with amusement—enveloped her, and her insides wobbled peculiarly. Perhaps she’d caught Mama’s affliction after all, which surely explained Katrina’s dampened palms and queer giddiness.