Tempting Kate (The Regency Romps #3)

Chapter One

The Marquess of Wroth was restless.

Waving away his driver, he decided to walk the few blocks to his London town house.

It was nearly midnight, but the fashionable neighborhood still rang with the sound of coaches ferrying their glittering passengers from one ball to another, and Grayson Ashford Ryland Wescott, the fourth marquess, welcomed the chance to stretch his legs after a tedious hour spent among society’s elite.

Unfortunately, the exercise did little to curb the odd sensation that had been plaguing him for months now, escalating today, on the occasion of his thirty-second birthday.

He saw no reason for the ennui. In the years since he came into his title at the tender age of fifteen, he had achieved everything he set out to do, attaining a position of wealth, power, and prestige that was the envy of his peers.

What more could a man want?

At first, he had put the vague discontent down to a lack of challenges in his life. He had gone as far as he wanted to politically, exerting enormous influence behind the scenes rather than in the House itself.

Although his investments and properties were thriving, he could hand over their management to one of his capable agents. The pursuits of hunting, boxing, and racing his curricle had palled as he grew older, and even gambling seemed little risk these days.

When the unnamed malaise persisted, Grayson had given some serious thought to settling down and establishing his nursery. It was high time he got an heir, and he found the notion of retiring to the country strangely appealing if he could find a suitable wife.

His friends would have laughed at that, for his wealth and title had assured him a steady stream of women since adolescence. And despite his reputation as a breaker of hearts, mamas still threw their daughters at him.

He did little enough to encourage them. His liaisons were with discreet married women or members of the demimonde, who had no care for their reputations. Whatever their backgrounds, the ladies never held his interest for long, and he had never considered marrying… until recently.

Her name was Charlotte Trowbridge, and she had burst upon the London Season like a breath of fresh air.

Beautiful and innocent, intelligent and engaging, she was a vicar’s daughter.

And Grayson had been drawn to her unique brand of honesty.

But it soon became plain that Charlotte was enamored of her sponsor of sorts, the stuffy Earl of Wycliffe.

Once Grayson discovered where her affections lay, he had played his small part in ensuring her happiness, and she had married the earl. What a waste, Grayson thought, and yet there was no denying that the two shared something special.

Grayson stretched his legs, struck by an odd pang, before continuing on. Swearing softly, he told himself he was not jealous of that clock-minding Wycliffe. It was what the two had between them that he coveted.

Not that he believed in love or any of that nonsense, but the earl and his countess obviously shared a friendship based on common interests, companionship, and simple affection that was rare among ton marriages. Wroth slowed his stride. That was what he wanted, but where to find it?

It seemed that all the women in London either were greedy and jaded or hadn’t a thought in their heads, while most of the country gentry he viewed as slow-witted and homely. His own vicar’s daughter was as plain as a rock and just as personable.

A woman like Charlotte did not appear to exist, and Grayson wondered if he had somehow missed his opportunity and now was doomed to either go childless or settle for someone who was after his title.

He was not accustomed to settling for anything.

Grayson’s pensive mood clung as he approached his darkened town house.

He had given the staff an evening off after the impromptu birthday celebration they contrived this afternoon, but he had no qualms about putting himself to bed without the services of the butler, valet, and footmen who normally swarmed the halls.

In fact, he rather enjoyed the solitude that met him.

It was not the first time he had walked through the shadowed rooms alone, and he felt no threat as he drew off his gloves and tossed them on an elegant satinwood table.

His reputation as a ruthless opponent extended from political circles right down to the streets and was such that even the pickpockets usually left him alone.

Still, he had not earned his hard-won renown by relaxing his guard, and when he stepped into his study, his senses were roused to alertness. A subtle presence tickled the back of his neck and made him move casually toward the desk drawer that held his pistol.

“Hold there, gent!” The command confirmed his suspicions, and a figure stepped out of the shadows of the thick draperies.

Grayson would have laughed at the sight of the begrimed urchin, except that there was nothing funny about the weapon trained upon him.

The young man was either very brave or very stupid to dare the Marquess of Wroth’s home.

Grayson was intrigued. Lifting one brow, he eyed the ill-kept youth. “Do you think to hold me up?” he asked, incredulous.

His words seemed to disconcert the boy, whose poorly fitting clothes and matted hair looked as if they could use a good wash. “I ain’t no criminal. It’s you who must answer for your foul deeds!”

Foul deeds? Grayson momentarily ignored the pistol, held in a surprisingly small but steady hand, and inclined his head in interest. “And to what, exactly, do you refer, young man? My opposition to the bill that—”

“I ain’t talking about your politics. I’m talking about your morals or lack thereof!”

Lack thereof? The youngster’s speech held enough surprises to make Grayson study him closer.

Despite his bedraggled appearance, the boy held himself straight, his feet spread in a ready stance for shooting.

Yet there was something distinctly odd about him that Grayson couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“No one threatens me, pup,” he said. Although he did not raise his voice or change its tone, he conveyed a silky menace that had been known to make grown men shudder.

The urchin didn’t even blink.

“I’m here to avenge my sister, whom you seduced and got with child,” the young man said.

Grayson could not mistake the accent this time or the cool delivery. This was no ordinary guttersnipe. Who the devil was he? And what was this business about a sister?

“I can assure you, pup, that I do not consort with females of your family’s ilk,” Grayson answered smoothly.

“Don’t take that high-stepping tone with me. You liked her well enough when you ruined her. Now it’s time to pay the piper.”

“And that is you, I assume?” Grayson said, inclining his head in a contemptuous fashion that made the boy flush. Strange little fellow. Grayson couldn’t help admiring his heroics, however misplaced, but he had no desire to take a bullet for the sake of them.

“Look here, I have no idea what you have heard about me, but I do not prey upon virgins of any stamp. Perhaps your sister is simply trying to protect herself—”

“My sister is not a liar!” the boy said, stepping forward angrily.

It was the move Grayson had been waiting for, and he lunged, taking the boy to the floor with the speed that had made him an excellent boxer. He wrested the gun away, but the youth fought like a hellion.

The young fellow managed to knock it from his hold, and it skidded away, where Grayson could not easily retrieve it. He had his hands full trying to subdue the body beneath him, which was kicking and flailing like a wild thing.

It was only when his groin came up against that of his opponent that Grayson began to suspect the truth.

Startled, he looked down at the face below him.

It was contorted in fear and rage and marked with dirt, but beneath the grime was a clear complexion, gently curved cheeks, thick, dark lashes, and eyes the color of amethysts.

What the devil? Thrusting a hand beneath the youth’s baggy coat, Grayson found his answer when his fingers closed over a small but perfectly formed breast. A female!

The stunning discovery distracted him just as the girl, taking exception to his groping, settled her teeth into his arm.

She bit down hard enough that he released her with a curse.

And then he was not quite sure what happened.

He saw her reach for the pistol, but before she could even lift the weapon, it discharged.

Grayson felt the sharp, searing heat of metal ripping through his flesh, but he managed to surge shakily to a standing position and lurch toward the desk that held his own pistol. Having no intention of dying at the hands of this dangerous female, he knew he must not give her a chance to reload.

He needn’t have made the effort, for she leapt up and dropped the weapon as if it were suddenly distasteful. Facing him with an expression of horror on her delicate features, she cried, “You’ve been shot!”

It seemed that the pup had a grasp of the obvious. “Yes,” Grayson agreed, before crumpling to the floor at her feet.

Kate Courtland stared numbly at the prone body of the marquess. She had come here to scare him, maybe even to get some badly needed funds to support the child that her sister was carrying. But, angry as she was with the man, she had never intended to harm him.

Her first inclination was to flee from the terrible scene, but how could she leave him here like this, his tall, graceful form prostrate, his dark vitality quenched? Kneeling beside him, Kate saw the telltale red stain upon his coat and bit down on her knuckles to stifle a gasp.

What if he bled to death? The house was silent as a tomb, and she had no idea when the servants would return.