To Love A Wicked Scoundrel

By Anabelle Bryant

Is there a Lady in the land that can resist this scoundrel’s charms…?

At her step-mother’s command, Isabelle – and her irrepressible step-sister Lily – are leaving the pleasantries of the English countryside behind them, and heading straight to the bustling heart of a London season. Isabelle couldn’t care less about fashionable society, and is even less interested in the name on the lips of every ballroom gossip - Lord Constantine Highborough, reputedly a scoundrel of the highest order! But once he sets eyes on the stunningly beautiful Isabelle, London’s most notorious rake knows exactly where to direct his devilishly bewitching smile.

And everybody knows that Constantine always gets what he wants, usually leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him…

Praise for Anabelle Bryant

Praise for Anabelle Bryant:

'Anabelle Bryant’s books just keep getting better! Duke of Darkness is the epitome of what a romance novel should be – sexy, steamy and heart wrenching.' -Elder Park Book Reviews

'[Anabelle Bryant's] storytelling rivals any established author in the market' 5* for 'To Love a Wicked Scoundrel' from historicalromancelover.blogspot.co.uk

'This book was sweet, enjoyable, and absolutely fantastic. Romance lovers, this is a must read book.' - 5* from Farah (Goodreads) for 'To Love a Wicked Scoundrel'

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: Apr 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781472095213

Anabelle Bryant

Anabelle began reading at age three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing. Happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure she finds endless inspiration in travel, especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England. A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows life doesn't always provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. She enjoys talking to her fans. Visit her on Facebook or at AnabelleBryant.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

Isabelle pushed the trowel into the soft earth and uprooted the offensive weed that dared sprout between her prized yellow wood violets. A smile curled her lips as she viewed the twin petal blooms with their dainty heart-shaped leaves. A gloomy spring had caused her worry the delicate plants would not survive, but now, seeing the results of her attentive ministrations, she delighted in the cheerful addition they made to her modest garden. She glanced to the narrow plot of flowers, rich in variety but limited in number. How lovely it would be to have a larger landscape to tend and a greenhouse to protect her most precious blooms.

At times, she indulged in daydreams and envisioned herself the mistress of an elaborate estate where extensive lawns brimmed with exotic flowers of every colour imaginable. Usually a firm shake of the head dismissed these thoughts as fanciful. As a twenty-six-year-old genteel lady, Isabelle Rossmore took pride in her sensibility and often chided herself she was too old and too logical to permit far-fetched illusions to waste her precious time. Refusing to allow temptation to woo her, she removed her gardening gloves and stroked the velvety petals of the violet before her.

The introspective moment did not last and a squeal of delight pealed through the afternoon solitude. Isabelle smiled as her sister Lily – stepsister, if one strove for exactitude – scurried down the garden path and flitted towards her as sharply as a bluebottle. Her nursemaid was nowhere in sight, left behind again, no doubt. She stood as Lily approached and tucked away the wayward curls that always escaped her braid.

‘Isabelle!’

The six-year-old never failed to cheer her with an enthusiastic welcome. Lily was the offspring of her father’s second marriage to Lady Meredith, and Isabelle and Lily held a great affinity for each other’s company.

‘Do be careful or you will tumble straight into the violet bed.’ Her affectionate tone removed any threat of admonishment and she brushed free the small bits of earth that clung to her skirts before she pressed a kiss to Lily’s head. ‘Your mother will not be pleased if she discovers I insisted the gardener occupy himself with other tasks so that I complete the weeding.’

Fortunately her stepmother rarely ventured into the garden as most flowering plants caused her to sneeze, and in this way the inconvenience of having an aversion for all things botanical saved Isabelle from Meredith’s vociferous chatter. She enjoyed the serenity found among her plants, except of course, if Lily chose to join her.

‘Mother is packing.’

Isabelle reached forward and plucked a forgotten leaf from her gown. She cast it aside before she gathered Lily’s hands in hers, the child’s eyes bright with excitement.

‘We are going to London!’ Lily tilted her head and her dark curls tumbled in disarray as she bobbed with impatience.

Isabelle’s brows rose with curiosity, the exuberance of Lily’s announcement unsettling. ‘Whatever are you talking about? We are not going to the city, of that I am sure.’

London was the last place Isabelle wished to visit. She preferred her comfortable life, tucked away in her childhood home in Wiltshire, a clear one hundred miles from the bustling clamour. No reason existed for her not to continue doing so. Theirs was a county family and Rossmore House the only home she’d ever known. Modest by most opinions, the house was composed of titian-coloured brick with few mullioned windows and an overgrown chestnut tree. Yet the entrance boasted a charming trellis of wisteria and clematis intertwined. Isabelle glanced towards the house and her heart warmed.

Releasing one of her sister’s hands, she bent to retrieve her gloves and the metal trowel, before placing both in the wooden box under the bench near the dog rose bushes. Then the two strolled the flagstone path towards the house as Lily’s maid arrived just in time to turn around.

‘It is true. We are going straightaway. Mother said she doesn’t want to wear black bobzine any more.’

‘Bombazine. It is called bombazine.’ With a wry smile at the mispronunciation, Isabelle considered the news. It was time for Meredith to come out of mourning. She had stopped wearing mourning gowns a few months prior. Certainly she could not dispute whether her stepmother was tired of the horrid black frocks. At thirty years, a mere four years older than she, Meredith was too young to be confined to widowhood. One did not always have the luxury of planning the path of life. No one expected her father to wake up on that particular Thursday, eat a vigorous breakfast and then clutch his heart, expel a few ragged breaths, and fall forward onto the damask tablecloth. Much to her dismay, life was full of unexpected experiences. Isabelle preferred predictability.

‘I think London will be grand.’

Isabelle eyed her stepsister’s enthralled expression and bit back an immediate retort as she fought hard against the leap of fear in her chest. London was crowded and busy and terribly noisy at the height of the season. Perhaps Meredith merely wished to shop for a new wardrobe. They could well afford it, her father having provided for them handsomely. But if it were just a matter of a new wardrobe, why would they all need to journey to the city?

Her thoughts raced as they entered the main house. Lily pranced to the centre stairs, her never-ending energy a challenge to any adult, even one accustomed to the child’s enthusiastic nature.

They found Meredith in her bedchamber, tossing gowns into a large traveling trunk as she hummed a cheerful melody. Two maids appeared equally busy in the adjoining dressing room. Lily climbed upon the four-poster bed and fell back onto the overstuffed pillows in delight as Isabelle swept her eyes across the room. Her gaze settled on the open trunk already halfway filled.

‘What is this about?’ Trepidation snuck into her voice.

‘I am so tired of these widow’s weeds. I need to embrace the life I hoped for before I married your father. And do not tell me I am not making sense.’ Meredith threw a glare in Isabelle’s direction as if to abbreviate any ready rebuttal; she paused, distracted by a tangle of stockings.

For once Meredith did not voice her true sentiments, but Isabelle knew well her stepmother’s opinions: My marriage to your father was a business deal more than a love match and I did my best to make him happy and give him the son he desired.

It was no secret in the household. Lord Rossmore wanted an heir above all else and viewed Isabelle, and later Lily, as disappointments. Isabelle suffered the worse for it and learned at an early age how to disguise her melancholy and accept her father’s disapproval under layers of practical rationalisations. When he remarried, her father selected his second bride for her youth and presumably fertile lineage partial to male offspring. How Isabelle hoped things would change and her father would come to love her once Meredith bore him a son, but that day never came. Unlike Isabelle, Lily was too young to experience the hollow ache of knowing she’d given her father nothing aside from unending displeasure by being born female.

Busy deciding between two pairs of shoes, Meredith offered no kind glance to soften the mention of the painful memory and prattled on, shoving the discarded brown boots to the side much like the former subject.

‘Surely you cannot expect me to live out the remainder of my days hidden away in the countryside without social interaction. Without male interaction.’

‘Meredith!’ Isabelle’s eyes flared as she nodded towards the bed where Lily remained preoccupied with piling ruffled pillows into a lopsided tower. Nary a word passed those tiny ears undetected.

‘Oh posh. You are for ever the worrier. This is an opportunity to live, truly live. Lily is excited to go and I will be taking her with me, so you need to make a decision. Do you stay here in the middle of nowhere tending your flowers or do you embark on a grand adventure with the two of us?’ Meredith paused and pinned her with a stare, expecting a prompt response.

The matter of Lily’s welfare weighed upon Isabelle’s conscience and the decision as to whether or not she would spend the season in London. They were inseparable, and Isabelle embraced the role of older sister, frequent mother and constant companion.

The trunk lid closed and startled Isabelle back to the conversation.

‘I think it is rather impetuous.’ She dared not suggest selfish. ‘To uproot Lily and bring her to London at the onset of the season.’

‘But I want to go. Mother told me there will be shops with new dresses and ribbons and toys and sweets!’ Clearly the child had been plied with inaccurately detailed visions. ‘And I can bring my collections!’

Isabelle arched a satiric brow at her stepmother. It wasn’t that she disliked Meredith or did not get along with her; the problem lay in their opposing natures. Meredith was vivacious, indulgent and, at times, reckless. Isabelle believed herself more practical, careful, and reserved. She held these attributes in high esteem as her very best qualities.

‘As usual, you foster unnecessary worry. I have everything planned from beginning to end, and Lily wants to go. Children are resilient and born to change. It is you who does not want to leave your quiet little existence here at Rossmore House. But I am finally rid of my widow’s weeds and I yearn for satin and silk and taffeta. I need scintillating conversation, tea parties, and most especially to dance in the arms of a fine gentleman. I am a countess and such socialising is my due.’ Meredith gave the tiniest sigh before she continued. ‘If I do not do it now, the years will pass and what remains of my beauty will be wasted. I need to live life while I can.’

The silence in the room spoke to Isabelle. Meredith likely believed the same would do her a world of good, but the thought of arriving in such a large city with no ready plan caused her pulse to skitter. She grasped onto the last argument to be made, now that the matter of Lily appeared resolved.

‘What of my Tuesdays with Lord Lutts? What will he think when he arrives at Rossmore House for tea and we have all hauled off to the city?’ She hoped her words held the smallest degree of conviction.

‘Lord Lutts? You are not entertaining the notion he is courting you? He has visited every Tuesday at precisely four-thirty in the afternoon for two years and I am convinced it is solely because we have such a fine selection in our tea box.’ Meredith latched the trunk in front of her and reached for the smaller valise near her feet. ‘Were I of a more suspicious nature I would believe he contrived the same arrangement with any number of hopeful females across the county so he needs never to purchase tea.’

‘Do not be unkind.’ Isabelle would never admit it but on occasion she considered the very same apprehension. While Lord Lutts appeared a gentleman beyond reproach, he never actually indicated he held her in affection. He did seem a very congenial man though, and a future with him would not be unpleasant.

‘I merely speak plainly. There is a difference. If this is Lord Lutt’s cloddish attempt at courtship, I could never allow my stepdaughter to commit to such a life of boredom. How would I visit your home without perishing from ennui?’ Meredith offered an entreating smile from across the room. ‘Come with us. You will like it. I have it all arranged.’

‘You really must come!’ Lily bounced forward from the bed. ‘I will need you there. Who will walk with me in the park? Mother says there are wonderful botanical gardens, but they will all make her sneeze. I shall never see them if you do not come with us. You must say yes!’

As suspected, Lily had followed every word of their conversation, and the child’s encouraging plea caused her to relent. She nodded in agreement and could not prevent a small smile as Meredith and Lily released a high-pitched squeal. But the celebratory cheer was short-lived.

‘Excellent, we will leave tomorrow. According to The Morning Post – ’ Meredith waved a few sheets of newsprint through the air ‘ – this year’s social calendar promises to be the very best. I have followed his scandalous exploits for two seasons now and I no longer wish to read about him. I wish to flirt with the scoundrel. I wish to dance in his arms.’

‘Who? Where? What scheme are you hatching?’ Isabelle wrinkled her nose as she accepted the scandal sheets thrust in her direction. She never spared a glance to what the haute ton considered amusing. Her world remained so detached from the glittering exploits of the aristocracy she saw no good reason to fill her head with frivolous rubbish. Unfortunately, her stepmother thrived upon every word.

‘I intend to capture the attention of London’s most notorious rake. If I am to re-enter society, I seek to do so in grand style. From what I have read, Lord Constantine Highborough, Earl of Colehill, is the exact tonic required for my malaise. He is the ton’s charmed darling. A devil-may-care rascal. A man beyond handsome. Don’t you see?’ She released a self-satisfied sigh and sat down on the corner of the largest portmanteau.

Isabelle tossed the scandal sheets on the bed’s coverlet with disinterest. ‘Love does not grow in such a manner. Affection begins with friendship and then cultivated with care becomes – ’

‘Good Lord, spare me the garden references. I am seeking a grand adventure, not a love affair. And if I may say, Lord Lutts included, you would not know love if it bit you. Now go pack your things. London is waiting for us!’

Chapter Two

Park Lane, Grosvenor Square

Mayfair, London

‘Brooks!’

Constantine Highborough, Earl of Colehill, pulled a pillow forward to shield his eyes as his valet opened the heavy drapes and drenched the otherwise dark room in instant daylight. His menacing complaint resounded throughout the silent townhouse grandly situated near the eastern corner of Grosvenor Square. Attempting a shred of tolerance, he squinted across the room to ascertain Brooks, his valet, stood within his bedchamber. There was an incident some time ago when a misguided widow entered through the servant’s door and found her way into his rooms. While the outcome of that happenstance proved pleasurable, as a general rule Constantine despised surprises. He was a man of little patience, accustomed to getting whatever he desired whenever he desired it, whether in reference to his own interests, the plethora of women who pursued him, or the sycophantic adoration of London’s chosen society.

Upon seeing his valet, he barked a ready order. ‘Close the drapes! I just climbed abed a few hours ago.’

Brooks walked to the grate, stirred the fire, and returned to the window, his attention held by some distant point Constantine could not fathom.

‘Forgive me, milord. It is nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. I had no idea you just stumbled in. I recall two weeks past when you discovered Lady Wilmington waiting in your carriage. I did not see you for several nights thereafter. Good of you to send the messenger, though.’

Constantine groaned. It would appear his valet was in rare form this morning. His final sentence was clipped and spoken rather pithily, and worse, the man persisted.

‘No one can blame me for jumping to conclusions. At times it is a difficulty to keep a schedule of your frequent trips to the vineyards, never mind on occasion when your carriage or your attentions are waylaid by a pretty face.’

‘Brooks, please.’ His words, nothing more than a muffled grumble, accomplished little. His valet had yet to draw the drapes and Con’s irritation continued to build.

‘And too, there is your terrible habit of burning the candle at both ends. You move about society until the wee hours of the morning and then closet upstairs in your studio painting until well into the day. It is no wonder you are tired. But when the entire city hangs on your every word, styles after your mode of dress, and overlooks the impropriety of females loitering in front of your house in hopes of catching your eye, I can readily understand your exhaustion. You are human, are you not?’

Disgusted with Brooks’ condemning diatribe, Con threw back the sheets and strode to the windows, heedless of the fact he wore very little clothing. He yanked the draperies closed. ‘Believe me, I am human and, as such, experience many human emotions, including anger and annoyance. Keep the drapes closed, cease complaining about my reputation, and aspire to adhere more closely to my schedule as it is the central reason I have you in my employ.’ He strode to the bed and climbed back under the blankets.

Undaunted, Brooks continued his chastisement. ‘Now you have done it. If any of the flirtatious females out in the square glanced up to these windows in that instant, they would have been scandalised by your unclothed form.’

‘I rather doubt it.’ He pulled to a sitting position in bed, and tucked the sheets and counterpane around him, resolved no sleep would occur. ‘The women who hide in my carriage, skulk by the window or throw themselves fortuitously in my path would be far from scandalised by my naked body. It is, in fact, their main objective.’

He did not add how apathetic he’d become to the tedious antics of these same females. Their constant attention complicated his life and while he thoroughly enjoyed the female body in all its beauty, he cared little for the jaded manner in which these same women approached him. Over the past several years Brooks had become accustomed to turning them away and deflecting their pursuits, so Con had no idea what caused the valet’s surly mood this morning. He reached for the coffee steaming on his bedside table, another courtesy of Brooks’ attention, and viewed his valet who peered out the window, where something held his keen interest captive.

Nearly of the same age, their friendship was stronger than the alliance of their eight-year association as employer and servant. While it remained highly uncommon for a peer to employ a valet born almost in the same year, Con prided himself on doing little that could be labeled ordinary.

Brooks opened the drapes wider and turned in Con’s direction. ‘I am watching the Bilmont townhouse across the square. It appears it has finally been rented. Three carriages and quite a bit of luggage arrived earlier, along with an efficient staff and extra outriders. I could not help but observe the scurrying servants unloading excessive amounts of baggage. I surmise it is a large family by the sight of all the trunks. Still, I suppose the place has fallen into hideous condition in the two years since old Duke Bilmont went bankrupt.’

‘And that is what holds your attention? A bunch of luggage and servants? You, my friend, are a busybody.’ Con wiped his palm over his face and exhaled his opinion, almost missing his valet’s disgruntled snort. A half smile quirked his lips.

When he had fished Brooks out of the Thames where cutthroats meant to end his life, and offered him employment as his personal valet, he had asked for loyalty and discretion in return. Brooks had proved both qualities too many times to tally. Their friendship evolved with seamless ease and Con came to realise the man possessed a sly sense of humour and clever perspective on life. Despite the difference in their levels of birth, he considered Brooks one of his very best friends.

He finished his coffee, setting the cup down on the bedside table.

‘I was upstairs painting until a few hours ago.’ His tone expressed exhaustion more than anything else. ‘I completely lost track of time, but it is good of you to wake me. I have business to attend to this afternoon and my correspondence has lingered too long. By the by, I need fresh canvases. See to the purchase.’

Aside from Brooks, few people knew of his passion for painting, and he chose to keep it that way. His affinity for artwork was a private pleasure in a life filled with reluctant celebrity. His studio served as a much-needed sanctuary: the room locked with Brooks in possession of the single extra key. The valet delivered food and drink as well as replacing linens or delivering supplies.

By no instigating of his own, society had adopted him as their chosen darling. Often in the gossip pages and sought after for all social events, Con was labeled the most eligible bachelor in London. He paid little attention to it all unless it interfered in his otherwise enjoyable lifestyle, as in the case of Lady Wilmington. His elaborate barouche with its distinguishing red wheels had made him an easy mark for her schemed escapade that past evening. He smiled at the pleasant remembrance.

‘You need more rest. I should never have entered without knocking.’

Wise to Brooks’ anxious departure, Con sought to redirect him before the servant escaped from the room with the same speed as he had entered.

‘I need a hired hack this evening. I cannot take the chance of using my own carriage to transport my work. As before, arrange for the vehicle’s arrival in the middle of the night and we will load my paintings. They are better off at Highborough House where there is ample wall space.’ His eyes swept from one framed painting to the other hanging within his bedchamber; the two pieces of art were among his favourites. Then he snapped his eyes to Brooks before he continued. ‘Besides, when I grow bored of the season I will likely retire to Highborough House and visit the vineyards. I can sort through my artwork then.’

‘As you wish, milord. Shall I arrange for three in the morning?’

‘Yes, three will be fine. Did you visit the costermongers? Did you purchase what I need?’

Resigned to the fact sleep would be sacrificed, Con stood to dress and turned to Brooks in wait of his answer.

‘I will obtain your canvases and order your supplies but I am sorry to tell you the costermonger sold no poppies. Daisies, primroses, elder, there were plenty, but I enquired throughout the market and no one had a single bloom.’

Constantine grunted in response. Fully clothed in a comfortable cambric shirt and loose trousers, he was quick to forego the need of cravat and waistcoat. He waved off Brooks as he approached with the linen cloth in hand.

Having his valet purchase his supplies and obtain botanicals was indispensible. Were he to send another servant or venture to the flower mart himself, unending speculation would begin as to why he needed quantities of linseed oil, or to which special lady the bouquets were being presented. Most of what he did was lionized by the ton. In this manner any strange habits were linked to the one servant he trusted never to compromise his privacy; even though that very same servant proved a meddling gossip in every case.

Accustomed to his master’s frequent requests for flowers to incorporate into his paintings, Brooks suggested an immediate solution. ‘If you merely need to look at them, there are poppies growing in the centre of Grosvenor Square.’ He walked to the window, parted the curtain, and glanced to the left. ‘Towards the far corner, across from the Bilmont townhouse.’

Con turned towards his valet and offered one of his most convincing smiles. The kind that caused ladies to request he undo their corset strings. ‘Do me a favour and go fetch a few.’

Brooks released a short laugh. ‘That smile won’t work with me. I will do no such thing. Regardless of