Beauty and the Bounder

By Jessica Cale

The moment Lady Emilia sets eyes on the Chevalier d’Aubusson, she knows their fates are tied together. For good or ill, she cannot say. A mysterious aristocrat with a tragic past, the chevalier makes waves with his considerable charm.

But the chevalier is not as he seems. There are cracks in his story, and Emilia never could resist a mystery. Whether he’s a gentleman or a bounder, he might just be the man for her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094452432

Jessica Cale

Jessica Cale is a romance author, editor, and historian based in North Carolina. Originally from Minnesota, she lived in Wales for several years where she earned a BA in History and an MFA in Creative Writing while climbing castles and photographing mines for history magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough) and is enjoying her happily ever after with him in a place where no one understands his accent. She is the editor of Dirty, Sexy History and you can visit her at www.dirtysexyhistory.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

Emilia followed the scent of tuberose into the drawing room. Heady and outrageously sensual, it was desire rendered in white petals. There was a reason the perfume was only worn by the daring or the shameless. Few gentlemen would deign to send the flower, and all of them seemed to know her mother.

It was the third bouquet in as many days. The card would be as enlightening as any of them—bland platitudes or impersonal compliments signed with an initial or two. She tossed it aside, unopened. The real message was in the flowers.

Among the stalks of tuberose (dangerous pleasures), there were pale pink dog roses (pleasure and pain) and grass (submission). Emilia cringed. Mother!

As if summoned, Georgiana, Lady Brecon, floated into the room in a violet banyan. For a woman who had been out scandalously late, she looked remarkably well rested. Good morning, darling. Are those for me? She picked up the card and popped the seal with her thumb.

Emilia took her customary seat in the plush chair nearest the table. You know they are. I haven’t received a bouquet in months. She reached for the tea and poured two cups, adding cream to both and a lump of sugar to her mother’s.

Georgiana accepted the cup and took a long sip. She smiled, but that little line was there between her eyebrows again. Emilia could always tell when her mother was irked by the presence of the ‘Emilia, dear’ line. She held her breath and waited.

"Emilia, dear, her mother sighed. Doubtless this room would be a veritable greenhouse if you showed the slightest encouragement to any of your suitors."

Quite. If I happen to meet one worth encouraging, I shall prostrate myself at his feet like a temple harlot. She helped herself to a slice of plum cake and a thick rasher of bacon.

I expected better of you. Her mother made a sound of obvious displeasure. "You have misremembered your Herodotus. Servants of Venus bow to no man; the gentlemen prostrate themselves to them."

Emilia couldn’t help but laugh. You speak as though you were there.

You wound me. I am not in my dotage just yet. She sipped her tea, smiling like the sphinx. At any rate, certain things never change.

They ate in companionable silence, the scent of the tuberose stifling even the taste of the almonds and tart fruit of the plum cake. Again, Emilia’s gaze was drawn to the washed-out blush of the dog roses. She wrinkled her nose. Who sent these?

Lord Dorchester sends his compliments. Georgiana’s expression gave nothing away.

I should say, Emilia agreed. Pleasure and pain? Submission?

Her mother blushed the shade of the dog roses. They’re only flowers, dear.

Emilia sniffed her disbelief. You do understand that it’s not ‘being discreet’ when others use the same code, yes?

Georgiana sighed, clearly miffed. I would never shame your father. He has his life, and I have mine. We are quite happy, you know.

Yes, but I do not know why. She rubbed her knuckles across her forehead. It was too early for a tension megrim. "How can you carry on with these subtle gentlemen if you love father?"

Her mother set her teacup down, her cake forgotten. I do love your father, I do. I love him as a brother and a dear, dear friend. I gave him three beautiful children, and now we have our liberty to do as we please, as long as we do not bring shame upon each other. It has worked for us for more than twenty years, as it does for many other families. It is the way of things. You’ll understand when you marry.

It was a discussion they’d had many times since moving to London ten years before. Isabella and Will had both married within a year of each other, the process made simpler by their family’s ancient bloodline and staggering fortune. Georgiana had no doubt expected Emilia’s match to be likewise simple—the youngest of Lord Brecon’s children, she was widely regarded as the loveliest and stood to inherit a castle, for heaven’s sake. She had charmed all and sundry with her whimsical gowns, her skill at the harp, her hazel eyes, and her heart-shaped lips...

Right until she opened them. Along with her enviable visage and handsome inheritance, Emilia had inherited her mother’s blunt honesty and her father’s sense of the absurd. It was not that she did not enjoy the game of courtship, only that she had not yet found a worthy opponent. Her suitors were insincere and bland at best, and she had never hesitated in telling them just that. They desired her, she believed them when they said as much, but they only wanted her for the kind of marriage her parents had, the kind of match she would never accept.

She’d seen it all before, the same pattern playing out year after year. So many couples approached courtship like gambling, leveraging their resources and strategic affection to increase their fortunes or social standing before the season ended. The gentlemen kept mistresses and spent their evenings with courtesans—sometimes immediately following the wedding night—and their wives retired to the country to raise their children. Once the requisite ‘heir and spare’ had been produced, many women were more or less free to carry on as they pleased, unless their husbands were cruel, jealous, or had political aspirations.

Georgiana had taken that liberty to a horrifying extreme, but she was far from the only married lady with a questionable private life. The arrangement worked for many, and Emilia did not begrudge them through a sense of misplaced moral superiority. She just wanted more.

I do not want a convenient marriage, she said finally. I will be loved—obsessively, thoroughly, and faithfully—or I will not marry at all.

Her mother shot her the same look she always did when she thought Emilia was being unreasonable. Marrying your father was the cleverest thing I ever did. I have not regretted it a day in my life. Without him, where would I be? A spinster rotting away in Oxwich under the watchful eye of your grandfather? She shuddered. There are worse things than having someone to look after you. I want you to find that love, darling, I do, but a good marriage is so much more than desire. Find a gentleman who is kind, patient, and good, so even if you’re never lovers, you can at least be friends.

Emilia sighed. And wealthy as well, Mother?

Georgiana shrugged. You know my feelings on that. It is a vulgar subject and should not be discussed. She poured them two more cups of tea. Your father and I will ensure you shall never want for a thing, but do think twice before you set your heart on a duke riddled with debt. Habitual gamblers are not to be trusted. A cad is a cad regardless of name or ancient bloodline, so when you choose—and I have no doubt you will—I beg you to choose a gentleman of virtue.

"I am beginning my sixth season, Emilia reminded her. I should think you’d be pleased with any gentleman, debt or no."

London suits me. I have no desire to leave. Her mother waved a hand. "But—and I cannot imagine why I failed to mention this sooner—a gentleman has let the house next door. Exceedingly handsome in that brooding, tragic manner so natural to the French. He is a chevalier, and quite unattached."

Emilia nodded toward the flowers. Lord Dorchester will be heartbroken.

Even Georgiana’s amused snort was remarkably ladylike. I rather thought you and the chevalier might suit.

The sound of a pianoforte crashing on the street outside echoed Emilia’s thoughts about her mother’s attempts at matchmaking. The subsequent colorful curse was loud enough to cover her own muttered oath.

Georgiana raised a hand to her throat in a half-hearted swoon. I daresay that’s the chevalier now.

Emilia marched to the window, angling herself behind a heavy brocade drape so as to spy on this mystery Frenchman unobserved. The sooner she could identify some fault in his appearance or character, the sooner her mother would abandon the subject. Shorter than me? Burly fellow in homespun and a flat cap?

Her mother made no attempt to disguise her sound of disgust. Take pity, dear heart. My nerves cannot sustain such nonsense this morning. To think I would consider—! She tsked. I daresay you’ll know it when you see him. He is quite difficult to miss.

Imagining another Brummell devotee starched from his tasseled Hessians to his curls a la Brutus, Emilia was quite unprepared for the vision that bounded into the street to assist with the pianoforte. She took him for a tradesman at first glance, undressed as he was without a coat or cravat. Yet his shirt was spotless, his braces new, his top boots shining, and his buckskin breeches—

Emilia swallowed.

Are you quite all right, dear?

Shaking her head to rid herself of the image of the chevalier bending over a pianoforte, buckskin clinging to his thighs, she emitted an embarrassed laugh. She had seen her fair share of well-formed gentlemen over the years. Why should this one be different?

When he turned around, Emilia nearly dropped her teacup. Handsome was woefully insufficient a word. It wasn’t his face that troubled her—the exquisite symmetry of high cheekbones and a strong jaw, the hint of stubble, the lips