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

Monté shifted, locking his hands behind him. His black coat drew taut across the breadth of his preposterously broad chest and bulging biceps.
    Not that Katrina had noticed the wide planes or exceptional muscles, any more than his anchored stance that emphasized his strong, buckskin-covered thighs and manhood. Or his finely honed cheekbones and contoured jawline, which fairly screamed rogue.
    Knave. Rakehell. Scoundrel.
    She was ill. Why else did her mind wander like a warbling brook?
    Katrina doggedly dredged up Richard’s form, summoning the hazy image from deep within her illusive memory’s bowels. He sported a powerful physique too, her conscience chastised, while another part, the part quite improperly taken with St. Monté, jibed in an annoying singsong voice, Not as grand as The Saint, by any means, most particularly his manly parts.
    Oh, my God. Do think of something else, Katrina. Anything else.
    Katrina mentally stomped on her ruminations and scrambled for a harmless topic.Lodgings. Yes. Perfectly boring.
    Except for the bed part , the irksome voice in her head trilled.
    Shut up !
    “If you’re not a member of any of the gentlemen’s clubs ...” Would he keep active memberships when he sailed most months out of the year? “I recommend you seek lodgings at The Steven’s Hotel. It’s less posh than Grenier’s Hotel as well as Mivart’s, but officers favor it, and since you’re a sea captain ...”
    That was where Richard stayed when in London, and he liked the place very well indeed.
    “Aunt Bertie,” The Saint flashed a neat row of square, white teeth, a startling contrast to his olive skin, “would you honor me with an introduction to your lovely guest?”
     
     

Chapter Two
     
     
    Katrina flinched at Captain St. Monté’s casual request, her pride smarting from the unintended jab his words caused. He’d forgotten her entirely. Erased her from his memory as easily and thoroughly as a gobbled crumpet or a piece of foolscap tossed into the fireplace.
    Rather chafed her pride, it did.
    His aunt’s eyes and mouth rounded, and she halted petting Percival. “But my dear boy, surely you recognize Miss Needham.”
    Katrina cocked her head expectantly.
    No acknowledgment registered in St. Monté’s feline eyes.
    Rot.
    “Daughter to Bridget and Hugo Needham?” Miss Sweeting coaxed. “The banker who advanced you the funds to purchase The Weeping Siren ?”
    Even Katrina’s encouraging smile produced not so much as a glimmer of recognition.
    Double rot and bother.
    Well, The Saint really couldn’t be blamed. Surely Miss Sweeting didn’t expect her man-of-the-world nephew to remember a bumbling teenager he’d met but once, years ago? Still, it did rather deflate Katrina’s self-esteem to be so thoroughly unremarkable and completely unremembered.
    Canting his head and narrowing his eyes, St. Monté studied her.
    Oh, for pity’s sake. She would come to his rescue, though he didn’t deserve it and her pulverized pride shrieked in umbrage.
    “We met but once, Captain St. Monté. Though that time, you prowled this salon like a great caged cat.” Managing to wrest her wayward attention from him, lest he see her chagrin, Katrina set her gloves beside her. This most definitely would be a shorter visit than usual. “I presumed you yearned to return to your schooner.”
    Like she yearned to quit this room and his keen perusal. Desperately.
    Even at one-and-twenty, he’d exuded an untamed, masculine grace as he clawed at his neckcloth and paced his aunt’s dainty, feminine parlor. Uncomfortable in his formal togs, he’d shaken his overly long sun-bleached mane, his fern-green, topaz-flecked gaze alighting on Katrina for a disconcerting moment or two.
    Still longer than fashionable, his streaked hair suited him, as did his bronzed features and even the whitish scar starkly contrasting his swarthy skin. Each proclaimed he’d lived an adventurer’s life, and how much grander that must be than playing