To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart
A Waltz with a Rogue Novella, #4
Katrina Needham had her whole life planned: Marry her beloved Major Richard Domont and live happily-ever-after … until he’s seen with another woman. Distraught, and needing a distraction, she agrees to assist the rugged, and dangerously handsome privateer, The Saint of the Sea, find a wife.
Dominic St. Monté loves everything about his life as a sea captain, but when he unexpectedly inherits a dukedom and the care of his young sisters, he reluctantly decides he must marry. Afterward, he can return to the sea-faring life he craves, leaving his duchess to oversee his dukedom.
Nic, now The Duke of Pendergast, enlists a family friend’s help in finding an acceptable bride and soon realizes Katrina possesses every characteristic he seeks in a duchess. However, he cannot ask for her hand. Not only is she promised to another, a man still determined to make her his, she has absolutely no interest in becoming a privateer’s wife.
Can Nic and Katrina relinquish their carefully planned futures and trust love to guide them?
See What Readers are Saying!
“…marvelously written novella that encompasses everything a full-length novel should have. ~InD’Tale Magazine Crown of Excellence Review.”
“As a whole this was a pricelessly romantic and wildly comical novella that held my attention from cover to cover.”~Pure Jonel Confessions of a Bibliophile
“Collette Cameron’s unique wit and writing style and you have an exceptional story.” ~Dee Foster
“To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart! It’s well written, romantic and amusing! ~Nicole Laverdure”
“It’s short, wonderful, and definitely hot! Just loved it!” ~Chatty
“…masterfully written tales, in “To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart”. An enjoyable and very satisfying read!” ~April Renn
“The dialogue is charming and the story telling perfect.” ~Aleen Lampshade Reader
“Collette Cameron is one of the best regency writers that I’ve come across. Her stories are full of warmth and wit, with endearing characters you will fall in love with.” Kimberly Westrope
Ms. Cameron’s writing is like the most luxurious cashmere: warm, light, timeless, elegant, and it always feels so good. ~Mo Daoust
“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?”
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.
“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 cards at White’s, ogling horseflesh at Tattersall’s, or dancing set after set at tonnish event after tonnish event.
An envious sigh bubbled up her throat.
“Forgive me, but of course I remember you, Miss Needham. How could I not?”
Katrina’s disbelieving, artfully plucked eyebrows wrestled each other in their scramble to touch her hairline first, and her “Indeed?” rang dryer than month-old bread left in summer sun.
A slow smile hitched St. Monté’s mouth. “Though you were still in the schoolroom, I believe, and blushed pink as strawberry preserves each time I glanced anywhere near your direction.”
He would recall that.