A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle

by Christi Caldwell

  “Don’t apologize to me, girl,” her aunt said with a snort. “Apologize to your dress.”

  “Mama always wrinkles her gowns,” Marcia piped in from her spot at the windowseat.

  “Humph. Well, you certainly can’t do any more damage to those skirts.” That was saying a good deal with her aunt in her out-of-mode wide satin gown, taking exception with Eleanor’s attire.

  “I like these skirts,” she said, defensively.

  “Girl, no person likes brown muslin.” Her aunt spoke in a tone that considered the matter settled.

  In this, too, her aunt was correct. Through the years, Eleanor had striven to avoid any kind of attention. People tended to see those in extravagant garments of bright satin fabrics and not ladies who sported severe hairstyles, and perched wire-rimmed frames on their noses. No notice was good notice, and only protected one from probing stares and in-depth inquiries.

  “You need new gowns, Eleanor.” The stomp-stomp-stomp of the cane upon the floor made that statement fact.

  “No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her aunt eyed her through suspicious, narrow slits. When Eleanor next spoke, she did so in steadier tones. “That is, thank you, but I’ve no need. I’m here as your companion.” And one of the only reasons Eleanor had confronted the demons of her past by returning to London was to provide companionship to the widowed, childless woman. “There is no need for anything more than my current wardrobe.”

  Marcia tugged at her hand, forcing Eleanor’s attention downward. “But, Mama, you would look ever so lovely in new dresses.” She looked to Aunt Dorothea. “Wouldn’t she, Aunt?”

  “She certainly will not look any worse than she does now.”

  A laugh escaped Eleanor, earning a scowl from the duchess.

  “I was not making a jest, gel.”

  “My apologies,” Eleanor said with forced solemnity.

  “It is settled. We shall take you to the modiste.” Then she flicked her gaze over Marcia. “And we’ll have a dress made for Marcia.”

  An excited squeal pealed in the room as Marcia hopped up from her seat and jumped up and down. “Oh, truly? Truly? Truly? That will be most splendid.”

  “There is no need for dresses,” Eleanor put in. She’d not accept any more of her aunt’s charity than she’d been forced to. “For either of us.”

  Her daughter’s exuberance died a swift death. Any other child would have stomped her feet and begged in protest. Through the years, however, Marcia had demonstrated a stoic maturity better suited to a child of far older years. “Very well,” she said on a dejected sigh and regret filled Eleanor at never having been able to provide the world she wished for her daughter.

  “See what you’ve gone and done, gel?” Her aunt glowered. “You’ve made the girl sad.”

  “Perhaps one or two new dresses,” Eleanor conceded and her daughter’s head shot up.

  Brightness illuminated her brown eyes and she hurled her arms around Eleanor’s waist, squeezing hard. “Oh, thank you.” Then she suddenly released her mother and sprinted over to Aunt Dorothea.

  “Marcia,” Eleanor called out, anticipating the girl’s intentions too late.

  Marcia launched herself into Aunt Dorothea’s arms and knocked the old woman back in her seat. “Oh, thank you ever so much, Aunt.”

  Eleanor rushed over but the duchess frowned over the top of Marcia’s head. “Do you think I’m made of sugar? A hug from a small girl isn’t going to hurt me, I assure you.”

  She rocked to a stop and took in the affectionate tableau as the childless, notoriously gruff Duchess of Devonshire patted Marcia on her back. For the first time since the missive had arrived more than a month ago, it occurred to Eleanor, with the offer of companionship on behalf of Aunt Dorothea, that this relationship was not truly one-sided. Perhaps her eccentric aunt needed them just as much as they needed her.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and Eleanor’s heart skittered a beat as the younger butler appeared and announced the guests. “The Viscount Wessex, the Viscountess Wessex, and Miss Lizzie Gray.”

  Marcus stepped into the room, resplendent in a black evening coat, black breeches, and his immaculate, snow white cravat. He moved with the confidence and grace of a man who may as well have owned the very room he now entered.

  A loud humming filled Eleanor’s ears and she welcomed the distraction presented by Aunt Dorothea, who stood and engaged in the necessary trivialities. “You came,” Eleanor blurted.

  All conversation ceased, leaving nothing more than the echo of her humiliating words and the attention of five sets of eyes.

  Marcia broke the stilted silence…“Mama, your skirts.”… in the most awkward way.

  Eleanor released the fabric of her dress and let her arms fall back to her side, and then remembering herself, dropped a belated curtsy. “My lady,” she offered lamely to the Viscountess Wessex.

  The years had been kind to the smiling, always benevolent viscountess. “Eleanor,” she greeted. “It is so very lovely to see you,” and spoken in those warm tones, Eleanor believed the woman. Eleanor shifted her attention to the curious young lady with thick, brown ringlets—Marcus’ sister, older, taller, more grown-up than she remembered. Weren’t they all, then?

  Her aunt jammed the tip of her cane into the hardwood floor. “There is a new person joining us.” She motioned to Marcia and in that innocuous, if unconventional, introduction diverted attention away from Eleanor, for which she’d be forever grateful.

  As the two women greeted Marcia, Eleanor stood to the side in silence. Most members of polite Society would be scandalized by the presence of a child at a formal dinner, but then her aunt had always drummed her own beat and danced to her entirely made up rhythm. Through the introductions, Eleanor’s skin pricked as Marcus studied her through thick, hooded blond lashes. As she’d never been a coward, she met his gaze.

  He strolled over, with long, languid movements better suited to a tiger tracking its prey. With her heart scrambling into her throat, she retreated and then caught herself before taking any further steps. This was Marcus. As much as he might resent her, nay, hate her, he would never hurt her. She’d stake all she owned on that fact. She rooted herself to the floor and caught her hands upon the back of the pink sofa.

  “I gather by your exclamation, Eleanor, you’re surprised to see me.” A lazy grin turned his lips upward. Gone was all the warmth and gentleness she’d once known in that smile. From his thickly veiled lids to his slight grin, he’d perfected the role of rogue with an ease of one who’d been born to the position.

  As bold and teasing as he’d always been, of course Marcus would not let her earlier outburst rest. Eleanor wetted her lips. “I am, was,” she corrected, “surprised you’ve come.”

  He propped his hip on the edge of the back of the sofa. “Did you think I would stay away because of you?” He studied her and the heated intensity of that stare burned her skin.

  She met his unrepentant stare. “No.” The lie tumbled easily from her lips. His gaze fell downward and she followed his stare to her skirts. Eleanor immediately released the drab, brown fabric and yanked her head up. He shifted, angling his body in such a way that she was shielded from the small party conversing behind him. That subtle movement brought their bodies so close, she felt the tension dripping from his frame.

  He dipped his head close. “Were you hoping I stayed away?” His brandy-scented breath fanned her lips, bringing her back to another night, another man.

  Her stomach churned and she closed her eyes a moment, but the insidious memories had already crept in; the repulsive taste of spirits, the maniacal laugh, her own gasping cries. She stumbled back a step, and in her haste to get away, knocked against a small mahogany table. Her fingers shot out instinctively to capture the teetering porcelain shepherdess but Marcus easily caught the piece, righting it. He assessed her in that searching, bold way of his. Eleanor sought glimpses of the youth he’d been, but once again, found only this hard, powerful man instead. A
man who smelled of brandy and studied her with coolly detached eyes.

  Thankfully, a servant entered and announced dinner.

  “Come along, boy,” Aunt Dorothea called out. “After years of avoiding my dinners, you owe me an escort.”

  A smile played on Marcus’ lips. In that moment, he was that man and Eleanor was that girl, but then his gaze snagged upon Eleanor once more, and that gentle grin died. “Indeed, my lady,” he called out. “It has been too many years,” he said. If Eleanor were the wagering sort, she’d bet the meager coins left by her papa that those words were intended for her. He came to a stop beside the assembled guests and paused to sketch a bow for Marcia. “Miss Collins.”

  Her daughter executed a perfect curtsy. “Marcus.”

  He held his arm out for Aunt Dorothea and then offered his fingers to Marcia. “I daresay you require an escort as well, my lady.”

  Marcia erupted into a fit of the giggles and then slipped her hand into Marcus’. The sight of them paired; her golden-curled daughter and the tall, equally blond Marcus dug with all the vicious ferocity of a rusty dagger being plunged into her stomach. Emotion raged in Eleanor’s breast, threatening to choke her with the force of it, as she stared transfixed at the little girl who, by rights, should have been his, would have been his, had life continued along the predictable path it had started.

  Only…

  Eleanor dropped her gaze to her daughter’s crown of golden curls. She stared after the party as they started for the door, leaving her with the chaos of her own thoughts. If there had been no horror, there would be no Marcia. There would have been another child, but not this little girl who’d claimed Eleanor’s soul from the moment she’d first held the crying, plump, red-cheeked babe in her arms.

  Odd, Eleanor had been forced to sacrifice one happiness only to find an altogether different joy.

  Marcus paused in the doorway and cast a lingering glance over his shoulder. Gone was the animosity she’d detected since their reunion, replaced now by a concern better suited to the man he’d been. She mustered a smile and started after them. The mask he’d donned fell back into place and he was once again the Viscount Wessex—stranger.

  The two older matrons filled the dining table with the appropriate discourse; politely engaging Eleanor’s small daughter, allowing Marcus the luxury of his own musings. Since their meeting earlier that afternoon, Eleanor had owned every one of his thoughts.

  He told himself not to stare and yet, to have searched for her and then ultimately given up on the dream of seeing her again, he could no sooner lob off his right hand than he could stop taking her in. Albeit, in furtive, sideways glances, while she shoved her fork about her untouched plate, the only indication of the lady’s unease.

  How very different she was than the girl he remembered. Those luxuriant, golden curls were once again drawn tightly against her scalp in a severe coiffure better suited to a woman ten years her senior or a governess bent on respectability. No longer giggling and garrulous, she’d instead become quiet. Somber. Solemn.

  He took in her drab, brown skirts and again a loathing filled him for the man who’d wedded her and left her dependent upon the charity of relatives for her and Marcia’s survival.

  Tired of the stilted silence between them, he spoke. “Do you find your meal unsatisfactory?”

  Eleanor’s head shot up. At her prolonged silence, he arched an eyebrow. Once upon a lifetime ago, she would have given him a teasing wink and witty rejoinder. “No.” As though to prove the contrary, she popped a bite into her mouth. Those long, elegant fingers that had once effortlessly twined with his, like naked lovers united as one, she reached for her wine glass. The tremble of her fingertips drew his notice.

  He took in the delicious sight of her crimson lips upon the rim of that glass, hating himself for envying the crystal object as he did. The lady had left him, chosen another, wedded, and returned, giving no indication that he’d been anything more to her than a mere diversion—and yet he still hungered for her. “And are you enjoying the pigeon in white sauce?”

  She passed a dubious stare over the contents of her plate, the wariness in her eyes suggested a fear that he’d tampered with her food. “Er, yes. Very much.” Which was very much, a lie. The lady hadn’t taken any more than one corner nibble until now.

  Marcus settled back in his chair, making himself comfortable, taking an unholy delight in the manner in which she shifted under his focus. Good. With the effortless ease with which she’d shattered his heart and violated his trust, the lady should squirm. “Or tell me, Mrs. Collins? Do you find yourself enjoying the pigeon one moment, and then being so very…enticed by the lemon roast that you completely forget—the pigeon?”

  Red color suffused her cheeks and she raised her eyes to his. The silver flecks danced with fury, a reminder of the passion that had once been so very strong between them. Then with slow, precise movements, she picked up her fork and knife and delicately carved a piece of pigeon. “I don’t know, my lord.” He narrowed his eyes. She’d “my lord” him, would she? “I find the sweet aspect of the pigeon infinitely more agreeable than the bitter taste of the pig.”

  By God, had she just called him a pig? With a pointed look and very deliberate movements, she popped a piece of pigeon into her mouth, confirming that very supposition. The audacity of her. And yet…despite the lady’s thinly veiled insult, a smile pulled at his lips.

  Marcus rested his arms on the sides of his chair and drummed his fingertips, all the while studying her in silence. A girl-like blush blossomed on her cheeks and she studiously avoided his gaze. Alas, he’d spent the past years charming lonely widows and courtesans. The defenses Eleanor sought to erect were flimsy ones at best. “Never tell me you’re nervous to be alone with me?” he drawled. He examined her through thick lashes and her skin burned ten shades hotter.

  She spoke quickly. “Don’t be silly.” Too quickly. Belatedly she lifted her gaze to his. “Nor are we alone.” She looked pointedly to the guests engrossed in discourse about the table.

  “But we could be,” he promised on a whisper, and leaned close, so close his thigh pressed against hers.

  The slight, audible intake of her breath met his ears and he relished the lady’s flushed cheeks, the muscles of her throat moving rapidly. For Eleanor’s quick flight from his life, her reaction revealed a woman who was not immune to him. Marcus continued his deliberate seduction. “What if I said I came tonight to see you?” He hooded his lashes. “That I was compelled by your presence?”

  Eleanor looked about and then when she returned her attention to him, she spoke in hushed tones. “I would say I don’t believe you. I would say you don’t see me differently than any widow you’ve bedded.” She gave him a long, sad look. “You are not a man any woman holds power over.”

  He stilled. Her faintly accusatory edge not lost on his jaded ears. Did she not realize the power she’d held over him all those years ago? He’d have brought down kingdoms to secure her love. He dropped his eyes downward to where she viciously scrabbled at the fabric of her dress and the carefree response on his lips died. Eleanor followed his stare and immediately released the fabric and yanked her head up. God, even in the hideous garment she’d the beauty to rival Aphrodite. Yes, she could feign indifference, but the lady was as aware of him, all these years later, as she’d been as a woman of just eighteen, and there was something empowering in that discovery.

  A child’s giggle ripped through the moment, promptly dousing all trace of desire. His gaze strayed to Marcia. The little girl sat beside his sister, her plump, white cheeks illuminated by the warm glow of the candelabra. Whatever she said at that precise moment roused his sister to laughter. Suddenly shame slapped at his conscience; shame for hungering after Eleanor still and attempting to seduce her before polite company, and before her young daughter, no less.

  Self-disgust gripped him. Reluctantly, he looked to Eleanor and found her studying him warily and it gave him pause. Who had put the suspici
on there in her expressive eyes? Was her husband responsible for that cynical mistrust? Marcus gripped the arms of his chair hard, not wanting to imagine Eleanor dependent upon a husband who’d treated her with anything but kindness. Even as she’d broken Marcus’ heart, he did not want to believe she’d suffered in any way over the years. He attempted to thrust aside the lurking questions.

  Except…now his mind had wandered down a path for which there was no irrevocable course. And the questions about Lieutenant Collins flooded his consciousness: What manner of father had he been to the girl? Had they been a happy family?

  As though sensing his attention, Marcia glanced across the table and gave an eager little wave. A golden curl tumbled over her brow and she shoved it behind her ear. Emotion pulled at his heart. What did small girls with golden curls do with their days? All the little pieces he would have known had she been his. Marcus dropped his elbows on the table and called over to the little girl. “Tell me, Marcia, how does a young girl spend her days?”

  Seeming to note the attention of all the guests shift her way, Marcia sat prouder in her chair and firmed her little shoulders. “I enjoy reading.” Which did not surprise him. Eleanor had been a voracious reader. How many libraries had they snuck away to during ton events? “I like to sketch.” I’m an atrocious artist. A skill the girl had likely acquired from the papa. His gut clenched. Then she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I also like to fence. My mama said my papa was a master fencer.”

  Marcus stiffened, grateful for the duchess’ boisterous laugh that saved him from responding. “A girl who fences. You’ve raised a splendid child,” the older woman said, hoisting her glass aloft in toast.