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

by Christi Caldwell

  “…The Earl of M’s scandalous affair, no respectable lord or lady will attend. It is rumored the guest list will include the gentleman’s closest friend, the recently wed Marquess of SA. There are no surprises that the gentleman finds his pleasures else—” Francesca gasped and dropped the page as though burned. “That is horrid.”

  Genevieve’s fingers twitched with the urge to crumple the pages into a neat ball and hurl them into the low-burning hearth.

  “Have a pastry, you’ll feel better,” Francesca said, waving the lemon-filled tart out.

  “He gave you his name and owes you his love and loyalty.” Gillian’s quietly spoken words were more powerful than any roar or shout. They contained truth and expected Genevieve to confront the marriage she’d entered into.

  “She is right,” Francesca said quietly, echoing her own thoughts.

  Her only two friends in the world exchanged a look. Genevieve would have to be blind to fail to see the pity seeping from their revealing eyes. Nausea churned in her belly and she swallowed back the bitter taste. Did they expect she would be one of those miserably sad wives who’d don a sad frown and never attempt to make her life better? No. That had been her of long ago. Not anymore.

  She firmed her jaw. “Cedric made me no promises of more…but I want more from him, anyway. I want to be part of his life.” There was something freeing in breathing those words into existence. A weight lifted. A lightness in her chest. And for the first time in the nearly eight weeks since she’d been married to Cedric, she smiled. A true, honest, smile devoid of sadness. Genevieve bent down and fished around under the sofa. Her fingers collided with a heavy box and she lifted it up. She dropped the package beside the tray of pastries and it landed with a thump.

  The two ladies looked as one to the package.

  Filled with a restlessness, Genevieve surged to her feet. “I have tired of it,” she said and needing space between herself and the two, sympathetic ladies, she retreated. “Every day he sketches with me.”

  A whispery sigh escaped Francesca. “How have I not known that? That is hopelessly romantic.”

  Yes, it was. And it was something only Genevieve and Cedric shared. “And we garden together and that is a good deal more than most couples have. But I am tired of carrying on as a blissful new bride during the day while he goes out on his own, every night.” Every. Night. She began to pace. “Though, it is quite a deal better than most unions, certainly our parents’,” she said, pausing a moment to give Gillian a look, needing her to know she deserved more, as well. “I want it all. I want his friendship, and his heart, and a life together.” She slammed her fist into her palm and continued her frantic movements. “And I’ll have it all or noth—” Genevieve spun and at the rapidity of the abrupt movement, the room dipped. She shot a hand out and caught herself against the edge of a nearby side table.

  “Genevieve?” her sister asked, concern lacing her words.

  She blinked several times, driving back the fog. “I am fine,” she said. Pfft. Now I’ve become one of those wilting, swooning sorts. She stiffened her spine. “In every way.” Or she would be. She’d convinced herself of it, until Gillian came in here and yanked the world out from under her feet to confront the truth—she wanted more.

  A humming filled her ears.

  “Genevieve?” Francesca’s inquiry came as though down a long hall.

  She again blinked. Energized once more, she motioned to the box. “Open it.”

  With tentative fingers, Gillian removed the cover of the box. Pushing back the tissue paper covering the article contained inside, she withdrew the seafoam satin dress from inside. With gold overlay capped sleeves and a band of gold underneath the bodice, the piece shimmered and shined with a beauty fit for a mermaid. Wordlessly, she stood and let the garment cascade to the floor. The pleated fabric fluttered and danced, highlighting the delicate gold flowers etched through the hem of the gown. It was…

  Her two loyal friends spoke in unison.

  “Magnificent,” Fanny whispered.

  “It is my gown for this evening,” Genevieve said with a smile. “I am no longer going to sit and wait in the wings while my husband goes about his affairs. I am going to the Earl of Montfort’s scandalous party and I am going to bring my husband up to scratch.”

  The gown given her by her sister, was splendid. Gripping the edge of her vanity, Genevieve grunted and sucked in her tummy as Delores tugged hard at her stays.

  As the young woman managed to lace them, she released a labored breath. Her maid, humming a jaunty tune, rushed to the bed and collected the satin garment. “It is a beautiful dress, my lady,” she murmured, as she drew it over Genevieve’s head and then pulled it down.

  It was beautiful. She stared at her reflection. The fabric hugged her frame indecently, with her large bosom straining the fabric in such a way they shamefully threatened to spill out. It just… “It does not fit,” she said, blushing as she took in her own outrageously clad frame. Is this the manner of gowns the ladies who attended those scandalous parties donned? Either the gown did not properly fit or she’d added a stone to her weight. She wrinkled her nose. Which really didn’t make sense as her appetite had not been as it usually was.

  “No, I do not expect it would,” Delores said with a smile in the mirror.

  Perplexedly, Genevieve stared as her maid began working the intricate ties down the back of her gown. Whatever did the young woman mean?

  “I began letting your stays out nearly a fortnight ago,” Delores said, her gaze trained down on her work. Letting her stays out? Then her maid looked up from her task and their stares collided. She blinked several times in rapid succession. “You did not realize,” she blurted.

  Genevieve gave her head a shake. “Realize what?” Except even as the question left her lips, the truth slammed into her. She gasped and touched a hand to her lips. The frequent bouts of nausea, the fatigue… Her mind raced as she sought to remember the last time she’d had her monthly courses.

  “I expect you are nearly seven weeks along, my lady,” her maid happily supplied for her and then finished lacing Genevieve’s gown.

  Seven weeks along. She opened and closed her mouth but no sound came out. A baby? The dream of a child she’d abandoned and given up hope on after her banishment to the countryside. And now there was marriage and Cedric… Genevieve touched her still flat belly. There was now a baby. A joyous thrill unfurled; a shocked awe that sent thoughts tumbling through her head.

  Grateful for Delores’ distraction as she saw to Genevieve’s hair, she considered Cedric. All noblemen desired a son, that necessary heir. But would he be equally happy if the child was a girl? Her heart pulled. She imagined he’d be one of those fathers who lifted his babe upon his shoulders and raced about the house to the woes of the nursemaids. He’d never be the cold, emotionless figure her own father had been. Tears misted her eyes.

  “Yes, that is quite common, my mum said,” Delores said, as she gently pulled her back into an intricate coiffure. “The weepiness and nausea and fatigue. All of it.” She angled Genevieve. “Turn this way a bit, my lady.” She plucked a hair comb from the vanity.

  Genevieve winced as it pressed into her scalp. Continuing her happy whistling, Deloris worked. Genevieve’s mind sought to process her recent discovery. She would be a mother. Another sheen of tears filled her eyes. And she would be nothing like her own mother. She would be loving and there would be laughter, and her child would be free to sketch and garden or fence or sculpt, or do whatever it was that brought her joy. Or him. Mayhap it was a boy; a boy who had loose, golden curls and a mischievous smile like his father.

  “There you are, my lady.” Delores moved and Genevieve’s gaze caught on the stranger staring back at her. The strawberry blonde curls artfully arranged half-up, half-down in a clever haphazard manner. Several curls hung over her back, while others dangled over the front of her décolletage, bringing attention to the maid’s masterful work.

  She’d only se
en herself as, at best, passably pretty, and even that passable prettiness had been dulled by the hideous gown and garments her parents insisted she don. Staring at herself, as she was now, there was a freeness that roused a breathless excitement. She was no longer the silent, tucked away daughter of the Marquess of Ellsworth, but rather a woman…who with Cedric’s practical offer, had found freedom.

  And by the lively glitter in her eyes, there was great joy in freedom. He might not ever love her, or give her affection, but he had given her this important gift. A smile softened her full mouth. And he’d given her another precious gift, too.

  “You look beautiful, my lady,” her maid said on a reverent whisper.

  Genevieve continued to study the bright-eyed stranger before her, and with her visage bathed in candlelight staring back, she acknowledged that she was, if not beautiful, at least…pretty.

  “Now for the mask.” Delores gathered the seafoam piece adorned in crystal and placed it over her eyes. The mask settled heavily on her face, obscuring much of her cheeks, and she struggled to breathe a moment. Whyever would anyone wish to attend any event so? Uncomfortable. Stifling. Beautiful as the delicate piece was, there was a falsity to the article that she chafed at.

  She drew in a steadying breath. Now, came the part of meeting her husband…at an event he’d expressly forbade her from attending. She steeled her jaw. She loved Cedric and she’d no doubt, if not now then in time, he could come to love her. But it most certainly would not come if they carried on their separate lifestyles. “Have you—?”

  “The carriage is readied and waiting, my lady.”

  Genevieve nodded. She should move, but instead she remained fixed to the floor. The scandal sheets and gossip columns spoke in veiled, sparse words, about where her husband went and the activities he took his enjoyment in. Going to the Earl of Montfort’s event this evening, uninvited, Genevieve would have her first true glimpse of the world Cedric had immersed himself in all these years. And part of her feared what that glimpse would mean…

  With the click of the door resonating in the quiet, she smoothed her palms along the front of her satin skirts, and before her courage deserted her, started for the front of the room.

  Chapter 22

  Cedric sipped from his third crystal flute of champagne and, with a detached gaze, skimmed his gaze over the Earl of Montfort’s ballroom. Transformed from an elegant hall into this den of sin, a dais had been set up at the front center of the room alongside a small orchestra. Half-clad couples took their pleasures with one another against the Scamozzi columns while others put themselves on lewd display, availing themselves to the other guests’ charms at the makeshift stage set up.

  The chandeliers cast a shimmery glow off the satiny gowns of scandalously clad ladies in attendance, and an even shinier glow off the perspiring bodies of the women in flagrante dishabille. He’d never favored polite ton events. The impolite events…well, these had always been the ones he’d been quite at home, attending. This restlessness in him now was, no doubt, a product of too many of the very same affairs. In all, it was a sight he’d viewed too many times apparently. For there was a tedium this night.

  Cedric downed the contents of his glass and motioned over a servant. A young, partially-clad beauty sidled up to him, an invitation in her smoky eyes. Ignoring the offering there, he swapped his empty flute for a full one.

  “You’ve not availed yourself to a single beauty, yet.” He stiffened as Montfort, in a blatant absence of a mask, came up to him. An arm wrapped about the young, nubile woman at his side, he toyed with her naked breast. The other man made a tsking noise. “You’ve become a good deal more selective since your marriage.”

  “And weren’t you just recently speaking of the benefit of finding a wife,” Cedric said dryly. “Throwing lavish parties is hardly going to get you out of the mire of your circumstances.”

  “Indeed.” Montfort nibbled at the masked woman’s ear, eliciting a breathy giggle. “But this is so vastly preferable to marriage, isn’t it?” He skimmed a hand down her body and brought her closer against his frame. “Then, I was a fool pushing the Farendale chit your way, when she could have neatly improved my financial circumstances.”

  Cedric’s body jerked erect, as an insidious thought slithered around his mind like a venomous serpent. Montfort and Genevieve, together. The other man laying her down and… His fingers tightened reflexively upon his flute, until the blood drained from his knuckles. Though she deserved better than Cedric as a husband, she’d deserved a whole lot more than Montfort.

  His friend continued with a nonchalance that made him want to slam his fist into his mouth. “A meek-mouthed lady who wanted nothing more than your name and who is quite content to allow you to seek your own pleasures?” His friend sighed. “You have all the luck, chap.”

  Is that how the world saw Genevieve? There was nothing meek about her. Contemplative. Whimsical. Intelligent. But never meek-mouthed. And for the first time, with the Earl of Montfort’s guests looking in his direction and whispering, the implications of being here as a married man spoke volumes to Society about his and Genevieve’s marriage.

  He took another drink and then steeled his jaw. What did it matter if the ton saw exactly what was there? Because it makes her a target of Society’s gossip and whispering… Just as his being here invariably did.

  Where he didn’t give two goddamns on a Sunday what they said about him, Genevieve, who snuck away behind high-hedges and hid in libraries, did care. Very much. For the truth of it was, she’d certainly gotten the rotted end of the marital deal in the arrangement they’d made. Yes, the lady had her freedom and ability to move freely about Society. But a lady with her soft and gentle spirit, no doubt craved more; love and sonnets and pretty words and quiet nights reading and sketching. Not quick, frantic couplings against the doorway like a Covent Garden doxy.

  For the first time since his friend had proposed Cedric marry Genevieve, he considered…her—and all she’d given up in becoming his wife. He’d never much liked himself. He liked himself a good deal less in this moment.

  Then, from across the length of the room, his stare collided with the tall figure of a graying man, too powerful for a mask; a hated figure. It may as well have been a glimpse into his own future, thirty years from now. His father surveyed the spectacle unfolding at the front of the room. Then, their stares collided.

  Of course, with the level of sin and depravity featured in this room, it was the perfect place for a man such as the duke, but he’d also learned long ago to be suspicious of his father’s movements and motives. “What in hell is he doing here?” Cedric gritted out.

  “Who?” Montfort followed his stare and then yanked at his cravat. “Can hardly say no when the Duke of Ravenscourt requests something, chap. Surely you know that.”

  Actually he did. All too well.

  “Lord St. Albans, I would recognize you anywhere.” The husky purr sounded over his shoulder, yanking his attention from his father and Cedric stiffened. “Why am I not surprised to see you newly married and rid of your wife so very quickly?”

  The Baroness Shelley, with her lace overlay satin gown of crimson, had the look of a sinful Eve and where one time the sight of her dampened dress layered to her delicious curves would have enticed, now he found himself comparing his previous lover to a respectable woman who now had the benefit of his name.

  “Baroness,” he drawled. Accepting her fingers, he raised them to his mouth for the requisite polite greeting. He made to release her, but she wrapped her clever fingers around his wrist, maintaining a talon-like grip.

  Montfort grinned and lifted his head. “I shall leave you to your amusements. The evening’s entertainments are beginning,” he said. Sketching a bow, he backed away with his companion in tow.

  “I miss you in my bed, Saint,” the young widow whispered, ignoring the earl’s departure, as other guests hurried to the seats about the dais.

  “I’ve been otherwise occupied,” he said
dryly, ignoring her angry pout. He made to pull his hand back but she wouldn’t relinquish her hold. Absently, Cedric stared at the young, naked beauty being led to the center of the dais. The crescendo of the orchestra’s discordant music filled the ballroom as the woman allowed herself to be tied upon a four-poster bed at the front of the room. Through the years, with their equally wicked proclivities, Cedric and the baroness had been lovers on and off. One time, he would have escorted her to the center of the hall with everyone looking on and availed himself to her body.

  “You’ve neglected me for too long,” the baroness persisted, catching his hand once more.

  “You’ve never been one to beg,” he softened that rejection with a wink and made to pull back. What was to account for the ennui?

  The baroness retained her hold. “I’d believed you were preoccupied with that mealy-mouthed virgin you wed,” she said on a sultry purr, skimming her fingertips down the front of his lapel. “But seeing you here,” she leaned up and her champagne-scented breath caressed his ear. “Seeing you here, I know you’re still the same wicked lord who has warmed my bed. I want you,” she whispered. She opened the clever ties at the front of her gown, revealing herself to him and, unbidden, his gaze wandered down to her enormous breasts as he braced for a rush of familiar lust. “That is it. You like what you see.” She drew his hand to one of the generous cream white swells. “Take me here, as you did at Montfort’s last party, with everyone watching. You know you would like that. You know you want that,” she enticed, like the devil with that apple held in hand. “I want it.”

  And he should want her, too. Yet, staring down at her blousy flesh and rouged nipples, he was singularly unmoved. He did not want her. Just as he’d been unaffected by her bold advances in his father’s ballroom, now too was he uninterested in her blatant offering. He made to remove his hand, but she layered her spare one over his, anchoring him in place. Annoyed by her cloying attempts, he steeled his jaw. “I…”