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

by Christi Caldwell

  A noisy commotion sounded at the front of the hall and he looked to the entrance of the room to the figure who’d attracted the crowd’s notice.

  The breath stuck in his chest. From her vantage, the splendidly curved woman at the top of the stairway surveyed the room as though she were a queen, assessing her subjects. The glow of candlelight cast by the chandeliers illuminated her pale green satin gown in a soft shimmer while the light danced off the strawberry blonde tresses artfully arranged about her scandalous décolletage. Cedric devoured the sight of the siren. There was something so very familiar about her and, yet, all at the same time, not.

  Over the heads of the other guests assembled in Montfort’s ballroom, their gazes collided. Then she looked to the forgotten woman at Cedric’s side, the woman whose breast he still touched, and the tremulous smile on the satin-clad Athena’s generous mouth withered. She spun in a flurry and rushed from the ballroom.

  The air left him on a swift whoosh. Genevieve. His wife? Surely not. But he’d be blind to fail to note her piercing gaze through that mask, or the shocked hurt he’d seen there. Oh, God, what was she doing here in this sin of decadence? She was the only goddamn goodness in the world and he’d ushered her into the darkest depths of depravity. His stomach revolted.

  “Saint?”

  Nausea twisted in his belly; the bitter, acrid taste of bile. Ignoring the petulant chiding of the baroness, he disentangled himself from the determined woman’s grip and sprinted through the ballroom. Moving between copulating couples and lovers embracing, he set out after her. His pulse came hard and fast in his ears. He’d convinced himself these weeks that their marriage was an empty one. With the horror and pain that had contorted her face, he was forced to recognize the truth—he cared.

  He had to find her.

  Gasping and out of breath, Genevieve raced through the marble hall, desperate to be free. Of this place. Of the sight of the sins her husband enjoyed. Forbidden deeds no respectable person should ever witness. Acts she could not imagine sharing with anyone other than Cedric.

  You fool. You fool. You fool. It was a litany inside her head.

  A shuddery sob burst from her lips. This was his world. This was the dark ugly he’d spoken of. And now that she’d seen it, she wished to un-see it and burn the memory where all other hideous thoughts went to die.

  But she could not.

  Just as she could never cease to remember the sight of his long fingers on another woman’s naked skin. That beautiful act they shared every night, now forever sullied by the truth that she’d never truly mattered, nor any of those beautiful joinings she’d believed special. It had all been nothing more than empty, physical couplings he shared with so many other women. Why, he’d no doubt returned many evenings and sought out her bed after worshiping the bodies of other women…

  Her stomach pitched and she gagged. Another cry escaped her as she turned the corner and promptly collided with a tall, powerful frame. The air left her on a whoosh as she sailed backward and landed hard on her buttocks.

  The gentleman easily pulled Genevieve to her feet and steadied her. Incapable of words, she gave her dazed head a shake. “What an inviting welcome to the evening’s festivities,” a hated voice drawled.

  She stiffened, as the Duke of Aumere’s words sent waves of revulsion rolling off her skin. “Release me,” she bit out and yanked herself away, but he retained his hard, punishing grip.

  The duke flared his eyebrows. “Beautiful, Genevieve,” he murmured, as though he’d solved a difficult riddle. Then he tossed his head back and roared with laughter. He’d not even known it was her.

  What manner of gentlemen were these? Faithless cads, depraved, heartless bastards. Cedric had spoken about the blackness of his world. Naively, she’d just failed to realize how ugly it was. What an innocent fool he’d, no doubt, taken her for. She wrenched away from the duke’s hold once more. “I said release me,” she seethed, finding a safe fury in her anger as it dulled the agony of her husband’s betrayal and the death of her dreams.

  “Do you know, Genevieve,” Aumere murmured contemplatively, lowering his face to hers. “I don’t think I shall.” He crushed his mouth to hers and she struggled against his punishing hold, but he easily gathered her wrists in a ruthless hold that would raise bruises.

  He groaned and her alarm and fury grew. My God, he is aroused by my struggles. A panicky desperation filled her as she twisted against him. Then he stuck his tongue inside her mouth.

  In the end, salvation came in the unlikeliest of forms. She gagged, and Aumere drew back. “I’m going to be ill,” she rasped and then promptly threw up at his feet. The duke cried out and she swayed; an inky blackness pulled at the edge of her consciousness. Dimly, she registered a furious growl and looked to the sound of the beast who’d come upon them.

  Her husband stalked forward, hands outstretched. The harshly beautiful planes of his face were etched in a black fury. She huddled into herself, hastily backing away. The sight of his tall, powerful form striding forward sent despair spiraling inside her already breaking heart. She wanted to slam her fists into his face over and over until he was empty and broken inside like she herself was. How was it possible to both love a person and hate him all at the same time? Their gazes collided and in his blue depths was a host of regret, pain, and shame.

  Odd, she’d expect a soulless man incapable of such emotion. Then it was gone so she expected she’d only imagined it. Of course Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, was incapable of any and all emotion.

  “St. Albans,” Aumere greeted. “I would suggest we’d enjoy the pleasures of your wife together, but the chit had the bad form to cast up her accounts—”

  Cedric felled him with a single blow and came down over his form. As he rained his fists down in an impressive display of fury, Genevieve hurried away. Her chest rose hard and fast, as she escaped him; this man possessed, she did not recognize. Her ragged breath filled her ears as she continued her flight.

  Not waiting to see if her husband followed, she shoved past the butler and pushed the door open, sucking in desperately needed breaths as she searched the line of carriages. Her feet were in agony from her race through Lord Montfort’s home. Genevieve yanked off her slippers and then raced down the steps, onward to the safety of her carriage.

  Her driver jumped down from his perch, concern radiating from his eyes. “My lady?”

  “Home,” she managed to rasp, accepting his hand as he assisted her inside the carriage.

  Then, within the confines of her carriage, she yanked her mask free and hurled it to the floor. As the conveyance lurched forward, she sank back against the squabs of the bench and promptly wept. What a fool she was. She’d donned her gown and mask not truly thinking about the manner of party she’d attend. She’d known the world her husband dwelled in was a wicked one, but not…this. The tableau she’d witnessed of the other guests; lovers wrapped in wicked embraces, while others watched. Her husband enjoying the softness of another’s skin. She cried all the harder and huddled against the bench. He’d worshiped that lady’s breast the way he’d worshiped hers so many times. I believed his caress meant something more…

  Her chest ached from the force of her sobs. She’d believed he could care for her. She’d believed so many things. In him. Of them. Of a life together; with their child… She sobbed until her body ached, never more grateful than when her carriage drew to a stop outside her home.

  Home. This was no home. She buried her face into her hands and wept until she shook with the force of her despair. This was the cold, empty life he’d offered and she’d foolishly accepted. Only to realize now, in this moment, she wanted more. So much more.

  For her.

  For her child.

  Tears continued to seep down her cheeks. The driver drew the door open and she placed her shaking hand in his and allowed him to help her down. Then, finding her feet, she sprinted the remaining distance up the steps.

  And God love Avis, he st
ood at the entrance with the black wood panel agape. As though he’d been waiting. The man averted his gaze and she sailed past him.

  No doubt, he’d had the sense to realize his mistress was mad in attending that sinful affair and wouldn’t last amongst his employer’s world. She cried all the harder, the tears pouring from the place where despair and agony dwelled, and stumbled up the steps. Uncaring of the scandal she left in her wake, she sprinted down the corridor. She skidded to a stop outside a particular door and then shoved it open. Stumbling inside, she allowed her eyes to adjust, finding a solace in the inky darkness.

  The empty schoolroom, and in this closed-in, untouched space, she closed the door behind her and sought out the corner. Sinking to the floor, she drew her knees closer to her chest and dropped her chin atop the smooth satin fabric, her life coming to an ironic, full circle.

  Chapter 23

  Cedric’s carriage rolled through the crowded streets of London. With the infernally slow pace set, the tension thrumming inside him grew and grew until he thought he would snap under the weight of it. After he’d bloodied Aumere senseless and peeled himself off the man’s inert form, he’d had to have his carriage called. By then, Genevieve had been long gone. How many minutes had passed since she’d stepped into the ballroom and then promptly stumbled out?

  Only to be accosted by her former betrothed. His stomach revolted and he wanted to return and beat the Duke of Aumere all over again.

  Except…

  It is really me who’s to blame… She was there because of me and was assaulted by that bastard for it… A low, agonized groan rumbled up from his chest. For there had also been what she’d witnessed prior to Aumere’s assault. From where she’d stood, and what she’d observed between him and the baroness.

  To give his fingers something to do, he yanked the red velvet curtain open and stared blankly out into the dark of the night. He should be thinking about what words he’d string together to ever pardon what had transpired this evening. Instead, he was unable to muddle through anything other than the staggering sight of her in the midst of that depravity. Of her former betrothed’s lips on hers. Of the fear, revulsion, and despair in her eyes as she’d looked at Cedric. It was the moment her innocence had died and it had been at his hands.

  He’d had the whole of the carriage ride from Montfort’s townhouse to determine exactly what he’d say to his wife. But as the black barouche rocked to a halt outside his home, not a single bloody word had come to him.

  Cedric bound up the handful of stone stairs. Avis pulled the door open. “My wife,” Cedric demanded.

  A flash of antipathy lit the loyal man’s eyes. Just then he very much despised himself. “She is abovestairs, my lord.” Without elaborating and in a telling display of loyalty to his mistress, the man stalked off.

  Not bothering to shed his cloak, Cedric climbed the stairs. The fabric whipped noisily about his legs as he raced to her chambers and pressed the handle expecting the door to be locked. “Genevieve,” he barked, scanning his gaze over the room lit only by the faintest burning fire in the hearth. His gaze alighted on her maid who stood, turning down the bed. “Have you seen your mistress?”

  Loathing glared strong before she lowered her eyes to the floor. “I have not, my lord.”

  He’d wager what was left of his sanity in this moment that she knew, just as Avis knew, and they all protected the lady from her bastard of a husband. She deserved that loyalty and he their contempt. Spinning on his heel, he stalked off so quickly his cape snapped about his ankles. He strode purposefully down the hall, shoving door after door open, doing an inventory of each room. With each frantic search, the painful vise squeezing his lungs choked off air so that his breath came in hard, angry spurts. He concentrated on that pain to keep from thinking what Genevieve had witnessed this evening.

  She, the only unsullied person who’d seen good in him, had entered his world and it was a sight she’d forever remember. “Genevieve,” he called, as he reached the end of the hall. He pushed open the last door of the corridor and scanned the darkened nursery.

  Cedric turned to go, when his gaze snagged the soft light cast by the moon’s glow and he followed it. His heart squeezed painfully. He closed the door softly behind him, but the unoiled hinges squeaked loudly in the silence.

  From where she sat in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, Genevieve stiffened, but remained silent. Silent, when she’d always been one to fill voids of quiet as she’d done since their first meeting. Agony lanced his heart. And as she’d done every day in the gardens she tended so diligently, while he lazily lounged like the worthless cad he was. He came forward, loosening the fastenings of his cloak, and removing the garment. He set it aside.

  She remained motionless, with her cheek layered against her skirts.

  “Genevieve,” he said quietly, because really, in this instance, what else was there to say? She’d had no place in Montfort’s. A lady of her character and worth did not belong in the underbelly of his world. He’d told her that and, yet, she’d waded in anyway…and now, he wished he had been an altogether different man, worthy of her. He sank to his haunches beside her. Her cheeks shone with the sheen of tears. Her swollen eyes pools of empty despair. His belly contracted with an agonizing pain. I did this to her. I am my father’s son. “I am sorry.” It was the first time in the course of his life he’d uttered those words to anyone.

  She picked her head up and eyed him. “Why? Because I interrupted your evening’s entertainment? Or because I saw you with your lover?”

  “She is not my lover.” The denial ripped from his lungs. For it mattered that she knew that. For reasons he could not sort through in this jumbled moment.

  The cold emptiness in Genevieve’s eyes chilled him from the inside out. “How free you are with your touch then, my lord.” The bitter cynicism underscoring her words hit him with all the force of a kick to the gut. It spoke of a newly found jadedness that he was responsible for and he hated himself for it. “Regardless,” she said in weary tones. “There is nothing to apologize for. You never promised me more,” she said, looking beyond his shoulder. “I am wrong to ask for or expect anything more.” Her slight shuddery breath, the only crack in her remarkable composure.”

  He stiffened. She wanted nothing to do with him and with all deserved reasons, of course. “Are you saying you’ll deny me my rights as husband?” he demanded with a harshness that brought her head up. Lying in her arms, he felt a completeness he’d never before known.

  She gave him a sad smile. “Come, Cedric. You’re not truly my husband. Nor do you wish to be. You spend not even a handful of hours with me during the day and visit my bed. But that’s not truly special to you.” A soft, humorless laugh escaped her that ravaged at his insides. “No, you are the manner of man who engages in those acts with any woman—”

  “I was that man,” he cut in, his tone gravelly with emotion and the lie he’d told her…that she didn’t matter, or her ill-opinion didn’t matter, proved false, in this moment. “But I’ve not touched another woman since the day you stepped inside my father’s library.” From that moment she’d upended his world and he’d never been the same since.

  The long, graceful column of her throat moved. “Well, that isn’t altogether true, is it?”

  The baroness. His skin heated. “I will allow you, it was damning.”

  With effort, Genevieve pushed to a stand. Panic swelled. By God, did she intend to leave? He shoved to his feet, and positioned himself between her and the doorway.

  “Damning?” she asked in clipped tones, advancing toward him. “It was damning? You come to my bed, night after night. Make love to me, and then go and bestow your attentions on another?” With each word, she took a step closer, until they were a mere hairsbreadth apart. A healthy dose of outrage sparked in her previously devastated eyes and he preferred her this way; spitting and hissing to hurt a broken man. She jabbed him with a finger. “You’ve nothing to say?”

  For the fi
rst time in his life, he who was never without a clever retort came up—empty.

  A sound of disgust escaped his wife. “I have all but begged for your attentions. What a bloody fool you must have taken me for.”

  “Never.” The denial burst from his lungs. With her clever wit and stunning spirit she was unlike any he’d ever known. How could he desire anyone beyond her? And how had he failed to realize it—until now?

  “I actually insisted you take me to that party,” she continued with another little laugh, as though he hadn’t spoken. As though his contradiction was useless and mayhap it was for as little as he’d proven himself to her. “Why should you want me around this evening to interfere with your,” her lip peeled back in a sneer, “pleasures.”

  I am losing her. Panic rattled around his mind. “It was nothing more than an empty touch,” he said futilely. “She put my hand there.” A goddamn caress he’d not even wanted. As soon as the words left him, he winced.

  “Well, you certainly did not move it.” The fight went out of his wife as she passed another sad glance over his face. “And her touch would, no doubt, have been a good deal more if not for my poor timing,” she said in tired tones that spoke of a woman who’d given up on him.

  “It wouldn’t have,” he insisted. A cloying dread spiraled inside as she took a step around him. He shot a hand out. “Please.” Another never before word uttered, spoken for this woman. Only, he didn’t know what he pleaded for. Her forgiveness. For joining her to his worthless self. For who he was. For who he could never be.

  Genevieve stilled, but said nothing and with an intuitiveness that came from a place of knowing, realized what he said in this instant would determine so much of their future. There was so much to say and yet he had no idea where to even begin. “I am sorry you witnessed that display, tonight,” he said quietly. “I am sorry because it is an ugly, shameful world that you do not belong to, and I hate that you became part of it because of me. But I need you to know that I have not been unfaithful to my vows.” The irony of this was not lost on him; he, a caddish Falcot, pledging his fidelity.