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

by Christi Caldwell

  How many years he’d spent losing himself in wagering and attending mindless amusements, only to find out now on his thirtieth birthday, how absolutely meaningless it had all been.

  There were no true friends. There was not, nor had there ever been, a true purpose to his life beyond his pleasure. What a meaningless existence he’d lived. He’d dwelled in shadows and never realized it, until the sun had shone on him and then left, leaving him in darkness once more.

  A pressure weighted his chest. It was a familiar tightening that had neither dulled nor died, in the weeks since Genevieve had left. To give his hands something to do, Cedric swiped his glass and swirled the contents in a small circle.

  What an absolute muck he’d made of his life. He’d had happiness laid out before him; a gift that had stepped into his private sanctuary. Never had he truly appreciated the extent of just how Genevieve had filled his life. She’d awakened him to what it meant to live and laugh. And in the span of one careless night, he’d thrown it all away.

  “Care for company?”

  He stiffened and looked up with a detached surprise. Since discovering the other man’s betrayal, he’d not seen a glimpse of him. Nor had he given a jot for seeing him. There was but one person whose absence had left a hole in his heart—and she was gone. In a deliberately dismissive gesture, Cedric returned his gaze to his brandy.

  Montfort didn’t wait for permission, but slid into the empty seat. “If anyone had said even months ago that I’d be in White’s with you seated across from me, I’d say they were cracked in the head,” the man muttered. He spoke with the carefree ease of a man whose friendship went back to boyhood.

  And perhaps it was the misery that came from being alone with torturous thoughts about the one woman who would never belong to him, even with the ultimate irony of their names being irrevocably interlinked. Or perhaps it was the absolute silence he’d lived in since her parting. Or mayhap it was that it was his birthday, a day not a single person gave a jot about, and he spent it alone.

  Grudgingly, Cedric shoved his bottle across the table and motioned for a footman. The liveried servant rushed over with a glass and then bowing, he backed away.

  In a remarkable show of constraint, Montfort poured himself a glass and remained silent. Once more, Cedric returned to skimming his bored gaze over the guests scattered about the club. Nearly the end of the Season, many of the respectable members had already rushed off for the countryside, leaving only the most dissolute reprobates who dragged their proverbial heels, all to keep the mindless amusements of the London Season alive.

  …The sky is bluer and when you lay on the grass and stare up at the sky you see nothing but an endless blue, so that you think you can stretch your fingers up and touch the heavens…

  He closed his eyes a moment and when he opened them, Montfort was staring back. “I am leaving for Somerset this weekend. The summer hunt and all.” Montfort winged an eyebrow up. “Would you care to join?”

  The only thing borrowed of respectability for the earl’s hunts was, in fact, the name itself. Members of the ton well knew the scandalous affair hosted by Montfort each summer. Just a year ago, there had been no question of whether Cedric would have been in attendance. Where else would he be? Now, regret stuck like a thousand dull blades at the remembrance of the last wicked affair he’d attended. “I am afraid, I’m otherwise occupied.” He inclined his head.

  Montfort sipped his drink. “You are certain? I am to have some inventive—”

  “Quite,” he easily interjected.

  The earl quirked his lips up in a half-grin and gave his head a slow, wry shake. “By damn, I never thought I would have seen it. It was a wager I’d have staked the rest of my meager coffers on.”

  Cedric looked quizzically back.

  “The day the Marquess of St. Albans fell in love.” A mottled flush stained the earl’s cheeks and he swiftly yanked at his cravat.

  Of course, rakes didn’t fall in love and they certainly didn’t discuss that sentiment written in sonnets and songs. “Some ladies are worth giving up all for.” He fisted his glass hard. Only he hadn’t given anything up. He’d continued to live his nights as a bachelor. Yes, there had never been another woman since he’d made Genevieve his wife, but he’d carried on separately. Because I was a coward. Ultimately, he’d always known he would hurt her. “You’ll find that someday.”

  The earl choked on his drink. “Yes, well, taking in your state,” he motioned to Cedric. “Morose and miserable, old fellow… I’m quite content to carry on with an equally base lady who wants nothing more than pleasure in my arms.”

  Yes, there had been a time when he had thought that very same thing. He’d craved an emotionless, empty entanglement and offered nothing more than that. He’d offered Genevieve her freedom to carry on as she wished and with whom she wished. Then, in a display of the utmost irony that the devil himself would have found hilarity in, Cedric wanted a life with her—a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. He swirled the contents of his drink.

  “Will you retire to the country for the summer?”

  He’d not given much thought to where he’d go or what he’d do. He’d given no thought to anything but Genevieve. “I’ve not decided,” he said at last. He thought to a discussion, too long ago.

  …It’s hard to approve of wagering. Particular wagering that sees a man divested of his properties…

  There had never been anything honorable about him. Even his half-hearted attempts to restore that property to rights, were merely an extension of the shiftless life he’d lived.

  Montfort finished his drink and set it down on the table.

  Cedric motioned to the bottle but the other man waved him off. “I am going to visit Forbidden Pleasures.” He stole a glance about. “Being in this place is like being in Sunday sermons.”

  A wry smile pulled at Cedric’s lips. Not long ago, he’d have been of the exact mindset.

  “Will you join me?” Montfort offered as he pushed back his seat.

  He waved his hand. “You go on without me.” His days of disreputable clubs were at an end. The wickedness found in those hells had once provided a diversion from the tedium of an otherwise empty life. No longer.

  His friend hesitated. For even with his betrayal, and even as Cedric would forever be wary of his loyalty, desperation made a man do rash things…and they went back years to some of the loneliest of Cedric’s life. “Happy Birthday, chap.”

  He mustered a smile.

  The earl stood, but did not leave. He hovered at the edge of the table. “For what it is worth,” he said, clearing his throat. “I am sorry for betraying you.” He gave a lopsided grin. “But then, mayhap you should thank me if you do love the lady?”

  The words hit him like a punch to the belly. Yes, if it hadn’t been for his father and Montfort’s machinations, even now Genevieve would be wed to the ancient, doddering Tremaine. Or mayhap it would have been another… Mayhap it would have been a gentleman who’d seen past her scandal to her beauty, wit and worth. And God rot his soul for the bastard he was, Cedric was selfish enough to find relief in her belonging to him, instead—if even, just name. “It is fine,” he managed to say. He’d spent his life hating his father and in the end, in the greatest twist, the Duke of Ravenscourt with his maneuverings was responsible for the only happiness Cedric had ever truly known.

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to—”

  “I am certain,” he cut in. For the unexpected had happened. He’d been tamed, won, and enchanted enough so that all those amusements held no appeal.

  Montfort dropped a bow and then wandered off. Cedric stared at his retreat and then resumed his study of the glass in his hands. He existed in this peculiar limbo of life. In the three weeks since Genevieve had left, not a moment of his day was spent not thinking of her. Is she happy? Is she sketching? Did she miss him?

  He thrust aside the pondering, even now. She’d been quite clear when she’d ordered him away, that anything s
he’d felt for him, nay, the love she’d carried, had died. So when he readied Wicked to set out after her, he’d promptly climbed down. He’d been a selfish bastard since the moment she’d exploded into his world. In this, he would make the ultimate sacrifice—giving her freedom…from even him. After all, why should she want him? What had he brought her, other than heartache?

  Then, he’d never been a very good person to anyone. He’d never put another person before himself. Setting down his drink, he came to his feet and made his way through White’s. He absently inclined his head in greetings for the respectable lords who raised their hands.

  The servant at the front drew the door open and, with a murmur of thanks, he stepped outside. Collecting the reins of his mount from a waiting street urchin, Cedric turned over a purse with a small fortune in it for the youth and froze. The green of the lad’s eyes and the ginger crop of curls tucked under his cap, held him suspended, as he envisioned another child. A child who’d almost been, but would now never be. A child he’d never wanted. Pain cleaved his heart, raw and real, and agonizing for it.

  “Guv’nor?”

  Cedric gave his head a clearing shake. “Many thanks,” he said gruffly and released the purse. The boy peered inside. His eyes made round moons. As though fearing Cedric would change his mind, he sprinted away. Swinging up into his saddle, Cedric nudged his mount onward. What a muck he’d made of his life. Only, he’d bumbled it all since he’d been a boy. He’d been a miserable brother and had proven an even lousier husband and son. He continued riding through the fashionable streets of London he’d long avoided, onward until he came to a pink stucco townhouse on Mayfair.

  Two black lacquer carriages sat outside the posh residence. Servants bustled back and forth from the home to the conveyance, loading trunks atop.

  Without thinking, he dismounted and motioned over a young boy. A new lad with shades of red in his hair rushed over. Another spasm wracked Cedric’s heart. She was everywhere, in every child he’d meet. This was to be his penance for a lifetime of sins; this great, gaping loss and a forever reminder of it in the faces of even small strangers. “I’ll be but a short while,” he said, reaching for a coin. “There will be more,” he promised. As he slowly made his way up the steps, servants stepped around him.

  Almost reflexively, he knocked once and stared at the wood panel. What am I doing here?

  He gave his head a shake and turned to go, just as the door opened. “My lord?” the butler inquired at his back.

  Cedric wheeled slowly around. “I…” His neck heated. He’d never stepped foot inside these doors. It spoke volumes of the manner of man he was. He’d been too busy living for his own pleasures.

  The servant stared inquiringly at him.

  With wooden movements, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a calling card. “The Marquess of St. Albans to see Her Ladyship.”

  The butler of middling years accepted it. A flare of surprise widened his eyes, which he quickly concealed. He motioned Cedric forward.

  Even in the folds of his gloves, Cedric’s palms moistened. He’d no place here. For that matter, why had he even come? Was there a sort of absolution he sought? One he’d never be deserving of? “Forgive me,” he said quietly, and pivoted. “I—”

  “Cedric?”

  He froze, his skin heating as he spun about. His sister stood at the end of the corridor, her head cocked at a small angle. Shock marked the planes of her face. Their mother’s face. She was her image, in every way. While he, he was their father. He cleared his throat. “Clarisse. Forgive me. I should not have arrived unannounced.” At all. He shouldn’t have come at all. There was no accounting for his visit. Furthermore, why should she even want to see him?

  She held her arms out. At that subtle movement, the fabric tightened over the front of her gown revealing a slightly rounded belly. And a wave of unexpected agony assaulted his senses, sucking away logic, leaving him standing there in a world of remembered horror. Genevieve’s blood. The muffled sound of her weeping as he’d sat outside her chambers and tortured himself with every blasted sound of her misery. “Come,” his sister said with a surprising gentleness that brought his eyes open.

  He blinked several times. “I have to leave.” His voice emerged as a faint whisper.

  Clarisse moved over in a flurry of satin skirts. “You can visit for a bit,” she said gently, but a steely strength underscored her words.

  “I see you are leaving.”

  “For the country,” she said with a nod. “But we are not to depart for several hours. Come,” she urged.

  His sister fixed a benevolent look on him. Cedric’s feet twitched with a panicky urge to flee.

  “Come,” she repeated.

  Wordlessly, he followed at her side as she guided him to an empty parlor. He followed behind her and paused. Several easels had been set up about the room, close to the floor-length windows. Drawn to the colorful paintings, he strode past Clarisse as she claimed a seat on a pink upholstered sofa.

  He eyed a painting of a small urn of colorful blooms. It spoke volumes that he’d failed to know all these years that his sister, too, had a love of art. By the work tacked to those easels, she was quite good. He clasped his hands at his back and moved on to the next, riveted by the pale blue, summer sky. Soft, white clouds filled the canvas and he leaned forward, sucked back to another moment.

  …The sky is bluer and when you lay on the grass and stare up at the sky you see nothing but an endless blue, so that you think you can stretch your fingers up and touch the heavens…

  “Would you care for refreshments?” his sister asked and he spun about.

  “Refreshments?” At her nod, he shook his head and returned his study to that summer landscape. He dipped his head once again and then wandered over to another easel. A winter storm raged on the canvas. Tree branches heavy with snow hung low and at the center of it was a couple, cloaked in their winter garments. He peered at the man and woman; their bodies close, but their faces remained concealed. How similar he was to the pair trapped in a storm raging about. Cold in ways that he’d never be properly warmed.

  Registering the silence, he abandoned his examination of the painting. “Did you paint these?” he asked, as he strode over to a nearby gilt rimmed arm chair and settled into the seat.

  “I did.” She eyed his movements.

  “You’re quite good.”

  “Thank you.” A small smile hovered on her lips, but for that faint expression, she revealed none of what she was thinking. Then, all the Falcots had long proven themselves masters of their emotions.

  Cedric layered his palms to the arms of the chair and drummed his fingers while looking about the room. How little time he’d spent learning anything but his own interests these years. A sad day, indeed, when one at last confronted the manner of person he truly had been all these years.

  …You need to figure out who you want to be…

  Clarisse cleared her throat and he ceased tapping, glancing over to where she sat. “I do not believe you’ve come today to discuss my artwork,” she ventured.

  “No.” Except he didn’t know why he had come this day. He looked over the top of Clarisse’s head. He said nothing for a long, long while, searching for words. “I was a rather miserable brother, wasn’t I?” he spoke more to himself. It said much about his sister’s character that she did not simply concur with his obviously true statement. How much of his life would he gladly redo? Only there was no changing the hands of time. There was no righting past wrongs. There was just this empty acceptance of who he’d been and all that he would never have from life because of it.

  “You were certainly not the most devoted,” she said softly, jerking his attention to her face. He expected to see disgust, even loathing, in her pale blue eyes. Instead, there was—forgiveness. For him? He scoffed. Surely not.

  “That is being generous,” he muttered.

  A smile twitched on her lips. “Yes, it is.”

  He flinched. That he
was deserving of. “I came to apologize.” It was harder to say who was more shocked by his pronouncement; his sister or Cedric himself. Her lips parted on a small moue. “I’m not so much a fool that I believe an apology can right the lifetime of wrongs.” Genevieve slipped in and agony bore him down, momentarily sucking away his breath.

  “You are forgiven.”

  How quickly she spoke. Surely there had been a lifetime of loathing from her; deserved loathing. He’d not been the devoted brother to protect her from unwanted suitors. Hell, he couldn’t even recall her having a Season. She’d been married off so hurriedly… He balled his hands. No doubt, her union had been forced upon her and he’d not even given a thought to her happiness or that she’d be forever bound to a man. He couldn’t be bothered over whether she’d be safe and loved and cared for at that man’s hands. “Your husband is good to you?” he asked gruffly, more than half-fearing her answer.

  Surprise shone in Clarisse’s eyes. “William?” Her eyes took on a wistful, far-off quality. “We are quite in love.”

  A vicious envy ripped at his insides, proving, once more, the selfish bastard he was. He shook his head.

  His sister shifted. Was she as uncomfortable with talk of emotion and past mistakes? What strangers they were. Then, he had quite expertly shut everyone out in the ways that mattered. “I read…” She promptly grimaced. “That Genevieve has gone.”

  Not gone. “Yes,” he said in hollow tones. Left. “She left.” Three weeks, twelve hours, and…he looked to the long-case clock across the room…twenty-three minutes ago.

  “I am sorry,” Clarisse said softly.

  “Yes, well.” He tugged his gloves off and beat them together. For really, what else was there to say? He could hardly admit that every day it felt as though his heart was dying. How he woke up, avoiding any room his wife had been in because the memory of her was so strong that her laughter still echoed around his mind. “No one to blame but myself,” he said to himself. He’d been the one to attend Montfort’s and… that was really just only the tip of the sins of which Cedric was guilty. His skin pricked with the directness of his sister’s stare trained on him. Unnerved by that focus, he managed a lopsided grin. “In the end, I’m very much our father, aren’t I?”