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

by Christi Caldwell

  “She is an Edgerton,” she snapped. “And she cannot bear children.”

  He snorted and in one swallow, drained his glass. “That is a stretch, even for you, Mother,” he said, climbing to his feet. He crossed over to the sideboard. He poured himself another glass and returned to his seat. “The lady has two children, proof of that lie.” Even had there been truth to her claims, Miles would never allow such a detail to keep him from wedding a woman. He took another sip.

  “The lady has two daughters and no fewer than eight pregnancies.”

  He choked on his swallow. Eight pregnancies? Surely not. She could not be more than…five and twenty years. “Impossible,” he gritted out, disgust at the careless way in which his mother spoke of Philippa’s life.

  “Hardly impossible,” she continued relentlessly. “She lost her husband more babes than she birthed.”

  Her words slammed into him like a kick to the gut. He concentrated on his breathing to keep from thinking of artless Philippa, enduring agony after agony.

  “Nor did she have the decency to give the late earl an heir before his death.”

  The glass cracked under the pressure of his hand and he set it down carefully. Had his mother always been so singularly merciless in matters of marriage? Miles shoved back his chair so quickly, the legs scraped along the hardwood floor. He stalked over to the door.

  “Miles?” his mother called out. “Wherever are you going?” she called after him.

  “Out,” he bit out. And with all her ruthless pronouncement and unfavorable words, she could go to hell.

  Since she’d returned earlier from Hyde Park, Philippa had entered the townhouse more than half-expecting a barrage of questions from Chloe and furious admonishments over what had transpired between her and Miles. Seated in the parlor with Chloe and Jane reading from their copies of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s works, Philippa bounced Violet on her knee and it became apparent…her secret was her own. For now.

  She should be properly horrified. After all, she was proper. Yet, she could not bring herself to muster even a modicum of shame. How could she, when having failed to know even a glimmer of passion in the whole of her life? She’d been awakened to the fiery hungering that proved she was not incapable of that grand emotion. A small, secretive smile pulled at her lips and she dropped a kiss atop her daughter’s curls. Violet squirmed and she shifted Violet’s slight form in her arms.

  Mindful of her sister and sister-in-law reading in the chairs opposite, she sang softly.

  Sing a song of sixpence,

  A pocket full of rye.

  Four and twenty blackbirds,

  Baked in a pie.

  When the pie was opened,

  The birds began to sing;

  Wasn’t that a dainty dish,

  To set before the—?

  “The Marquess of Guilford to see Lady Winston.”

  Her voice cracked mid-note as she jerked her stare to the butler who stood framed in the room’s entrance. Silence resounded, as the three ladies looked with varying degrees of shock and surprise to the servant. Through the charged silence, Violet babbled and clapped her hands excitedly.

  Joseph cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. “Should I inform His Lordship, Her Ladyship is not receiving—?”

  “I’ll see him,” her frantic voice peeled around the room. Heat pricked her skin at the attention now trained on her. Shifting Violet’s body in her arms, Philippa climbed to her feet. “You may show His Lordship in,” she said with the remarkable composure she’d practiced through the years.

  As soon as the butler ducked out of the room, the ladies present sprang to action. Chloe hurried to collect the leather tomes scattered about the table. Jane rushed over to gather Violet. While the ladies set the room to rights, Chloe trained a questioning stare on Philippa.

  She warmed under that scrutiny. “It is hardly significant,” she said quickly. “I am sure he is simply here…” Her mind raced. Why was he here?

  Chloe winged an eyebrow up and stared back with a mature knowingness that defied her younger years.

  “Come along,” Jane urged, carrying Violet in her arms.

  With a smile, Chloe hurried out of the room after her sister-in-law.

  The knowing eyes of her family now gone, she pressed her palms to her cheeks. He was here. After their meeting in Hyde Park and their kiss, he should come here…now? To what end? Mayhap he intended to make her an indecent offer?

  She slid her eyes closed as a wave of heat went through her at the memory of his kiss. Why should that possibility both thrill her and fill her with an inexplicable disappointment? She was not the manner of woman who’d ever wished to marry again. She’d traveled along that perilous path. A powerful marquess, Miles would certainly require the requisite heir and a spare…things she could never give him, or any man. Not when her life would surely be forfeit from the perils of childbirth. As it was, she’d spent the bulk of her adult life pregnant. While Society had few expectations for a woman beyond birthing babes and advancing familial connections, Philippa longed to live for more.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and she slowed her rapidly spinning thoughts. Why should her mind go to marriage? Why, after but a handful of chance meetings…and a kiss…and the lesson he’d given her on how to skip rocks…and…

  “The Marquess of Guilford,” Joseph announced.

  Miles filled the doorway; his tall, muscle-hewn frame the manner of masculine perfection memorialized in stone. Her heart fluttered. “Miles,” she greeted as Joseph took his leave.

  He stepped deeper into the room, passing his gaze around the ivory parlor. “Philippa,” he murmured and clasped his hands at his back.

  She wet her lips as he wandered over to the window that overlooked the London streets. A volatile energy filled the room. Why is he here? Disquieted by the silence, Philippa cleared her throat. “Would you care for—?”

  “I regret that we were discovered,” he said, removing his gaze from the crystal windowpane. Regret that they’d been discovered; not that he’d kissed her. Such a slight, minor distinction and, yet, an important one.

  Except… She bunched the fabric of her skirts in her hands. “This is why you’ve come?”

  “In part,” he said quietly.

  Of course, as a gentleman he’d come to make his apologies. Annoyance unfurled within her. Resentment that he should express regrets for that moment and that a gentlemanly sense of honor had driven him here. “There is nothing to apologize for,” she said, letting her hands fall to her side. “I…” Heat scorched her body. Who knew one’s entire body was capable of blushing? And yet, for years of modesty, she owned that fiery exchange they’d shared earlier. “I wanted your kiss,” she said with resolve and she had passionately returned it.

  Desire glinted in his green eyes. Then faded. His thick, ginger lashes shielding his eyes, he took a step toward her. “If you were not a widow—”

  “But I am.” Bells chimed at the back of her mind. Surely he saw that very important distinction?

  “There would be expectations.”

  They would be married. Or she would be ruined. “But there isn’t,” she reminded him as he continued forward, his long legged stride eating away the distance.

  “I’ll not have your name sullied.”

  Her heart dipped. This is why he should come. Not to make apologies, but to hint at doing right by her. Frustration and regret warred inside, muddling her thoughts. She didn’t wish to ruin whatever bond they’d forged these past days with propriety and properness. He was the first man who’d ever truly spoken to her. Asked her questions. Listened to her answers and frustration. Now, he’d come and sully those moments with talk of regrets and decorum; those same empty, emotionless sentiments that had defined her life. A sound of frustration escaped her. “I am—”

  “A widow,” he said quietly. “I understand that. But you, matter. I’d not see you become prey to ill-intentioned rakes and scoundrels who desire nothing from you beyond th
e pleasure to be had in your arms.” Her heart tripped. In the whole of her life, she’d served a single purpose to so many—to marry a respectable gentleman. No one had stopped to say that she actually mattered. Her happiness. Her happiness, beyond any safety and security she might know. Philippa’s throat worked.

  “Is that why you are here?” she asked tentatively. “To do right by me?” She held her breath.

  He hesitated, caressing his gaze over her face. “And if I were to say yes?” There was a gruff quality to his question she could not identify.

  She looked past his shoulder to the curtained window he’d abandoned moments ago. The day her husband had died, she’d resolved to never, ever enter into one of those cold, empty unions. Not when, ultimately, the need gentlemen had for an heir to carry on their names could mean her certain death. What she’d not ever considered, known possible even, was that she was capable of feeling this maelstrom of wonderful, stirring emotions; desire, joy, serenity.

  Yet, how long could those sentiments survive when a man offered for a woman out of some misguided sense of honor? They couldn’t. A coldness stole through her.

  Miles brushed his knuckle down her cheek, bringing her eyes to meet his. She gave him a sad smile.

  “I was married six years.” He stilled his gentle caress; his hand frozen. “It was a good match by Society’s standards.” Her lips pulled in a sad smile. Title and rank, all that mattered to the ton. “We were a proper, respectable couple.” Philippa stepped away, mourning the loss of his touch as his hand fell to his side. She turned her palms up. “But I was not happy.” She bit her lower lip hard. “And I can never, won’t ever, marry again. So while your offer to do right by me is wonderfully noble, I must decline.”

  “Why?” his gruff question rumbled from deep in his chest.

  She opened her mouth.

  “Why were you unhappy?” he clarified.

  She drew in a shuddery breath and looked to the empty doorway. “I don’t…” Lords and ladies did not speak on these intimate matters. It wasn’t good manners to let people inside, to let one’s most closely guarded secrets come to light. But mayhap if she told him, then he’d understand why he needn’t stand before her even now speaking of propriety and every other useful Societal sentiment.

  “I served one purpose for my husband, Miles,” she said at last. After years of bitterness and heartache, she was able to give those words life without breaking inside. She wandered behind the upholstered sofa, putting much needed distance between them. “As a noblemen, you require heirs.” His expression darkened and, unable to take the potent emotion threatening to burn her, she directed her attention to the top of the sofa. She skimmed her fingertips over the satin fabric. “That was my husband’s sole use for me.” Philippa ceased her distracted movement and curled her hands tight over the top of the sofa. “The day he died,” she drew in a shuddery breath, “I was free.” That shameful, sinful whisper floated between them. “And I certainly will never marry again out of some gentleman’s misbegotten sense of honor and propriety. Not when I know what those unions inevitably become.”

  Miles strode around the sofa and stopped at her shoulder. “Not every marriage need be that way.”

  How very peculiar to witness a gentleman so very optimistic on the forever joining of two people. “Perhaps for some,” she whispered, lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Two of my siblings are happily married,” she acknowledged. A chill stole through her and she folded her arms and rubbed. For though her brothers had found love, her mother had found hell…as had Philippa. “I learned not only as a wife, but also as a daughter, the danger in any man having dominion over me.” She breathed slowly. “This is a hell I’d not ever dare suffer through again.”

  Something dark lit his eyes and he opened his mouth, when a loud squeal cut across whatever words he’d utter.

  “Miles!” Faith charged through the doorway and flew across the room. The boisterous girl skidded to a halt before him.

  There should be suitable horror at the outwardly display. And a year ago, even months ago, there would have been. The year since Calvin’s passing, her daughter had unfurled like a tight summer bloom, full of life and color, and she reveled in that beauty of her spirit.

  “Lady Faith,” Miles greeted with a grand bow that raised a giggle.

  “Did you bring my mama flowers?”

  Heat slapped her cheeks. “Faith,” she chided.

  “Did you?”

  Miles dropped to a knee. “I am afraid I failed to do so. It is a matter I must promise to rectify in the future.”

  Her daughter gave a pleased nod. “And remember, pick from the bottom of the stem, otherwise Mama cannot put them in a vase and they do need water.”

  “Of course.” He grinned. “Though I expect I might benefit from an additional lesson.”

  Oh, God. How wholly gentle and patient and kind he was with her daughter, when Faith’s own father hadn’t even wished to be bothered with talk of the girl. A sliver of her heart slipped free and fell forever into his unknowing hands.

  Faith prattled on. “It will have to be in the morning because I have my lessons with Miss Cynthia.”

  “Ah, but the best flowers are to be picked at night.”

  She giggled. “You are silly,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Everyone knows flowers sleep at night.”

  “Ah,” he said on a mysterious whisper, holding a finger up. “But not all flowers.” The husky quality of his words held Philippa enthralled and she was sucked into the words the way he surely intended. “There are moonflowers. Have you ever heard of them?”

  Her mouth rounded, Faith shook her head.

  “They are flowers,” Miles went on in hushed tones that effectively held her always-chatting daughter in silence. “That only bloom at night. They close during the day.”

  She flared her eyes. “You do know about flowers.” There was awe coating her high sing-song tone.

  He winked. “My sister enjoys gardening and sharing her knowledge with me.” Of course, Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford, would be one of those devoted brothers to attend his sisters’ interests. Her own brothers hadn’t wished to be bothered with her or Chloe and certainly not enough to listen if she spoke of flowers or anything else…

  Faith captured Miles’ face between her hands in a gesture so reserved for a loving daughter and devoted father that Philippa’s heart wrenched. “Then mayhap we will have to gather flowers at night, Miles. I would like to see them.”

  His hushed response was lost to her. Occasionally, Faith would nod and smile. Philippa captured her lower lip between her teeth and bit hard enough that the metallic tinge of blood filled her mouth. In this moment, she could almost convince herself that she and Faith and Violet could have those elusive gifts she’d long believed only fortunate ladies were lucky enough to receive.

  And standing there, watching him so wholly effortless with her daughter, the truth trickled in like a quick moving poison. This was why she could never, ever marry Miles even if he did ask. Which he hadn’t. A man so at ease around children deserved offspring of his own.

  Anguish weighted her chest and she drew in a ragged breath. And another. But it did not ease the vise about her lungs. Once upon a different time, when she’d been a young lady just out in London, optimistic with stars in her eyes, mayhap she could have met Miles and life would have belonged to them. They could have shaped a future together, different than the one she’d lived.

  But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d been introduced to Calvin.

  Yet, from her miserable marriage and for all her childbirths, she’d been blessed with Faith and Violet. She would never trade any of the agony of loss for those gifts.

  And it was because of that, Philippa could never give Miles more.

  Ever.

  Chapter 11

  Miles sat at his private table at the back corner of White’s, the same bottle of brandy he’d requested two hours earlier remained beside the untouche
d snifter.

  After he’d taken his leave of Philippa, her haunted eyes and insistent words echoed around his mind; consuming his thoughts. …I can never, ever marry again. Even if you wish to do right by me… He stared blankly out, unseeing the gentlemen seated about him.

  She’d endured a cold, emotionless marriage. Which was not vastly different than so many of the unions between lords and ladies.

  He’d never given proper thought to the expectations his mother put to him years earlier regarding Sybil Cunning. If they married, they would have a polite, companionable union. But was that enough?

  Just days prior, he would have answered with a definitive yes. Now, after seeing Philippa again for a fourth time, he’d been forced to reconsider the promise he’d made regarding Sybil. If it hadn’t been for Philippa, he would have not considered all the perils that came in wedding where one’s heart was not engaged. The haunted glimmer in Philippa’s eyes, the pain he saw there, ushered in questions and doubts. Could there ever truly be happiness in that staid, proper affair?

  Tamping down an agonized groan, Miles grabbed the bottle and poured himself several fingerfuls of liquor. He thought better of it and then filled his glass to the brim.

  He took a long, slow swallow, welcoming the sting as it burned a trail down his throat. But it did little to ease the pain weighting his chest. Her words hadn’t been restricted to the hell she’d lived as a wife, but she’d also spoken of suffering…at the hands of her father. And had her daughter not entered, he would have asked every last bloody question. Fury lanced through him; an unholy desire to drag her dead father and husband from the grave and kill them dead all over again. Was it a wonder the lady would be suspect of any gentleman’s motives? Himself included?

  “I believe this is the first time I can recall a scowl from the always affable Marquess of Guilford.”