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

by Christi Caldwell

He turned his lips up again, in a smooth, wolfish grin. “I still smile.”

  Sadness tugged at her heart. “That is not a smile, Daniel. That is an empty, dark expression that could never be disguised as anything good.”

  “And what of you, Daphne?” he challenged in hushed tones, while his sister slept on. “Have you not changed?”

  “I never said I did not,” she rebutted.

  He placed his hands on his knees and leaned across the bench. Her heart quickened as all the much needed space between them faded and his nose nearly brushed hers. “At least, I can still move the muscles, Miss Smith, which is a good deal more than I can say for your angry lips and your warning to my sister to stay away from wicked and wonderful pursuits.”

  “They are dangerous,” she said on a furious whisper.

  “Do you know what is dangerous?” he rebutted, his breath stirring her lips. God help her, she was a wanton still, for she wanted to close the distance between them and know their contour and feel in ways she never had. In ways she’d never truly known a man’s kiss.

  Oh, God. This is dangerous. She closed her eyes and gave her head a slight shake. He interpreted that desperate, silent appeal for sanity as an answer to his question.

  “Dangerous is never knowing pleasure. Dangerous is living with the worry of what other people think and, worse, caring about what they think, so that you lose every piece of you that is worth living. That is dangerous.” He opened his mouth but his words faded and his gaze fell to her mouth.

  Her too-full mouth.

  No doubt the ladies who’d known this man’s kiss had all been blessed with the bow-shaped ones captured in portraits and written of on the pages of sonnets. Not that she gave a jot what Daniel, or any man, thought of her mouth. Or her flawed, awkward body. He hooded his lashes and a smoky darkness filled his brown eyes.

  Oh, my God in heaven, he is going to kiss me.

  The carriage hit a jarring bump and tossed him against her. His chin knocked the top of her forehead and she winced as pain radiated from the point of contact. Her accelerated heart rate resumed its normal pacing.

  Daniel silently cursed. “Let me see,” he commanded, reaching a hand out to explore the sensitive skin of her brow.

  Daphne held up frantic, staying hands. “I am fine,” she assured, hastily backing away. Other than my momentary descent into madness where I craved your kiss.

  He probed along her right eyebrow. Her useless pulse pounded all the harder. How strong and sure his touch was. And how pathetic her reaction to him.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, swatting at him. Needing him to stop.

  “Don’t be a twaddle,” he muttered, continuing his search.

  …that isn’t the proper use of the word twaddle, Daniel…

  Her lips twitched. “That is not the proper use of twaddle.”

  …it should be…

  Daniel briefly shifted his attention from the slight knot forming at her brow to meet her gaze. “I know,” he reminded her and her heart started.

  Did he recall that long ago debate between two often competing children?

  He froze and then quickly yanked his hands back. “I trust you’ll survive your slight lump, Miss Smith,” he said, in his smooth, deep voice. One that resurrected the proper barriers where he was the rake and she the woman who knew far better than to trust the touch, words, kiss, or anything else of those gentlemen.

  Yet, as he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes once more, she could not account for the regret at the brief, happy recollection that had been so quickly shattered.

  By Lucifer and all his armies, he’d almost kissed her.

  Which really should not set off this rapid round of panic in his chest and certainly not shock. He’d stolen countless kisses from countless ladies. And yet, this was not just any woman.

  This was Daphne Smith. A lady in the truest sense. The manner of one who’d attended Sunday sermons and who, no doubt, still suffered through those infernal masses. The girl he’d swum naked with in a lake on his father’s property. Who’d hurled mud at his face and from whom he’d taken a fist to the nose countless times so she could properly learn to beat a boy…all to protect herself, of course.

  Except, with those long-forgotten remembrances, new ones whispered forward. Of this new, stern-faced Daphne with her crimson hair in that God-awful chignon. He tormented himself with the forbidden image of yanking the combs from those fiery locks and letting her hair cascade about them as she dove under the surface of that same lake, like a siren, luring him out to sea.

  He groaned and quickly converted it into a practiced snore. The spirited woman now dancing wickedly through his thoughts looked quickly in his direction. Suspicion clouded her eyes. The proper suspicion befitting any suitable companion.

  In selecting her as Alice’s companion, she’d proved the ideal choice to silence even his stodgy, always disapproving uncle. Proper. Respectable. Without scandal. She fit with everything his bastard of an uncle expected of someone serving in that role. She was also forbidden, given their history as childhood friends. And with her transformation into pinch-mouthed, disapproving miss, well, there were no worries of any lusting after a servant in his employ.

  Or there hadn’t been. Until he’d first noted those damned silver flecks in her eyes and her lush, full mouth which only conjured even more delectable, wicked, and the word she so feared, dangerous, images of all the pleasures he could know from that luscious mouth.

  He peered through his lashes once more and found the lady directing all her tense energy to the window. The stiff set to her lean, lithe frame was a contradiction of the full-figured beauties he’d long favored. The sight of her stern face reflected back in that crystal windowpane effectively doused all lust and restored his logic.

  He’d no interest in bedding an angry miss. And certainly not one who’d long ago punched him so hard in the nose, she’d driven him to cry. Humbling stuff, having been brought to tears… by a girl, no less. Yes, he quite preferred his women laughing, tempting, teasing, and well, in short, all things this harpy before him was not.

  She’d not always been like this. Then, they’d all been different in many ways, before life ultimately shaped them into the people they’d become. When had her happiness died, leaving in its place the cautious creature whose breath quickened at his glance alone? Had it been long ago, after that fall that shattered her leg and the physical perfection expected of their world? Or had it come later? With the death of a parent? Or a failed Season where no match had been made?

  Had those self-important lords in the market for a bride, been too consumed by the model of beauty that they’d failed to notice the lady?

  Eventually, with the passing moments, her shoulders sagged and she leaned against the side of the carriage. The soft rasp of her gentle, even breathing blended with the rumble of the wheels. She slept.

  His pretend bid at sleep over, Daniel opened his eyes and frowned. She’d had her Come Out and he’d been there, and not once had he seen her, or danced with her, or visited. It spoke to the emptiness of his soul that he’d been so enrapt in his own pleasures that he’d failed to visit a former friend come to London. Which would have been better for the lady, anyway. By that point, he was riddled with scandals, feared by protective mamas, and, as such, hardly the gentleman a gentile lady would either want or need about.

  He told himself that. And yet, studying her in her sleep, a sentiment he’d believed long dead stirred within him. Guilt was a sentiment he thought he was incapable of feeling or even recognizing. But he’d not always been a ruthless, self-serving bastard. He’d once been very much human and capable of hurting and loving and crying. He shuddered. All mulling, pathetic emotions. Daphne might resent his absence all those years ago and judge him for the empty smile he wore, but he was far safer now than he’d ever been before.

  He studied her as her head lolled back against the squabs, her face relaxed in her slumber. She’d spoken to his sister of the perils of
wickedness. Her unspoken words and disapproving eyes condemning the life he lived. When in truth, he’d achieved something that she still, by her warnings for Alice, strove toward—absolute unfeelingness. He knew carnal pleasures and lived for his own material comforts.

  He’d have it no other way. For the path she’d trod was a weary one and in the end, Daniel’s was the safer one. The one that would see him guarded from pain and loneliness. And Daphne Smith was free to the miserable course she’d set.

  Chapter 6

  That evening, after a long, miserably bumpy carriage ride without any volatile sparks or baiting conversations or dangerously seductive grins, they arrived in London.

  The air was dank and heavy. The clouds thicker. The sky darker. The streets stank like refuse that had sat too long in the summer sun. In short, it was everything Daphne remembered it to be. And given as much as she despised this town for the memories contained here, she was never more grateful to reach a destination.

  Not bothering to ring for help in changing her dusty garments, Daphne rested her cane alongside the nightstand. Her movements stiff and painful from a day of traveling, she sat down on the edge of her borrowed bed and slowly lowered herself onto her back. Closing her eyes, she stretched her arms above her head and reached the tips of her fingers toward the ceiling. A little moan escaped her lips as the tight muscles popped in protest.

  Society took a crippled lady as weak. Those low expectations found women and men like her without work, living a life where they constantly strove to demonstrate their worth or, worse, found themselves shut away in a hospital or asylum. She withdrew the scrap from her pocket and held it overhead. Her eyes automatically went to the center of the page.

  …Only those with a belief in the ideology and principle of the establishment, as well as experience and glowing references will be considered for employment…

  To present herself to the marchioness, with neither references nor experience, and make a plea for employment would be nothing more than an appeal to the gracious woman’s pity. Daphne would not be a charity case taken on, but rather a worker who’d earned a place within the respectable institution.

  A knock sounded at the door and she started, the scrap of paper falling from her fingers. Mayhap it had been another door. For surely after a long day of traveling, no one would request her presence now.

  Another knocking ensued. “Miss Smith, His Lordship requests your presence in his office.”

  Daphne scrubbed her hands up and down her face and made a small sound of protest in her throat. She’d been wrong. He would request her presence now, after a long day of traveling. Then, he was no friend to her. He was her employer and she a servant in his employ; a servant who sought to prove her capabilities, despite her injury.

  “Miss Smith?” the hesitancy in the maid’s query reached her ears.

  With a regretful sigh, Daphne grabbed her paper and stuffed it inside her pocket. She shoved herself onto her elbows. “I’ll be but a moment.” She angled her body left and then right. Then, biting her lower lip, she scooted to the edge of the bed and retrieved her cane. Settling it on the floor, she propelled herself to a stand. A small cry left her lips and she crumpled against the nightstand, knocking her hip into the sharp edge.

  “Miss Smith?” the maid called, a frantic worry underscoring those two words.

  Gritting her teeth through the strain, she counted her breaths until she trusted herself to speak. “I am all right,” she reassured. She took a step and agony shot from her foot up her thigh, to her hipbone, making a liar out of her. Pain had become such a part of her existence that long ago, she’d set aside self-pity. But still, on the occasional moment, regret slipped in that she did not move with the youthful grace she’d once known. The same languid, elegance Daniel still demonstrated with his every effortless movement. Perspiring from her exertions, she reached the door, and grabbed for the handle.

  She opened it to reveal Tessa, the same smiling, patiently waiting young servant who’d shown her abovestairs not even thirty minutes earlier. “Oh, there you are, Miss Smith.” The girl beamed. Her grin dipped as she took in Daphne’s cane. “Are you certain, you’re well? Should I tell His Lordship that you are unable to come down?”

  Daphne grinned wryly. “Do you expect it would make much of a difference to His Lordship, if I had you do that?”

  A little twinkle lit Tessa’s lovely hazel eyes. “No, ma’am, I rather expect it might not.” They shared a smile and a friendship was born. Motioning Daphne to follow, she started a path through the quiet corridors. It did not escape Daphne’s notice that Tessa moved with slow, precise steps, carefully looking over her shoulder to be sure Daphne followed. “Though in truth, it might matter,” the maid added belatedly. She hummed a discordant tune that Daphne vaguely recognized as A Fox May Steal Your Hens, Sir.

  Daphne looked questioningly at her.

  “His Lordship,” the girl clarified. “Not nasty like the last lord me and me mum worked for,” she whispered. “Doesn’t yell, doesn’t make his servants be quiet. So you’re free to sing.” Free to sing? With that, the young girl continued her humming of the old folk song, leaving her to puzzle through that slight but telling reveal about the manner of employer Daniel had become.

  The households she’d entered in her last foray into London had been stiff, formal affairs, with deferential servants who avoided gazes and certainly didn’t speak freely. Her lips pulled in a grudging smile. Of course, an unapologetic lord like Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, would rule his household with that same, free spirit.

  They reached the top of the stairwell and Daphne gripped the rail. She lowered her eyes. There were thirty-three stairs, certainly an odd number for any architect or builder to settle on for those marble steps. And she only knew as much because the only thing that had gotten her through the long climb not even thirty minutes prior was that counting.

  “Miss?” Tessa urged gently, springing her into movement.

  If she wished to spend her days working with girls and women inside Mrs. Belden’s or Ladies of Hope, she’d have to battle far more than thirty-three steps. Daphne placed a tentative foot forward and then step by agonizing step, made her way down. A small bead of sweat trickled from her brow and ran a trail down her cheek. Her skin itched and she paused to briefly wipe the moisture.

  Thirty-one.

  Thirty-two.

  And, thirty-three, that final, odd-numbered step. Feet settled on the white marble foyer, she thrilled at that small victory and proceeded to follow Tessa down the corridor.

  As a young woman ruined and humiliated by Lord Leopold, Daphne had spent years hating herself and her injury. The second son of a marquess, Lord Leopold had proven men craved proper wives who made expert hostesses and performed grand activities, like dancing or walking and only used broken, marred woman as a diversion to satisfy their sick curiosity. Regardless, she’d come to find peace with who she was. She aspired to far more than being a pretty arm ornament for a bored nobleman.

  “Here we are, miss,” Tessa murmured, bringing them to a stop outside a heavily paneled door. She knocked once.

  “Enter,” Daniel called distractedly.

  Tessa gave her an encouraging smile and pushed the door open. Daphne stepped inside.

  His jacket abandoned so it hung haphazardly over the back of his leather winged back chair, Daniel stood with his broad back to her, arms folded, and hands clasped behind him. He’d the look of a military general assessing his battlefield plans. Daphne wet her lips. She didn’t want to notice the way his biceps strained the fabric of his white lawn shirt or the shocking intimacy of him standing before her so. In fact, it would have been far easier had he grown into one of those boring, pompous lords who padded his waistcoats and doused himself in floral fragrance. But then, if he were one of those staid monocle-sporting figures, at his age, he’d even now have a proper wife and a passel of babes. There would be no need at all for a highly improper companion such as herself.


  A lady who’d proven herself all manner of corruptible and weak for a gentleman, a good deal less inspiring than Daniel.

  The door closed with a quiet click behind her and Daphne jumped, casting a single, longing last glance at that wood panel between her and freedom.

  “I require your help,” he announced, not even bothering to glance back.

  Required help? A gentleman who commanded a room and a person with such ease, needed no assistance from her in anything. He shot a questioning look over his shoulder and she cleared her throat. “You never liked asking for help.” They’d always been alike in that regard—two proud people refusing to humble themselves.

  Daniel flashed her a slanted grin. It pulled at that dimple in his right cheek, transforming him so easily into the always smiling boy he’d been, long, long ago. “Yes, well, it does speak to my desperation.”

  She thumped her cane once on the hardwood floor. “Desperation that required my presence summoned so soon after arriving?”

  “Absolutely.” Either he failed to note or care about the dryness of her inquiry. Daniel refocused his attentions forward. “It’s the bloody Season.”

  “You should not use that word,” she corrected automatically, limping forward.

  A rough snort left his lips. “You’ve used far more impressive curses than that one.”

  “Yes,” she muttered. “But I was a child.” Which wasn’t entirely true, as there’d been a nasty bunch she’d strung together about the man whom she’d thrown her reputation and future away for. And Mrs. Belden. And… Yes, she was still given to cursing. She’d sooner snip out her tongue than admit as much. She stopped alongside his desk and studied the parchments laid out before him. Daphne furrowed her brow. Alice’s Marital Plans. “What are these?” That was rather silly to even ask when he’d quite neatly titled the sheets.

  “They’re the plans to marry off Alice.”

  She’d found him wanting not even a day earlier for failing to ask the appropriate questions and discuss his sister’s entry into Society. How very humbling to see that for her hastily formed opinion, he had put some thought into it. Daphne perused the pages. Two pages, to be precise. Proper Balls. Cultured Activities. Of which he’d broadly listed the museum and opera.