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

by Christi Caldwell

  Mr. Pratt frowned, a dull flush staining his cheeks. “Forgive my brother for his—”

  His friend chuckled, cutting into the younger man’s apology. “I referred to your Miss Smith. Quite an interest—” He grunted. “Did you kick me?” The younger man glared in return. The two shared an unspoken, lengthy look, and then Webb sighed. “My brother is interested in the other lady.”

  The other lady? Daniel cocked his head. Who in blazes was the other lady they referred—?

  “Lady Alice,” Mr. Pratt put forward in solemn tones.

  Lady Alice? My sister? He rubbed his hands briefly over his ears. Surely he’d misheard the other man?

  “My brother wants to court your sister,” Webb interjected, confirming there was nothing, in fact, wrong with Daniel’s hearing.

  Both men stared at him. By their probing expressions, they sought a response. This was no bloody diversion from thoughts of Daphne. This was…well, the infernal rubbish he could do without. Society well-knew the Pratt family was in as dire financial straits as the Winterbournes. As second-son, Henry Pratt would have even less prospects and wealth than Webb. He wished to have Alice off his hands but into wealthy ones. Hands that could possibly benefit Daniel. Henry Pratt offered nothing to Daniel or Alice.

  Mr. Pratt coughed into his fist. “I am a barrister.” A barrister. In short, no wealth there. As though he’d followed Daniel’s drawn conclusion, he continued on a rush. “I have recently built my own business and, though Lady Alice certainly could and should marry a titled man,” a wealthy man., “I still seek permission to court her.”

  Daniel studied the eager-eyed, would-be suitor. Court her. An impoverished barrister without a farthing to his name? Nay, Alice would have a fat in the purse duke or marquess.

  Webb looked back and forth between them. “You can be free of the girl and free to carry on with the companion,” Webb reminded him with a cynical smile.

  Daniel’s fingers jerked and he knocked the crystal decanter over. Webb hopped to his feet, cursing softly, as the fine liquor spilled on the table and over the floor.

  “Bloody hell, Montfort,” Webb groused, while servants rushed over to tidy the mess. “A crime to waste good spirits.”

  At any other time, Daniel would have been in full agreement. He sighed and motioned for another bottle. Alas, such hopes of forgetting the minx now residing in his ramshackle townhouse were not to be.

  “Granted she is not your usual tastes,” Webb murmured as a servant came forward and set another bottle between them.

  Mr. Pratt again coughed into his hand. “We were discussing Lady Alice.”

  “She is my sister’s companion,” Daniel continued over the other man. A woman who wasn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with him and challenge him at every turn. Annoyance went through him at how easily she’d slipped back into his thoughts.

  “Yes, Lady Alice,” the tenacious barrister neatly slipped in. “The young woman whom I wish to—”

  The baron snorted and proceeded to pour himself a drink.

  What in blazes did that bloody snort mean? “What?” Daniel snapped.

  Webb kicked back on the hind legs of his chair and sipped his drink. “I would rather talk about the companion you’re tupping than the proper miss my brother wishes to court.”

  Daniel gnashed his teeth. “I am not tupping her,” he gritted out. I want to.

  Webb chuckled. “You never met a creature you wouldn’t bed.”

  Yes, that was true. So why did he want to bury his fist in the baron’s nose for that matter-of-fact statement? “This woman is different.” Even if he did want to make love to her until the words proper never left her lips again. Swiping his glass off the table, Daniel grimaced. By God, had he, in fact, uttered those words? And he, previously grateful for the other gentleman’s interruption, wanted to send him to the Devil with all his talk of—

  “Ah, of course. You do have more discriminating taste than to bed a cripple.”

  A seething haze of red rage descended over his vision. The tumbler cracked under the force of his grip.

  “Good God,” Webb groused as another stream of liquid poured onto the table. “You are already in your cups.”

  Actually, he had been nursing the same goddamn brandy for an hour, which if revealed or discovered would result in the demise of his reputation as whispered about reprobate. As such, he quite contentedly left the other man to his erroneously drawn opinion. “Get out,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “Both of you,” he said, directing that to the young barrister whose cheeks had gone ashen. At least the man had the sense his brother was missing.

  The baron scratched at his creased brow. “What?”

  A shadow fell over the table and they looked up. Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, Daniel’s closest friend, stood above them; the only figure between Webb and a bloody beating that would have seen him rid of his teeth.

  “Get out. I’m meeting with St. Albans,” he ordered.

  “Webb,” St. Albans greeted, as the baron rose to his feet with as much dignity as a man who’d just gotten ousted from the respective table. “Pratt.”

  Mr. Pratt reluctantly followed suit. Good, he was just as eager to be rid of the lovesick swain with designs upon Alice. The girl, at least, deserved a man with a fortune.

  “St. Albans,” the baron returned stiffly.

  The gentlemen traded places, with Lord Webb and his brother stalking off.

  “What was that about?” St. Albans drawled. Outside of Daphne, St. Albans had been the closest thing Daniel had known to a true friend. A friendship of which, after taking coin from the other man’s sire to ferret information back and forth between son and father, Daniel was wholly undeserving of. Still, he was a selfish enough bastard that he’d gladly be rid of Webb for the familiarity of St. Albans.

  “His presence grew tiresome,” he muttered. Infuriating. Tiresome. All the same thing. First the younger, untitled chap wanting to wed Alice and then Webb… He growled. A servant came forward with a glass.

  St. Albans held his hand up in declination and the liveried footman made to retreat.

  “I will take that,” Daniel mumbled, slipping the tumbler from the younger man’s hands. Pouring himself another glass, he looked at his friend. “Difficulty with the wedded state?”

  The other man offered a smile, one devoid of the sardonicism that had long been inherent in his grin. …That is not a smile, Daniel. That is an empty, dark expression that could never be disguised as anything good… “Anything but,” the marquess said softly. So that was the real smile Daphne spoke of. Who knew rakes, rogues, or scoundrels were capable of it? “Genevieve is expecting.”

  Kicking back on the legs of his chair, Daniel took a long swallow and then cradled his tumbler between his hands. “Expecting what?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

  “A babe.” Amusement curled St. Albans’ lips up at the corners. “We are expecting a babe.”

  His chair teetered forward and landed on its fours. The abrupt movement sent liquid splashing over the rim of his glass. “A child?”

  St. Albans chuckled. “You know, the manner of offspring born to the human sort.”

  As long as he’d known St. Albans, the other man had vowed to never become a father. With his own bastard of a sire, he’d commiserated, but Daniel had also well-accepted who he himself was. A useless rake, who killed all who loved him and, as such, he’d little need to ever propagate the world with heirs, bastards, or any other kind of babes. St. Albans’ father must be triumphant. “So the Duke of Ravenscourt has won after all,” he said slowly, giving his head a regretful shake.

  His friend folded his arms. “I rather believe Genevieve and I have won.”

  Those protestations didn’t fit with who St. Albans had been the whole of his life. “But, you never even wanted a bloody babe.”

  Another laugh rumbled from the marquess’ lips and he leaned forward to pat Daniel on his arm. “As I told you last summer, I love my wife. I
want a family with her. I expect someday you will—”

  “What has torn you away from such marital bliss?” he smoothly interjected. Rakes didn’t talk about matters of the heart. Hell, rakes didn’t even posses the bloody organs. “At this late hour.”

  St. Albans studied Daniel’s still nearly full decanter. Did he gauge how much he had consumed this evening? Yes, wedded bliss did odd things to a fellow. Swearing off brandy, smiling about babes… Daniel would sooner duel the Devil than walk that path. St. Albans fished around the inside of his jacket and tossed a thick ivory velum note onto the table. A familiar ivory velum. “I paid a visit to your residence, to see what the urgent matter requiring my assistance was, but found you, uh,” St. Albans winged an eyebrow up, “otherwise absent to discuss said urgent matter.”

  Daniel cursed. Of course. Yes, there’d been the note sent ’round because he did really require help. The second bloody person he’d been forced to turn to. Daphne’s flashing green eyes flitted through his vision and he swiped his glass up and took a drink.

  “I did wait, before your butler directed me here.” St. Albans paused. “Not Forbidden Pleasures.”

  “Not Forbidden Pleasures,” Daniel grumbled, recalling the urgent matter that had led to the missive. Or rather, the other urgent matter that was not his unwitting fascination with the fiery-tempered Daphne. At the other man’s questioning glance, he proceeded to inform him of Lord Claremont’s demands that had resulted in Daniel’s presence in the very proper club.

  “I see,” St. Albans murmured. “You can trust Genevieve and I will lend our support to Lady Alice.” How free the other man was with that generosity, when Daniel had betrayed his confidence all for some coin handed him by St. Albans’ father.

  An unexpected guilt knotted his belly. “Thank you.” He managed to force those two words out, when he used them sparingly to not at all.

  “We are friends,” the marquess said with a casual shrug.

  Of which, St. Albans was the far better one.

  The marquess drummed his fingertips on the table. “During my wait, I had the pleasure of meeting with Lady Alice.” Had the two ever met before that? Odd, Daniel had known St. Albans nearly the whole of his life and couldn’t recall such a meeting. “As well as her companion.”

  He stiffened, eyeing him warily. As a friend and rake, he’d no doubt view Daniel’s lust for the spirited woman on his person. Instead, St. Albans continued to drum a staccato beat on the smooth, mahogany surface. When it became apparent the other man intended to say nothing more on it, Daniel let some of the tension from his shoulders. “Miss Daphne Smith.” A long litany of black curses paraded through his mind. Of course, the other man wouldn’t let the matter rest. “Yes. Miss Smith.”

  “The same Miss Daphne Smith whom you were friends with as a child.”

  As St. Albans words were more a statement than anything. Daniel continued sipping away at his drink.

  “An interesting choice of a companion.”

  Did he imagine the suspicion underlying that casual observation? Daniel grunted. “It was mutually advantageous for the lady and me.” And he’d say nothing more on it to this man or anyone.

  His friend gave a casual nod. “Of course, you’ve never been one to do anything unless it was in some way beneficial to you.”

  Had there been rancor or condemnation, mayhap it would have been easier than St. Albans’ absolute pragmatism. Daniel set his jaw. “Yes, well, I must see Alice launched,” She is not a ship, Daniel. “Married off,” he corrected. “And the sooner she makes a match,” a worthwhile match. “the sooner—”

  “You may return to your debauched ways?” This time, the healthy dose of disappointment there, he met St. Albans’ eyes.

  “Precisely.” Daniel nodded and took another sip. He’d neither the time, care, nor inclination to indulge a censorious friend. Particularly one who’d spent more than a decade either rivaling or surpassing Daniel in the area of debauchery. He paused. And yet, he’d lived the whole of his adult life believing a rake could not be reformed—and certainly not happily. How singularly…odd to have St. Albans prove that long-held truth wrong. Unnerved, Daniel avoided the other man’s eyes.

  St. Albans remained quiet, looking about the crowded club, where gentlemen tossed away small fortunes all in a bid to feel something of life. “I am worried about you.”

  Daniel tightened his grip hard around his tumbler. “I assure you, there is nothing to worry about.” Which was a lie. His country estates were crumbling. Creditors frequently called. Possessions required liquidating. “My uncle has dangled a fortune above my head, enough to temporarily reform even the staunchest rake, if even for a Season.” The eight thousand would allow Daniel to carry on his depraved existence for several years. That thought should bring comfort. Instead, it heightened this odd restlessness churning in his gut.

  “I’m not worried about your finances,” St. Albans clarified.

  “Splendidly loyal friend, chap,” Daniel lifted his glass in mocking salute.

  “I worry, that you’re continuing down the same path to ruin.”

  At those charges, eerily reminiscent to Daphne’s, the lady’s sad, disapproving eyes and smile came to mind. He gritted his teeth. So there would be no forgetting Daphne Smith this day—or any day.

  How much easier it had been when everyone had quite accepted him as an unrepentant rake. Now, Daphne had reentered his life, challenging him, nay worse, expecting him to be the same boy she remembered from their past. And here was St. Albans, come to do the same.

  His patience snapped. Daniel planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward with such speed he spilled several droplets over the rim of his glass. “I do not need your worrying after me like a protective mama and I certainly do not require guidance on life from a man who lived the exact same existence for nearly his entire life,” he hissed, spoiling for a fight.

  “Of course.” St. Albans proved again the better man and Daniel’s annoyance stirred at that reminder. He’d far preferred it when they’d been equal in their rottenness. Remarkably cool, the marquess lifted his head in acknowledgement. “I will withhold my concerns, but trust Genevieve and I will support Lady Alice in any capacity she should require.” The other man pushed back his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m home to my wife.” He touched his fingertips to his forehead in a parting.

  Daniel stiffly nodded. “Thank—”

  “Again, there is no need to thank me. We are, after all, friends,” the marquess spoke in solemn tones, so vastly different than the ones he’d adopted as a carefree scoundrel.

  With that, St. Albans, reformed rake, took his leave. Daniel stared after him until he’d departed through the famous white doors at the front of the club. Then with a curse, Daniel tossed back the remainder of his drink and shoved to his feet. There was to be no peace anywhere. Not even his goddamned clubs, it would seem.

  His gaze found the long-case clock at the side of the room. At this hour, the enticing Miss Smith would be in her chambers, doing…whatever it is proper ladies did at this hour. Which was, no doubt, sleep. Daniel stalked through the club, ignoring the greetings called out. He accepted his cloak and hat from the servant at the front and then stepped outside, gathering the reins for his mount.

  He swung his leg over Satan and nudged the black gelding onward to his residence. He’d but a handful of months, at most, to suffer through proper clubs, dull events, and friendly lectures about his pursuit of wickedness. Alice would be wed, Daphne would be off for her post at the rotted finishing school, and he could continue doing what he’d done since he’d left university—nothing. Nothing, outside of whoring and carousing and drinking and wagering.

  He nudged Satan at a quicker clip, frowning into the darkened London night. There should be some relief in thinking of what awaited him…and yet, there was this queer hollowness. “What in blazes is wrong with you?” he muttered, as he reined in his mount outside his Mayfair residence. Exhaustion. Ennui. There was
no other accounting for it.

  He dismounted and a waiting servant rushed outside to collect the reins. Daniel handed them over and then took the steps two at a time, sailing through the front door. He tossed his hat to the butler. “Tanner,” he greeted and started for the stairway.

  Under Tanner’s bushy eyebrows, the butler’s eyes formed perfect circles. “You are retiring already, my lord?” the older man blurted.

  Daniel faltered and his neck went hot. “Uh, see that a bath is readied,” he ordered. With the slack-jawed servant staring after him, he redirected his footsteps to his office and his well-stocked sideboard.

  Couldn’t a gentleman retire at—Daniel fished around for his watch fob and consulted the timepiece—he choked. Ten in the evening? And with the request for a bath like some aged dowager? Daniel cringed. No wonder his butler had been shocked into insolence. Daniel had not taken to his chambers at this hour in…he searched his mind…well, ever. Not the naughty child who’d snuck around his family’s estates in the dead of night when none were the wiser. And not as a troublesome student at Eton and then Oxford. And most certainly never as a rake, living for his own amusements.

  Daniel continued a brisk clip for his office, when he caught sight of the faint glow of light stretching from the open library doorway. He slowed his steps and peeked around the doorframe. Daphne reclined on the leather button sofa with a book resting on the table across from her.

  Continue walking, Daniel Davidson Winterbourne. Continue walking…

  Except, Tanner really was correct. It really was entirely too early for a chap to retire. And no decent rake worth his salt would seek his rooms before his sister’s proper, often-reprimanding companion.

  Abandoning his previous plans, he lingered at the doorway, eyeing her.

  Chapter 10

  At ten o’clock in the evening, a proper spinster, serving as a young lady’s companion, would be tucked away inside her chambers.

  But then, Daphne wasn’t truly the proper lady that Daniel, and the world, took her to be. It was not, however, past wickedness that had her tucked away in the spacious library. Leaning against the arm of the leather button sofa, she stretched her arms forward and then winced as the knotted muscles clenched spasmodically.