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

by Christi Caldwell

  Aria hopped to her feet. “Mother. Papa,” she greeted, with a cheerful wave. “I take it you are here to discuss the Christmastide plans—”

  “Get out,” Mother ordered.

  God love Aria for her loyalty. Instead of immediately scuttling off as any servant or peer would do when presented with the shrewish viscountess, she lingered, giving Sybil’s fingers a slight squeeze. “Know your own happiness,” she whispered Mrs. Austen’s words.

  “Aria,” their mother said brusquely.

  With a wink, her sister beat a slow retreat, pausing beside her father. “Papa?” she greeted, as though they met in a formal parlor.

  “Hullo, my dear—”

  “Lord Lovell,” the viscountess cried out in an unexpected snap of her composure. Father and daughter gave another discreet wink before Aria skipped off, leaving Sybil—alone.

  It wasn’t truly alone. Papa was here. Of course, Papa was no match for his wife. No one was. Slowly shifting her hands and the damning page behind her back, Sybil donned one of those practiced smile. “Mother. Papa.”

  “This is what you’d say?” her mother barked, rushing forward. She stopped and cast a look over in her husband’s direction. “This is where you are to say something, Archie.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, of course,” he said belatedly. “We are most concerned.”

  “Gravely concerned, Archie. Gravely concerned,” his wife wailed, dropping her head into her hands.

  And if the topic of discussion was not, in fact, Sybil’s own precarious-for-now life, she would have found mirth in this farcical-like exchange between husband and wife. How had two such opposite souls been joined? She’d always assumed that theirs had been one of those formal arrangements coordinated between powerful families.

  Now, after knowing Nolan, she looked at life through new lenses. Saw the Chinese philosophy she’d spoken to him of. Mayhap, her parents, too, were seemingly opposite but when together, complemented one another.

  “Are you listening to me, Sybil Holly?” her mother demanded, snapping into that musing.

  “Uh…”

  “She is woolgathering, my lord. Oh, it can only mean that it is true.” The viscountess wrung her hands together and a rush of tears flooded her eyes.

  Sybil recoiled. Was her mother…crying? The closest in the whole of her life she’d seen the viscountess moved to such grief was the day her godson had chosen to wed Philippa Gage, Lady Winston, over her. That, ironically, had also been one of the most freeing moments in Sybil’s then eight and twenty years. Oh, this was dire, indeed.

  “There, there, Alaina,” he offered in gentling tones, patting his wife in the greatest display of affection Sybil had ever witnessed between them. She blinked several times. Had she stepped into an alternative existence?

  All moisture immediately dried from the viscountess’ eyes and the world righted itself, once more. “You’re marrying—”

  “No,” Sybil interrupted.

  “—the baron.”

  He’d not offered, nor had he given any indication that he wished for anything more with her than the agreement they’d struck.

  “Have you met him alone, Sybil Holly?”

  Nearly thirty years of age, she’d not be made to lie to her displeased—furious—mother. She met that demand with stony silence.

  The viscountess tossed her hands up and did something she’d never done in the whole of Sybil’s existence. She looked imploringly at her husband. When finding no assistance there, she made another appeal to Sybil. “Notes have been passed between you.” From him. “If Society learns you’ve exchanged intimate correspondence and met the gentleman, you are forever ruined.”

  “I love you,” Sybil said softly. “And I know you mean to protect me, Mother. But I’ll not demand he marry me.” She’d not have Nolan like that.

  Her mother let loose another exasperated cry.

  “Will you excuse us, my Lovell.”

  My Lovell. Sybil started. Odd, how she’d forgotten until that quiet murmur from her father that gentle term of endearment he’d used. She’d focused so much on her mother’s haranguing and gossiping ways that she’d failed to see there was, indeed, a modicum of warmth between her parents. Mayhap, even more.

  Husband and wife exchanged a look. Some unspoken language was shared. “Lord Lovell,” Mother said stiffly and, eyes forward, she marched from the room.

  Father strolled over. “This is the part where I’m to tell you that you must marry the baron or you’ll be turned out forevermore, without home or family ever in your life.”

  Her lips twitched. “You could not do that, Papa.” Mother, mayhap. But never Father.

  “No,” he whispered. “And despite her blustering, neither would your mother.” He followed that up with a wink. “Must have a care. She’s surely listening at the door.” Her loyal father drummed his fingertips together. “Have you gone off meeting a gentleman, Sybil Holly?”

  She hesitated and then nodded. This was, after all, her father.

  He sighed. “Do I have reason to call him out as your mother informs me I must?”

  If her situation weren’t so dire she’d have managed a laugh at the idea of her monocle-wearing father, with ink-stained fingers, trying to work the handle of a pistol as he faced an athletic Nolan at dawn. “Nothing untoward happened,” she assured him.

  “Eh, gel. I heard the pause there.”

  Heat bathed her cheeks. “Nothing happened,” she repeated, fiddling with the scrap of paper in her hands. For with the exception of one stolen kiss that left her breathless still, there had been none of those scandalous embraces that saw couples hastily wed. Only, the moments she’d shared with Nolan, beyond that, had been more intimate than any touch or kiss. Restless, she wandered over to the fireplace and, with her back to her father, she unfolded the note. “But I wished that it might have,” she said softly, her voice faintly cracking. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was conducting research, determining whether I’d be truly content as a spinster.”

  “You wouldn’t be,” her father correctly surmised.

  No. The muscles of her throat bobbed painfully. It was a foolish research of a topic she was better off never having the answer to. But now she did. She wanted a life not only of learning, but of love and laughter—which she’d known more of these past five days than the whole of her life. “It was never anything more than an assignment to him,” she said softly. It was why she’d never, ever dare allow either of her parents or any of Society to put demands to him. “You may tell Mother as much.” And she had, in her plans that involved Nolan, unwittingly used his vulnerabilities against him for her own selfish reasons. Shame squeezed like a vise about her insides. I must set him free. In every way. She tossed the note into the fire and watched as the flames licked at the edges, curling them, and then it was consumed in a great red blaze that fanned the fire. Sybil drew in a shuddery breath.

  “Mayhap, this gent loves you,” her father said with his usual gentle optimism. His footsteps indicated he’d moved close.

  A sad smile pulled at her lips. “The only reason Nolan…” She grimaced. “…the baron met with me was because I paid him to do so. He’ll not give me another thought after this day.” She caught the hard mantel and curled her fingers around the wood. “And it would be wrong for either of us to be wed because Society might find out that we met. When the reality is, we only met because I paid him.” But how she wished in one of her many Seasons, the affable, charming Nolan Pratt, Baron Webb, had seen her. Not because she’d forced herself upon him and begged a favor with coin and the logic that she prided herself on.

  “Ah, Sybil.” Her father settled his hands on her shoulders. “Do you know, there isn’t a gent who can hold a candle to your cleverness?”

  And what had that gotten her? No friends. No suitors. No husband and family of her own. She thrust aside that self-pitying. For she didn’t want just any gentleman. She wanted Nolan, who’d taught her that possessing a mind and feel
ing beautiful were not mutually exclusive. “Knowledge makes for a lonely bedfellow.”

  Her father snorted. “I’d rather not think of you with any bedfellow, poppet.”

  A sad little laugh shook her frame. “Oh, Papa.” And because it was tearing at her heart thinking of Nolan and what would never be, she fixed on another, in this instance, far safer discussion. “Mother will be liv—”

  He patted her cheek. “Do not worry after your mother. I will handle the viscountess.”

  As he took his leave and closed the door behind him, Sybil wished he was the all-powerful father she’d always seen as larger than life who could put together the pieces of her broken heart.

  Chapter 12

  Nolan was a man who lived for his own comforts. As such, not a single member of the ton, and certainly not the rakes he called friends, would ever dare believe he’d even now be braving the frigid winter cold instead of the comforts of his clubs…or some whore’s bed.

  At the edge of Kensington Gardens, with his mount loosely tied to a nearby oak, Nolan, in a bid to bring warmth back into his limbs, paced a steady path over the snow-covered path. Except, after knowing Sybil Cunning, the idea of being with or seducing any of those jaded creatures left him disgusted with the very thought of them. For with every woman before her, his exchanges had been nothing more than carnal. Two deeply unfulfilled people, finding a fleeting bliss, that as soon as it faded, left in its place a deeper, darker hole of emptiness.

  He’d shared his body and prowess with those women, but had never shared a single, meaningful part of himself. Until Sybil. He sucked in a slow breath.

  For just as she’d accurately predicted, he was far less the rake Society took him for, because he didn’t want a meaningless entanglement with her. He wanted…he wanted…

  What do I want?

  “Enough,” he muttered. This was not, nor had it ever been about what he wanted. It was about what she had hired him to do. It was research conducted by his clever bluestocking—a clever bluestocking—not his. She was his nothing. But I want her to be… Regret wadded in his throat.

  He yanked his hat off and beat it against his leg, trying to drum the confounded thoughts from his head. “Mad, I am utterly mad.”

  “If you are mad, then I fear my daughter is, as well, because she has a habit of speaking aloud to herself.”

  Jerked from his tumultuous musings, Nolan spun around. And then the stranger’s words registered. His daughter…

  He took in the wizened gentleman’s brown eyes. Familiar brown eyes. And knew. Sybil’s father. Any gentleman would demand a scoundrel like him do right by his daughter. He braced for the onslaught of horror over the implications of this meeting. That did not come. “My lord,” he greeted cautiously, as the tall, gaunt gentleman strode closer.

  The viscount ignored that attempt at pleasantries and, fiddling with a monocle, lifted it to his eye. He grunted and let the piece fall. “You’re him, then.”

  “Him?”

  “Bah,” the viscount snorted, slashing the air with a hand. “First, it wasn’t a question. Second, don’t take me for a lackwit. You’re the boy who has been meeting my daughter.”

  If Nolan were a proper rake, he’d slip forward an effortless lie. If he was one of those wicked ones beyond redemption he’d spoken to Sybil of, he’d have mentioned it was the viscount’s daughter who’d, in fact, approached him. But he could not do that. Not to Sybil. He’d not betray her in that way. “I am,” he offered, instead, unable to quell a small smile. When was the last time he’d been called a boy?

  The viscount gave him another once over with his quizzing glass. “Humph.” No doubt, he looked at the scoundrel meeting his daughter alone on a riding path and saw his worthlessness. “You’re the rake, Webb.”

  “The same,” he said and, by God, of all surprises, Nolan’s cheeks went hot. Even in this damned cold.

  “You aren’t much of one if you’re caught sending ’round a note,” he accurately pointed out.

  Yes, it was a mistake that had been careless and, worse, arrogant. Alas, he’d learned too late that “The Amphitheatre” had been closed for the holiday season and he had to change the plans he’d shared with Sybil.

  Clasping his hands behind him, the viscount looked out at the Serpentine in the distance. “My wife sent me here to duel you.”

  Nolan stiffened.

  Sybil’s father glanced over with a twinkle in his eyes. “Or, to call you out.”

  “You should.” He’d kissed Sybil and escorted her about London, risking her reputation at every turn. If he were a proper rake, he wouldn’t care…but he did. Very much. The truth staggered him.

  The viscount contemplated him the way Nolan suspected he did the flora and fauna collection Sybil had spoken of. “I was of an opinion that you’d not behaved untowardly with my daughter.” He spoke like a scholar picking through facts. “Was I wrong?”

  “I met her numerous times, putting her reputation at risk,” he hedged. “That should be enough.” And it would be for all of Society.

  All of Society except for this man. What was it with the Cunnings who would not accept Nolan for the rake Society comfortably saw?

  The viscount scoffed. “I’d not face a man at dawn for simply meeting with my daughter,” he said trustingly, too trustingly. If the roles had been reversed, and it was his own daughter sneaking off with a rake, Nolan would have gladly put a bullet in the bounder’s heart. The older man chuckled. “Nor do I think I’d stand much of a chance across the dueling field with a young buck like you.” Sybil’s father fished around inside his cloak and withdrew a flask. He uncorked it and took a long swallow. “Mustn’t tell my daughter or my wife.” Ever so slightly, the viscount lifted the flask in a subtle toast. “They wouldn’t approve.”

  Unbidden, a smile tugged at Nolan’s lips as he recalled Sybil sipping from his own flask. The color in her cheeks. The glimmer in her eyes. He’d wager even the lady’s family didn’t truly know the depth of her spirit.

  He and Lord Lovell fell into an odd, companionable silence that was only shattered by the older man. “When Sybil was a girl, oh, mayhap eleven or twelve, she’d created a detailed chart that she presented to her mother and me.”

  An image flitted forward, bringing a smile to Nolan’s lips. Of Sybil as she would have been; a young, bespectacled girl with plump cheeks and speaking animatedly about the details on that board.

  “On her chart, she had plotted out all the reasons a lady should not marry.” He lifted a finger with each item he enumerated. “She feared losing her freedom, her right to read books and attend lectures. My wife, Lady Lovell, did not sleep for a week, fearful that Sybil would grow to be an unwed spinster who never found a husband.” A distant glimmer twinkled in the viscount’s eye; a man who saw that long ago memory play out, still, in his mind. “Do you know how afraid I was, Webb?”

  Nolan shook his head once. If he was a father with a daughter, his greatest fear wouldn’t be that the girl wouldn’t wed, but rather, the bounders who might prey on her.

  “Not at all. Those seven days were the best seven days I’d ever slept, because I knew my Sybil had too much of a head to ever give her heart over to a scoundrel who’d not appreciate her.” Her father chuckled. “I didn’t care if she married a servant, sailor, or lord. I cared that she found someone who loved her and appreciated her as she deserved.”

  There was a question and statement there all at the same time. Nolan’s throat worked and, unable to meet the man’s piercing gaze, he looked to the frozen Serpentine once more. Then the viscount asked it. “Do you care about her?”

  Do you care about her? No. I love her. The air lodged in his lungs.

  It defied the logic and reason Sybil spoke of and lauded. They were two strangers, meeting for less than a week’s time. And yet, those hours, such fragmental moments in his life, had been filled with joy and laughter unlike any he’d ever known. Good God, what have I done? He’d gone and fallen in love with the lady.
He loved her spirit and her quick wit and her endearing habit of prattling on about obscure details and facts. He loved her for seeing more than the careful image he’d crafted for the world. And more, he loved her for her directness that didn’t waste precious time.

  He wanted her, when he had nothing to offer her. When he’d only ever taken and, with his selfishness, hurt his siblings and he’d not add her to the long list of those he’d failed.

  Nolan briefly closed his eyes as a wave of longing assailed him.

  “Yes, well, love does have that effect on a person,” the viscount murmured, stealing another sip of his spirits. He handed it over to Nolan who took a long swallow.

  “I have nothing to offer her,” he answered, handing back the drink. He’d never hated the truth of his circumstances more than he did in this moment. Again, it spoke to the self-centeredness of his soul that, of the siblings he’d failed and their beloved parents he’d let down, it was Sybil whom he’d known in six days’ time who’d cracked down the walls he’d built about his heart and made him wish he had more. For her.

  “Finances?”

  Nolan hesitated and then gave a curt nod. What had he to offer her?

  The viscount tucked away his flask and then adjusted his hat. “But that isn’t what I asked you.” No, it hadn’t been. But it was the most he could give, for ultimately his worth was tied into his inability to pursue anything more with Sybil. The viscount patted him on the back. “All of that works itself out, my boy. The finances and monetary nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” An empty, hollow laugh rumbled from his chest. “You are an optimist.” The viscount couldn’t know the depth of Nolan’s financial failings. If he did, the older gent would surely be less amiable to any talk linking his and Sybil’s names.

  “I am a realist,” the viscount corrected. “I did not pay you a visit, as my wife asked, to demand you marry Sybil. I’d never have her marry a man that way.” With a bow, he started back down the trail marked by his boot steps. Nolan stared after him, when the viscount suddenly turned back. “It did not escape my notice that you did not deny your love. You merely spoke of not having enough to offer her. I expect if you think about it, you’ll find that the only thing that matters is love. And if you do not come to that realization?” The viscount gave a wry grin. “Then you were never deserving of her, anyway.” Sybil’s father touched the brim of his hat.