Then she’d laughed. Giggled that infectious, unfettered way that was Regine’s alone, and his little boy’s heart had landed at her tiny, waving, chubby feet—hers to do with as she pleased for all time. And for several years, he and Regine had been the best of friends, sharing everything. Then later, they’d become sweethearts. They’d eagerly made plans to marry and spend the rest of their lives together.
But her father had died, and she’d entered mourning. So, he’d tempered his impatience. Only, a month after old Edenshaw’s death, she informed him she was to marry Heartwaite. A week later, she’d become the Duchess of Heartwaite and left the country.
James hadn’t even permitted himself to follow reports of the Duke’s and Duchess’s of Heartwaites travels in the newssheets or gossip rags. He’d resolutely put Regine behind him and faced his future. Without her.
“I thank you, James, but it wouldn’t be proper.”
Now she considered propriety?
She tucked the feminine watch inside her bag before collecting the letter. A shadow flitted across her face, and her lips thinned the merest bit as she returned the folded paper to its nest, and then donned her gloves.
Bad or unwelcome news?
“Thank you for permitting me to interrupt you.” She slipped the reticule on her narrow wrist and rose, all elegant grace. One hand cradling the handbag, she skittered that blue gaze over him, hesitancy and a question brimming within. Something shifted deep inside those azure pools, and she dropped her hand. “Please say hello to your family for me the next time you see them.”
Trivial stuff. Polite, nonsensical pleasantries that acquaintances might exchange—not a couple once passionately in love.
James sought his feet. He might not be a lord, but no gentleman remained sitting when a lady stood. He should say something. But what?
I missed you? Every day. Every hour. Every second.
Had she missed him, too?
How long would she be in London?
Yes, that would do.
“Are you in Town for long? Most people escape to the country this time of year.” He used to go down to Colechester regularly, but since Theadosia and Jessica had married, he didn’t make the trip as often. There wasn’t a reason to anymore.
Not that he wasn’t always welcome in either one of their homes. Or Althea’s, for that matter. The truth was, he struggled in the company of such happiness, knowing he’d never experience the same. Of course, James was glad for them. His three sisters had all endured varying degrees of difficulty before wedding, but in the end, they’d married the men they loved.
The woman he’d adored had married someone else—a bow-legged, bald-as-a-cue-ball, snaggle-toothed decrepit smelling of camphor and stale pomade, and crippled by bunions and carbuncles, too. Fine, that last bit he’d made up. The rest wasn’t so very far off, however.
Though James had never actually met the former duke, a few questions in the right ears had painted a fairly accurate depiction. He’d also learned that although Heartwaite had long-since bid his youth behind, he was regarded as a decent chap.
That brought him a degree of relief, for although she’d crushed his spirit, he’d not have Regine unhappy or abused by her husband.
She busied herself, retying the ribbons of her bonnet. “We’ve only been here for ten days. I’ve let a house in Grosvenor Square. Juliet has some vision issues and is seeing a specialist.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” he said perfunctorily while collecting his coat.
She shook her head. “No, but she’s not keen on wearing her spectacles. Without them, the poor dear can scarce see a foot in front of her. I’ve promised her we might visit several of the attractions and landmarks, even though it’s the dead of winter. She’s been rather bored in the country since our sisters married, and there was our mourning period, of course. I’m hoping her curiosity will help her forget she’s wearing spectacles and make her less self-conscious.”
He shrugged into his caped greatcoat, then gathered his hat and gloves. “Allow me to escort you to your coach.”
“That’s not necessary. Truly.” Her cupid’s bow mouth arced, but no joy lit her eyes. “I don’t wish to inconvenience you further, especially if you have somewhere you need to be.” They reached the door, and she stepped aside to permit him to open it.
Such a natural expectation for a peeress. Did she even realize she’d done so?
Eight years ago, she’d have pressed the handle herself and dragged him out the doorway by the hand. Where had that exuberant, buoyant girl gone?
God. How he’d missed her.
This serene—too poised and composed—woman lacked the spark, the vitality her younger self could barely restrain. Oh, there was no denying she was stunning. Exquisite in her radiant crimson ensemble, the color a perfect complement to her alabaster skin and ebony hair.
But where had she hidden the real Regine? Or, was this who’d she’d become? Had wealth and riches and position turned her into this dignified shadow of her former self?
Once on the pavement, he lightly took her elbow. A frisson jolted up his arm at the contact. Well, that hadn’t changed a jot. One touch, and lust burrowed through his veins, almost making him forget her perfidy. For surely, desire was all this sensation was. After the way she’d discarded him like a holey sock, he couldn’t retain any feelings for her.
They received several curious glances, many quite brazen, as they strolled along. The wind had gathered momentum and tugged furiously at their garments. James was no admirer of London’s tempestuous winter weather. Someday, he hoped to travel and spend the winter months in more temperate locales.
“Just there.” Regine jutted her softly rounded chin to a polished ebony coach. The Heartwaite crest, painted in silver and crimson, glinted brightly on the door. A few heartbeats later, they stood outside the conveyance.
The driver had lowered the steps and stood a respectful distance away.
As Regine turned to climb into the conveyance, James touched her elbow. “Regine, wait.” He’d never get used to addressing her as Your Grace. She was now, and would forever be Regine.
Fool. Stop. She’ll break your heart again. Turn and walk away and don’t look back.
She looked up at him, those wide eyes soft and inquisitive. “Yes?”
“Perhaps you and your sister would like to visit Bullock’s Museum of Natural Curiosities tomorrow?” Bloody hell. He sounded like a smitten swain eager for his lady’s attention. “Or if that’s not enough notice, perhaps the next day?”
She cut the driver a short glance before facing James fully. “You’d escort us to the museum?” Her guileless gaze searched his, uncertainty and yearning in hers. “Don’t you have to be at your offices?”
He rubbed his nose and chuckled, delighted when she also grinned. “That’s the advantage of being a partner. I can take an afternoon off if I wish to.”
And I wish to. Very much, in fact.
“You’re a partner? How splendid.” Pride shone in her clear blue eyes, the outer ring a deeper, navy-blue. “I always knew you’d be a magnificent lawyer.” She had? “Well done, James. I’m so pleased for you.”
And she was. Her smile and the approval in her eyes weren’t affected or merely politesse. Her reaction was, perhaps, the first authentic thing he’d detected since she’d tilted his world on its end and violently spun it around and around thirty minutes ago. The rest she kept hidden behind that carefully constructed façade of decorum.
If James hadn’t known the carefree, vivacious girl of his youth, he might’ve believed the coolly poised, elegant woman before him had always been thus. She’d certainly taken to the role of a duchess with admirable aplomb, hadn’t she?
The churlish thought left a foul taste in his mouth and a prick of guilt as well. He’d convinced himself he didn’t care, and his bitter ruminations proved him a liar.
“Well, do you wish to visit the museum or not?” he asked, irritation with himself giving his tone a cr
yptic edge. Damn it all, she’d think he was angry with her.
Regine blinked twice then slowly nodded.
“I should be delighted to.” A becoming flush tinted her ivory cheeks, whether from pleasure, the brisk breeze and frigid temperature, or his sharp question he couldn’t determine. “I’m sure Juliet will as well. She’s ever so fascinated with displays and antiquities.”
The latter seemed an afterthought, and the notion pleased him more than it ought. Blast, but he must guard himself against Regine. One winsome smile or joy-filled gaze, and he was practically throwing himself at her feet. Again. Fool!
“Shall we meet you there at three of the clock?” she asked, her head tilted at an endearing angle. An angle ideal for kissing her sweet mouth. For tasting the soft, velvety pillows.
He tore his gaze from those tempting lips.
What had she said?
Ah, yes. Three. Museum.
Perfect. If James arrived at his office by six, he’d still put in a full day’s work before he left at half-past two. “Yes, that will suit.”
“I shall look forward to it,” she said. “And I’m sure Juliet will be beside herself with excitement.”
He handed her into the coach, and long after the door clicked closed, with the wind battering him from without, and his cracked heart buffeting him from within, he watched the conveyance. When the equipage turned a corner, he heaved a gusty sigh.
You, James Abraham Evan Brentwood, are out of your sodding mind.
One outing, he sternly admonished himself. One. And then he’d have Regine out of his system once and for all.
Like hell, he would.
Regine’s stomach churned, tangling in worse knots than the time Juliet’s cat had frolicked in the embroidery threads. She placed a gloved palm on her abdomen, certain she’d feel her belly rolling over itself. Breathing deeply, she checked her timepiece before tucking the watch inside her reticule once more—the fourth time since leaving Grosvenor Square.
It was precisely five minutes to three. Not so early as to seem overly-eager, but not late either. She abhorred tardiness and, similarly, disliked waiting on others—both bespoke a lack of consideration and respect. Heartwaite had maintained otherwise, and she swore while he had lived, they’d arrived fashionably late to every dratted function.
Fretting James might change his mind, she’d not told Juliet they were to meet him. Her sister would ask questions Regine wasn’t prepared to answer.
“Bullock’s Museum of Natural Curiosities,” Juliet breathed, practically pressing her turned-up nose to the glass as the carriage rumbled to a stop before two and twenty Piccadilly. “So many marvelous novelties from around the world. All in one place.” She gave an excited little bounce upon the seat as if she were six years old and not fifteen. “I’m ever so glad you agreed we might visit.”
Bestowing an indulgent smile on her, Regine gave silent thanks to James for having made the suggestion. Had he recalled Juliet’s fascination with nature even when she’d been a little girl? How often she’d find a feather, a rock, an insect, or something else, and insist on sharing her treasure with anyone who would listen?
“I’ve heard there are fossils and many preserved birds.” A wrinkle appeared between Juliet’s dark eyebrows above the thin metal bridge of her spectacles. “I confess, I think it’s quite barbaric to kill creatures simply so humans can gawk at them. But I also acknowledge it would be difficult and cruel to keep live species in cages and such.”
“We’ll not visit any exhibits you object to, dear.” Regine patted Juliet’s arm, her stomach tumbling over on itself upon spying James standing, tall and confident, outside the museum’s entrance. His beaver hat and a midnight blue caped greatcoat bespoke quality without being ostentatious. He might easily pass for a lord of the realm.
Her blasted, traitorous heart leaped with anticipation. She had no right to the gladness careening through her upon seeing him. Unwittingly, she clenched Juliet’s arm, and then catching herself, withdrew her hand.
Foolish, foolish goosecap. The carriage bounced as the driver descended, giving her a minute to gather her equanimity and disguise her rattled state.
Juliet—her head cocked like an inquisitive sparrow, her rounded blue eyes assessing Regine much too astutely from behind thick lenses—formed her mouth into a small moue.
Before her inquisitive sister could ask whatever probing question had formed in her mind, Regine fashioned an artificial smile luminous enough to light Seven Dials. At midnight. During a winter storm. Truthfully, she felt somewhat like she grinned in the rigid manner of a grotesque gargoyle.
She scrambled for a topic to distract Juliet. “I forgot to ask if you need any more materials for the orphanage’s valentines?”
When they’d first arrived in London, Juliet’s despondency about the recently diagnosed need for spectacles had her sulking about their house, woebegone, and in a state of the blue devils. Regine had hit upon the notion of her artistic sister creating valentines for those less fortunate as a way to help her understand her circumstances weren’t as doleful as she believed.
After procuring a list of charities for her to choose from, Juliet had selected the Shephard’s Haven Home. A small but well-run foundling home and orphanage operated by two unconventional spinster sisters and their few, equally unique staff.
Juliet shook her head, her pink bonnet bobbing. “No. I believe I have plenty. In fact, I’m nearly finish—” She stopped abruptly and tapped her chin, a contemplative expression on her face as she gazed out the window to where James approached; he strode directly toward their conveyance with the swaggering long-legged stride and assurance of a peer.
“Although…” Juliet slanted a sly glance toward Regine, wrestling to keep her mien completely unaffected.
Her sister must not suspect her interest. It would only complicate matters.
“I suppose a bit more lace and red ribbon wouldn’t go amiss,” Juliet admitted.
As the door swung open, Regine gave a brisk nod. “It’s settled then. When we pick up your gloves tomorrow, we’ll stop at the haberdashery, too. You can purchase any other items you might be short of, as well.”
“Hmm.” Juliet made a soft, suspicious noise in her throat. “And why is it you didn’t collect my gloves yesterday?” She made a pretense of examining the perfectly acceptable gloves encasing her fingers. Peeking at Regine over the rim of her eyeglasses, a distinct teasing glint shone in her eyes.
An exasperated groan throttled up Regine’s throat and pressed against the back of her lips. Juliet was too dashed astute by far. “I explained already, dear. I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in a great while. You know I was away from England for six years, and Heartwaite’s failing health and the mourning periods for him and Mama kept me from London for another two.”
She made to scoot from the seat and descend the conveyance. Gracious, her sister was becoming a busybody.
“Would that friend be James Brentwood?” False innocence laced Juliet’s sing-song voice.
Pausing at the door, unprepared for Juliet to have mined that morsel so easily, Regine swung her gaze to her sister. She furrowed her brow. “You remember him?”
Regine hadn’t considered that. Juliet had been seven, and she had assumed she’d long ago forgotten about her oldest sister’s young and attentive beau. She sliced a glance to the object of their discussion, waiting patiently no more than six feet from the carriage.
Likely eavesdropping on their conversation.
James’s expression didn’t reveal one way or another whether he’d heard every word.
Juliet snorted and waved a hand as if most offended. “Of course I do. I was just seven, but I do remember you adored him.” She leaned forward and touched Regine’s shoulder, a maturity glowing behind those new lenses, far beyond her fifteen summers. “I know you only married Heartwaite to assure Mama and we girls were provided for.”
Heart cramping from renewed pain and no small degree of astoni
shment, Regine closed her eyes for a blink. Hovering, half-crouched, she was at a loss for words.
Juliet knew? How? Was I that obvious, after all?
The question must’ve shown in her eyes, because her sister’s mouth curved into a fragile little smile. “I’m near-sighted, Regine. Not stupid.” Angling another considering glance toward James patiently standing outside, his hands behind his back and his head at a slight slant, a speculative gleam entered Juliet’s eyes.
Her acute gaze swung to Regine and back to James three times.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Wipe that speculative look from your face, Juliet Minerva Francis Edenshaw.” Regine pointed a narrowed-eyed gaze at her sister. She could practically hear the cogs grinding away in her youngest sister’s mind. “There’s nothing between us now. It’s too late.”
“Uhm hum.” Juliet gave her a gentle shove as she giggled. “Regine, you look like a great, startled bird, hovering there. A purple martin, to be exact.” Another discovery from Juliet’s recently purchased Fascinating Birds of the World Handbook and Field Guide.
Today, Regine wore purple trimmed in black velvet. Not a demure lavender or heather, but rich, luxurious violet with equally sumptuous ebony velvet. Heartwaite had preferred she wear dulcet shades and pastels. The minute she’d tossed off her mourning weeds, she’d indulged her taste for vibrant hues—emerald, crimson, sapphire. Gold and silver, too.
Her way of rebelling.
Against what?
She wasn’t precisely sure what. The social system that rendered women possessions? That kept them restricted and without rights, and most of them reliant upon men for their every need? Against fate, for forcing her down a path she’d never have chosen?
The coachman cleared his throat, and Regine directed her focus to the street once more. To the man from her past standing there, as handsome as ever, who would always own her battered heart.
James had closed the distance and now waited, hand outstretched, to assist her from the vehicle. Once her feet were safely upon the pavement, he reached to help Juliet descend.
Duchess of His Heart Page 4