She grinned at him, quite the most animated Regine had seen her since—well, since Mama’s death. “Hello, Mr. Brentwood,” she fairly chirped, dipping a bouncing little curtsy. “You are looking well.”
She searched past him.
Whatever did the minx seek?
“Your wife’s not with you?” Juliet asked.
Lord. Bold as brass, and without a jot of remorse.
“Or haven’t you married?” She blinked up at him innocently.
Groaning inwardly, Regine purposely remained imperious to the crafty glance her sister slid her. The little hellion. They’d have a serious conversation when they arrived home. Nay. On the carriage ride home, and she’d disabuse her littlest sister of any misplaced romantic notions.
“Alas, I remain a crusty old bachelor.” He chuckled and bent at the waist as if greeting royalty.
“Crusty? I should say not. Why, you’re even more handsome than I remembered,” Juliet quipped without any apparent regret for her impertinence. “Or, perhaps you’ve always been thus, and I can finally see you now.” She flitted her fingertips near her spectacles.
Jaw slack, Regine blinked, undecided whether to chastise Juliet for her impudence or cheer that she had taken so to James and could jest light-heartedly about her hated eyeglasses. Where had her reserved, well-mannered sister gone? The one so embarrassed by her spectacles?
“And you, Miss Edenshaw, look quite fetching in your eyeglasses.” He dipped his chin and murmured in a velvety voice, “Very élégant.”
Pinkening under his praise, she tentatively touched the left temple two inches before where it looped behind her ear. She stood a little taller and confident. “Thank you.”
Regine could’ve hugged him for his kindness.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation. Shall we?” James extended his elbows, and Juliet promptly latched onto his left arm.
Juliet shot her an, “Ah ha! So that’s the way of it,” glance.
Casting the proffered arm a dubious look, Regine vacillated. Touching him again would be an enormous mistake. Her palm still tingled from when he’d handed her down from the carriage. But she yearned to feel him beneath her fingertips. To caress that firm, sinewy flesh.
Her life had been bereft of touch and affection for so long. Oh, Heartwaite had given her an occasional fatherly peck on the cheek, and naturally, she and her sisters had hugged to console each other when their mother died. But she’d missed—no, craved—a virile man’s touch.
Not any man’s. James’s.
An acorn-colored eyebrow quirked in challenge at her continued hesitations, and by George! Did his lips tremble? Blast the rotter. He knew how he affected her, though she’d vowed to remain impervious to his disarming smile.
Setting her jaw, and dredging up the remnants of her resolve, Regine gingerly laid her finger inside the crook of his elbow.
He bent his neck, placing his mouth near her ear. “I’ve had dog hair cling to me with a firmer grip.”
What? She blinked like a ninny. Dog hair?
He chuckled again, the contagious baritone resonating in his chest, and her traitorous lips twitched.
He’s acting charming for Juliet’s sake. Don’t forget that.
“Relax,” he said out the side of his mouth as they passed through the entrance, Juliet in her eagerness rushing ahead. “I shan’t bite. Unless…you want me to.” That last emerged a throaty purr.
Good God.
She glanced upward, searching his face for the hostility so apparent yesterday. Leeriness yet lingered in his marine eyes but not the frosty rejection he’d first turned on her at the coffeeshop. Regine raised her chin and summoned a smile. She’d enjoy today. For Juliet’s sake.
“You might not bite, James, but your gaze can unshell a nut with a single, searing look.”
A shadow fell across his features, and his attention shifted to Juliet, jaw slack, and slowly turning in a circle. “Truce for today?” he murmured for Regine’s ears alone. He lifted his square chin toward her enthralled sister. “For her sake?”
“I wasn’t aware we were at odds,” Regine quipped, instantly regretting her playfulness when his eyelids slid half-closed, and he swept that hooded, sultry turquoise gaze over her.
“Make no mistake, Regine, we are.”
She couldn’t misunderstand the undertone of steel in his voice. Nor the lingering resentment.
“I’ve not forgotten,” he murmured.
Her amusement fled, promptly replaced by self-recrimination.
See? You were greedy instead of wise. Fool!
Regine had known it was imprudent to accompany James on this outing, but she’d been unable to say no yesterday. Now, he obviously regretted his impulsiveness for asking as much as she did for accepting. If she’d possessed an ounce of wisdom, she’d have turned her back and walked away yesterday. Now, because she’d been weak and feckless, they both suffered from her impulsiveness.
“Oh.” Dropping her gaze to block his scorn, she wet her lower lip. “Perhaps, it would be best if we didn’t—”
He took her elbow and drew her aside, all the while making sure Juliet was within view. “I am perfectly capable of acting the gentleman in order for your sister to enjoy herself. I trust you are as well?”
“Of acting the gentleman?” Good Lord. There she went again. Why did she continue to jest?
Because, in truth, she wanted to see his beautiful smile. That flash of teeth and the humor dancing in his eyes. Like the James of old. The man who’d looked at her with adoration rather than derision in his beautiful gaze.
A sound very near a growl escaped him. “Regine,” he warned.
“Truce. Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “A truce is just the thing.”
Not possible. But she pasted on a pleasant face for her sister’s sake. There could be no peace between them. Too much wounding, too many misunderstandings, and much too much time had passed.
His expression dubious, James gave a curt nod and guided her to her sister. “Miss Edenshaw, do you have a preference where we begin?”
Four days later, cognac in hand, James chatted with his brothers-in-law, Crispin, the Duke of Bainbridge, and Victor, the Duke of Sutcliffe, in Sutcliffe’s drawing room as they awaited dinner’s announcement. Though most of Society hadn’t returned to Town after the Christmastide holiday, business had required Bainbridge’s and Sutcliffe’s presence in London.
Naturally, neither would consider leaving their brides behind, nor would their duchesses ever have agreed to the separation. Since wedding, they’d clung together worse than lint on velvet.
As such, Theadosia, James’s middle sister, and the one most fond of entertaining had invited a few of their friends for dinner. Mathias, Duke of Westfall, conferred in low tones with Maxwell, Duke of Pennington before the frolicking crimson and orange flames flickering in the gray and white marble fireplace.
Pennington’s wife, Gabriella, sat upon a royal blue brocade settee with James’s youngest sister, Jessica, now the Duchess of Bainbridge, and their mutual friend Justina Farthington. The trio nodded at something Miss Farthington’s aunt, Emily Grenville, was saying.
“Thea always manages to collect a crowd for any gathering,” James said before taking a long swallow of the superb spirit. “It’s the off-season, yet—” He angled the glass toward those already assembled. His sister had fallen into the role of a duchess as naturally as birds fly and fish swim.
Conferring a fond look upon his wife, Sutcliff nodded. “She does have a way. She’s happiest when hostessing something or other.” His gaze swept the tastefully decorated room. “And I believe we are expecting a few more guests as well.”
No sooner had he uttered those words than the butler announced, “Her Grace, The Dowager Duchess of Heartwaite.”
Equal parts excitement and dread kicked an unrelenting rhythm behind James’s ribcage.
Exquisite in a midnight blue and white gown, with a filmy lace overskirt, Regine looked ethereal,
like heaven had descended to Earth in human form. Angelic and impossibly seductive, too. In the years since she left him, she’d become preposterously more beautiful. A touch of rosy color tinged her high cheekbones, but other than that telltale sign, she remained supremely composed.
She must’ve suspected he’d be in attendance tonight. After all, his sister played hostess, which meant Regine didn’t intend to avoid him as he did her. He hadn’t considered that.
After eight years apart, this was the third time in less than a week he’d seen her. James didn’t know how much more his heart or composure could take.
The old treacherous sentimentality he’d convinced himself he’d annihilated had resurfaced, bubbling and scorching and dangerously near to breaching his self-control. He’d convinced himself he’d put Regine out of his mind and heart years ago.
What about your soul? Taunted that persistent voice that refused to let him deceive himself.
Go to hell, he silently retorted.
Concentrating on the molded plaster ceiling details, he brought his stampeding pulse to a fairly normal pace and waited for the sickening clenching in his gut to ease.
Blast Thea. James had no doubt whatsoever that his sister had learned Regine was in London and decided to meddle. More on point—play matchmaker. He speared her a reproachful glare, but she merely winked as she rushed forward, hands outstretched, to greet Regine.
He’d bet his law firm he also found himself seated beside the alluring Dowager Duchess of Heartwaite for dinner, too. Rage and jealousy and disgust roiled within him. Heartwaite had caressed her pearly skin. Trailed his perpetually wet lips on that gloriously silken flesh, and James had only ever tasted her sweet mouth.
Before evening’s end, he’d have a word with his sister and tell her to cease her interfering. He’d plodded down the road in pursuit of the delectable Regine once. Only a beef-witted, bacon-brained, codpated fool would do so again. He was none of the aforementioned.
A partnership in a successful law firm and a handful of prosperous investments didn’t now, nor would it ever, make him her equal. The girl he’d fallen in love with no longer existed—if she ever had. Mayhap, he’d only seen what he’d wanted to see. His eyes were wide open now, however. The key to his heart, firmly secured away.
Regine gracefully angled her head toward him in a restrained, yet regal greeting. A hint of disquiet dulled the brilliance of her black-fringed, azure gaze.
James doubted anyone else noticed the discomfit that compromised her smile and had her midnight lashes sweeping her cheeks, she masked her unease so skillfully.
Showing a modicum of wisdom, Theadosia guided her newest arrival to the seated women and made introductions.
God’s teeth, this was going to be a devilishly long and exacting evening.
James downed the last of the amber spirit in one gulp, earning him a scold from Bainbridge. “That’s no way to treat a superior cognac, old chap. I suggest ale if you don’t want to savor the flavor and simply wish to gulp your spirits like a cup-shot sailor on leave.”
Sutcliffe caught Bainbridge’s eye and gave a discreet shake of his head while cutting a pointed glance toward Regine.
Ah, hell. Theadosia had told him. The last thing he wanted was pity from his indecently happily-wed brother-in-law.
“What?” Eyebrows knit in puzzlement, Bainbridge shifted his attention to her and then back to James. Twice. He flexed his eyes, narrowing them a fraction as comprehension took root, and they went platter wide and soft around the edges.
Not him too? Blast and damn. A fellow could only tolerate so much unsolicited commiseration.
“I take it you’re acquainted with the duchess?” Bainbridge drawled, a good deal of amusement and incredulity dripping from each word.
“Which one? The damned room is overflowing with duchesses,” James snapped. He regretted his sarcasm at once. Particularly since they well knew he was acquainted with the other ladies. “I apologize, Bainbridge. That was uncalled for. I’m a bit off my step tonight.”
Since a certain lady with ebony hair the midnight sky would envy, and eyes of the palest shade of blue disrupted the rhythm of his heart.
“Think nothing of it.” Bainbridge swept a glass from the tray of a passing servant. Thrusting the brandy at James in exchange for his empty glass, he said, “Feel free to quaff the entire contents. You look as if you need it.”
Thank you. Just what a chap likes to hear.
Bainbridge deposited the empty glass upon the tray, and the footman moved on.
No. James wouldn’t use spirits to numb his senses. He’d done that every night for six months after Regine’s marriage. He might’ve wallowed in self-pity longer, but his law-firm partners had taken him firmly in hand and told him enough was enough. Either get off his arse, pull himself together and move along with becoming a solicitor, or see himself to the firm’s door.
He owed much to those two curmudgeons. Both avowed bachelors, with high expectations, treated him like a beloved son. But they’d refused to coddle him or allow him to continue to muck about, feeling sorry for himself. They’d given him the kick in the rear he’d needed to pull himself up by his bootstraps and move on with his life.
He’d be damned twenty times to Christmas if he’d ramble the convoluted path of courting Regine again. Really? And that’s why I must keep reminding myself of that?
Another covert scrutiny of the room revealed more guests had arrived. So absorbed in his musings, James hadn’t heard the butler announcing them.
“James?”
“Pardon?” He hauled his attention from the woman whose memory had tormented him these many years.
“That’s the third time I addressed you.” A distinct devilish twinkle brightened Sutcliffe’s eyes, and by God, Bainbridge hid a chuckle behind a raised fist and feigned cough.
Devil take it.
Devil take them!
James realized with an unpleasant jolt, he was the only person present, lacking a title. Heretofore, he hadn’t given a strumpet’s virtue about his common birth, but surrounded by this lot, most of whom he considered friends, for the first time he felt—
What?
Not inferior or inadequate. Just not quite up to par. The sole plow horse amongst thoroughbreds at Ascot’s racecourse or a Tattersall’s auction.
The dinner gong rang, and everyone trailed to the doorway. James held back, aware he was the lowest-ranking male present. There were no lower-ranking females, which meant some unlucky peeress would find herself accompanied to dinner by an inferior. His sister, Jessica, came to his rescue, looping her gloved hand through his elbow.
“Are you well?” Concern darkened her eyes, the hue so similar to his own. “I remember Regine. That is, the Dowager Duchess of Heartwaite.” Her sympathetic gaze swept his face. “I remember the two of you together.”
She’d been—what—twelve? And Theadosia thirteen to Regine’s eighteen?
Thank God, Jessica didn’t remind him she also remembered how broken he’d been. Or how, even as a little girl, she’d fretted about him. Her sloppily-written, rambling letters those months after Regine had left England had said all those things as she’d innocently attempted to comfort her older brother.
James patted her hand. He counted himself lucky to have three affectionate sisters. “I am fine. Tonight isn’t the first time the duchess and I have encountered each other since she came to London.”
He’d not mention Bullock’s Museum. That afternoon had ended pleasantly enough, but as he’d determined to do, he’d bid Regine an indifferent farewell—liar—with no intention of rekindling their relationship.
Though he might be a successful lawyer, he couldn’t offer her the lifestyle, position, or comfort to which she was accustomed. Besides, when she’d married Heartwaite, she’d made her priorities clear. Familiar bitterness and envy, tempered by a jot of regret, throttled up his throat, and he swallowed against the burning.
“You should know that Thea also asked m
e to extend an invitation to her grace for the Valentine’s Day ball Crispin and I are hosting.” Jessica angled her head, studying him much too intently for his comfort. “I shan’t invite her if you don’t wish me to.”
Did he want her to?
Jessica hesitated, worrying her lower lip. “It’s just that we’ve heard she’s not been well-received. And since our families were friends…” She hitched a shoulder. “We thought to ease her into Society.”
Ever kind, were his sisters. How could he begrudge Regine and Juliet an invitation or two?
“By all means, invite her.” He was capable of governing his emotions. At least he had been until she’d whirled into his life like an out-of-control dervish a few days ago. “I ask that you include her sister in the invitation as well.”
At his request, she arched her eyebrows high but nodded. “I’d intended to.”
“Good.” He couldn’t think of a more ingenious response since his musings had already leaped forward to next week.
God’s ballocks. He was out of his bloody mind. Attending a Valentine’s Day ball. The one day of the year set aside for romance and love and ridiculous tokens of affection. Poems. Odes. Sonnets. Sweets and flowers.
And he, like a lack-witted imbecile, had agreed to attend, knowing the woman who’d spurned him would be there. Another thought brought him up short. Would Jessica expect him to dance with Regine? No, by damn. A man could only take so much.
If James took her into his arms, he would never be able to let her go again.
Mayhap he could arrange to be out of the city. There was that ailing client in Bath…
As he and Jessica entered the dining room, he barely stifled an oath. His mouth thinned into an uncompromising line, he scowled at the table. His manipulating sister had placed him to Regine’s right, exactly as he’d suspected she would. Leveling her another accusatory glance that promised retribution, he filled his lungs with a steadying breath.
And—damn it all—inhaled Regine’s subtle perfume.
Duchess of His Heart Page 5