Apple blossoms. She always smelled of fresh apples and spice. Her shiny dark-as-a-raven’s-wing hair was piled high on her head, exposing her nape and the downy hair there. He itched to brush his knuckles down the graceful column and across her bare, gently sloping alabaster shoulders fringed with the finest blue silk.
For an extended breath, he shut his eyes against the maelstrom of unwanted sentiment her scent heralded. Jaw clamped, he clenched the back of his chair. His teeth might crack from the force of subduing his desire. Lungs cramping with longing, he took his seat and breathed in Regine’s tempting scent while spearing Theadosia a just-you-wait look.
She tipped her mouth upward at one side while rolling her shoulders.
In contrition or dismissal?
James snapped his napkin open and, after placing it on his lap, cleared his throat. He felt as awkward as he had at his first formal dinner. Taking a long sip of wine, he willed his awareness of the woman to his left to dissipate. Her warmth beckoned, and God help him, he could not dispel the aroma of apple blossoms from his nostrils.
Without conscious thought, he found himself leaning toward her, drawing in her essence. He fought not to close his eyes as the familiar scent wrapped around him, coiling through his gut and entwining his heart. Ah, her fragrance elicited such sweet memories. Sweet, tormenting memories reminiscent of another time.
For all of her affected poise, Regine seemed as uncomfortable as he, for she also sipped her wine and had yet to look at him. If they kept staring straight ahead, like dolls attired in the first stare of fashion on display, they’d soon garner the attention of everyone in the room.
Theadosia caught his eye and pointedly steered her attention to Regine. Always a superb hostess, she wouldn’t tolerate any of her guests feeling self-conscious. If he didn’t heed her silent warning, James would receive an ever-so-polite, but thorough tongue-lashing.
With a sideways, almost shy glance, Regine broke the silence first, “I thank you again for escorting us to the museum. Juliet hasn’t stopped talking about the excursion.”
“I appreciate she enjoyed herself.” He relaxed a trifle, some of the strain seeping from his shoulders and spine. Dining beside her wasn’t all that bad. He could manage for an hour or two. He signaled the footman to refill his wine glass.
At once, the well-trained servant poured him another glass of superb cabernet.
How many courses had Theadosia planned for dinner?
Things marched along quite nicely, almost comfortably, for the next half an hour until Westfall, seated to Regine’s left, commented, “I ran into the Duke of Heartwaite at White’s this afternoon. Surprised me, I must say. He’s not usually one for London in January.”
Heartwaite had five and twenty years on Regine. No wonder Westfall hadn’t referred to him as her stepson.
Every bit of color leeched from her face, and she carefully set down her fork. “Indeed.”
A trace of something James couldn’t quite identify, but which raised his hackles, rendered her voice husky.
“You are correct, Your Grace. He prefers the comfort of his country estate during the winter months.” Her tongue peeked out to dampen her lower lip. “And by chance, did he happen to mention why he’d ventured to London?”
Rather than look at Westfall, she raised stricken eyes to James. Lost, hopeless eyes.
By God, what went on here?
Westfall shook his head as he forked a bite of horseradish crusted roast beef. “Not specifically. Said he had a legal matter he sought counsel about.”
“I see.” If possible, she paled further, her attention fixed upon her plate. The delicate pulse at the juncture of her throat fluttered wildly, her chest rising and falling swiftly in agitation.
She was well and truly upset. Why?
Seated on Westfall’s other side, Miss Greenville spoke to him, and, with an apologetic smile, he directed his attention her way.
“Regine? Is something amiss?” James raked his gaze over her. She was upset. Distraught even.
She met his eyes, and his stomach sank upon comprehending the fear pooling in hers. She bit her lower lip, her attention skipping over those seated nearest them before she edged closer.
“James, I know I have no right to ask, and I’ll understand if you cannot. But perhaps you can recommend another solicitor then. I know this isn’t the place, either.” She looked around the table, again, blinking slowly and appearing somewhat dazed.
Her anxiety had something to do with what Westfall had said. But what?
Apprehension and worry had replaced the poised façade she’d presented at the coffeeshop and museum. And even here, earlier this evening. He’d never seen her like this, and every protective instinct he possessed surged to awareness.
She might’ve tossed him aside as easily as burned bread, but James would unhesitatingly guard her with his life. The realization sucked the wind from his lungs. From the very room itself.
His focus narrowed, blocking out the sounds and sights surrounding him until it was just the two of them. A tiny island in a sea of guests.
Comprehension slammed into him.
He still loved her. He’d never stopped.
Fool. Fool. Fool.
He’d but buried his feelings, repressed and denied his hopes and dreams for a future with her. Love—resilient and potent—had remained, and now it pulsed through him, as steadily and as forceful as the blood in his veins.
“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I am at a loss as to what else to do—” Faltering to an abrupt halt, she inhaled deeply, the movement threatening to spill her ample bosoms from her gown’s respectable, but much-too-low-for-his-comfort-neckline. She flexed her fingers around her fork’s handle as if preparing to guard herself.
James had never seen Regine like this. Afraid. Uncertain. And needing him. He lightly touched the back of her stiff hand. God, she was genuinely distressed.
“What is it, Regine? I’ll assist if I can.”
She swallowed audibly, and hand shaking, lifted her wine glass.
More fool he, but he could no more deny her request than he could cut out his own heart.
“May I pay a visit to your offices tomorrow, James? I fear I require legal counsel, as well.” She raised those breathtaking pale blue eyes to his.
Forget-me-nots. That was the shade of her eyes. And he hadn’t ever forgotten her. How could he? He’d given her his heart all those years ago, and he’d never been whole since.
“My stepson seeks to overturn my bequeathment,” she whispered, brokenly. “Without the inheritance Heartwaite settled upon me, I have no means to provide for Juliet. No home. Nothing. I’ll be destitute again.” The last word immerged a tortured, husky rasp weighted with despair and hopelessness.
Again? Had she…?
An inkling took root. Did Regine mean what James thought she did? That she’d been in that place before? After her father died? Why hadn’t she told him?
Even now, she fretted about her sister and not herself. And how dare that fribbling dumpling, Heartwaite, challenge his father’s will? Admiration for her, as well as fury toward the duke, pounded in his blood.
“Of course. Come by my office at eleven tomorrow, and bring every pertinent document you possess with you.” Mindful, they weren’t alone, yet needing to offer her comfort, he touched her elbow. “Never fear. If the documents were legally drafted and witnessed, he has no case.”
Giving a short nod, she reached beneath the table and clasped his hand. “Thank you. I realize I’m asking much after I—”
“You are not alone.” He squeezed her slender fingers. Darling, Regine. Instinctively, he knew she needed to know that this time, she could count on his help. “I shall always be here for you.”
A tremulous smile arched her plump lips, and her eyes softened. “I don’t deserve your friendship, James. But I am ever so thankful for it.”
Friendship? God’s teeth.
He didn’t want friendship. Or gratit
ude. Or appreciation. He wanted her. I do. Even after all this time. Even though she’d cleaved his heart from his chest and ground it into powder. He wanted Regine.
You’re a damned fool.
Yes, he was. And he couldn’t claim a whit of regret.
At promptly eleven the next morning, clutching a slender leather portfolio against her side, Regine swept past James and into his office. Deciding the reason for their meeting called for a more conservative gown, she’d donned a navy-blue and pearl-gray walking ensemble and matching redingote. Elegant and unquestionably respectable. Just as a haut ton duchess should appear.
Ah, but her heart was that of a flamboyant gypsy wanderer.
A curious mixture of amusement and devilment played about the edges of his eyes and mouth. As if he were privy to a great secret which bubbled behind his breastbone and danced impatiently on his tongue, waiting to be revealed.
A hint of the carefree young man he’d been, hovered over him. It sent her heart to flopping about, and she couldn’t suppress her smile. He’d been so very young and charming. So eager to please her. The tiniest bit awkward, but endearingly so.
Before her mind took her down a path that was sure to cause more discomfit, she examined the tidy room representing so much of his life. He’d placed his desk so that his back faced a duo of tall windows, allowing him the most light to conduct his work as well as face the door. Two comfortable-looking, unpretentious, deep burgundy armchairs paralleled each other before the shiny, black walnut desk.
After tucking the file beneath her elbow, she removed her dark blue gloves and took in a pair of bookshelves. The leather-bound, scholarly tomes neatly arranged from largest to smallest on their shelves, claimed most of the west wall. A walnut-brown leather sofa and rosewood end tables graced the opposite wall.
Masculine, attractive, and sensible, through and through. A room very much like the striking man waiting expectantly for her beside one of the tufted burgundy armchairs.
“Regine?” He splayed one large hand across the top of the chair, a smattering of silky dark, whisky-colored hair atop the back. “Won’t you have a seat while I examine the papers you’ve brought?”
“Yes. Of course.” She nodded, and gloves clutched in one hand, and the documents in the other, crossed the earth-toned Turkish carpet.
Today James wore a royal blue superfine wool coat and an ivory jacquard waistcoat. Refined and elegant, but not ostentatious. His black pantaloons hugged muscular thighs. All in all, he was a splendid specimen of manhood. And he could’ve been hers for all time.
Yes, but at what cost to him?
She ought to tell him why she’d married Heartwaite. Oh, she’d tried that awful day, but James had been too wounded to attend her pleas. Mayhap now that his position was secure, he’d listen. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could forgive her, and her soul might be at ease.
Scanning the office again, Regine pushed aside her redolent thoughts. She harbored no doubt that James wouldn’t be established in this comfortable office, a successful solicitor—no, a partner—in a law firm had she followed her heart.
The knowledge ought to console her. It did, but it didn’t ease the perpetual ache in her breast. His success had been as important as her family’s survival. As she slipped into the chair and set the documents atop his organized desk, she offered a grateful upward sweep of her mouth.
A heartbeat later, he sat across from her. Drawing the file near, he asked, “May I?”
“But of course. That’s why I am here.” She welcomed any excuse to be in his company, even if her reason today was alarming and unnerving. Her stepson, George-Curtis, was a slimy maggot.
If James found anything questionable in the papers, she didn’t know what she’d do. However, she sought comfort in the knowledge that Heartwaite hadn’t been frivolous when it had come to business matters. Confidence that James could offer valuable legal advice, should she require it, also soothed her frayed nerves a trifle.
In all honesty, Regine had no right to impose upon him, but he’d been so unbearably kind last night. Almost as if the past wounds had been erased, and he still cared for her. If only that were true. The unexpected news that George-Curtis, a podgy, pallid turnip-of-a-man who craved creature-comforts almost as much as he lusted after money, had ventured to London had rattled her composure.
No, the news had been as frightening as if a violent earthquake had shaken the Sutcliffe’s home, stripping the ceilings of their decorative plasterwork and the walls of their gilded frames. She’d been overwrought, and she’d sought succor from the person she still trusted most in the world. She wasn’t ignorant of the manner in which James had stiffened when she arrived for dinner, nor the starchy glances passing between the Duchess of Sutcliffe and her austere brother.
When Regine and Juliet had visited the glovers the day after their museum outing, they’d run into Theadosia and Jessica. How unusual that three misses from their small country hamlet had all become duchesses.
It hadn’t taken much persuasion on Theadosia’s part for Regine to accept the invitation to dine. Naturally, she’d known James would be there. But she couldn’t stay away, now that she’d seen him again.
He remained in her blood, in her aching, wounded soul. His presence brought her such exquisite torment. It hurt to be near him, knowing she’d ruined the rare jewel they’d shared. Yet, she couldn’t deny herself the opportunity to see him either.
On the Continent, she’d never fretted about an unexpected encounter with him. But since she’d seen his dear face in the coffeeshop window, she searched every street, every window, and every coach and carriage for his auburn hair and blue-green eyes.
Regine couldn’t eschew an opportunity to see him. Even if he never spoke to her. How very pathetic she’d become. Pining for a man who, if perhaps didn’t revile, certainly disdained and condemned her.
Nonetheless, other than their initial meeting, he’d been kind and courteous, and she believed, perchance, she detected a glint of primal protectiveness in his eyes last night. A distinct feminine appreciation for gallantry thrummed in her. And now, hopefully, he’d be able to advise her how best to proceed with George-Curtis.
Through her lashes, she observed James, a forefinger resting on his upper lip and head bent as he perused her documents. That stubborn forelock of bronze hair had fallen forward as it was wont to do. She wanted to smooth it back in place, and cup his chiseled cheeks between her hands and kiss him.
A crease drew his arched eyebrows together, and only the ticking of the mahogany bracket clock on one of the shelves interrupted the silence.
He flipped to a previously read page, marking it with his finger as he riffled forward and studied another. At last, he sat back, and fingers steepled, twisted his mouth into a half-smile. “These appear to be in order, Regine. I’ve found nothing in my initial inspection that gives me cause to believe the Duke of Heartwaite would prevail in court.”
So great was her relief, she almost sagged against the chair. Except, duchesses didn’t sag. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am.” Leaning forward, she placed a palm upon the desk. “He cannot seize my ship or home? Freeze my funds?”
“He threatened you with that?” A fierce scowl lined James’s face, and he balled the hand resting atop his desk as if he’d very much like to smash it into George-Curtis’s bulbous, red-veined nose.
“He did. And more.” Unless she made him welcome in her bed, the vile wretch. He’d also vowed to confiscate her horseflesh, furnishings, jewels, and even her clothing. Vengeful and vindictive. Resenting every penny his father had spent on her.
It wasn’t as if George-Curtis or his siblings hadn’t been provided for. Heartwaite had been generous with his children, bestowing estates on the younger sons as well as enormous dowries on his daughters. And yet, they begrudged Regine…everything.
The genuine fear she’d end up in the same position she’d been in eight years ago had niggled incessantly. No funds. No home. No means of provision.<
br />
Except things weren’t the same at present as they had been then. Regine had only the one sister to fret over now, and if worse came to worse, Christiana or Marian would take Juliet in, albeit reluctantly. They’d married for love—one a rector and the other a professor—and each had children. Neither had an abundance of room or coin.
Simply knowing she wouldn’t have to impose upon her sisters if George-Curtis chose to be obstinate about the matter and cut off her funds as he’d threatened until a court decision was rendered, felt as if a loadstone had been removed from her shoulders.
“I feared he might have had a case against me, and I would have to prevail upon one of my sisters to take Juliet in,” Regine admitted, attempting to disregard the flush creeping from her neck to her hairline.
Something indiscernible flashed across James’s features but disappeared in a heartbeat. “If you’d permit, I’d like to keep these to examine at my leisure.” He tapped the papers with his forefinger. “Only to be certain I didn’t overlook anything.”
“Certainly.” She gathered her gloves, prepared to depart, but reluctant to do so. Now was the time to tell James. Explain what had driven her to accept Heartwaite. To ask for his forgiveness.
Except the words wouldn’t come, wouldn’t form on her tongue. As a young girl of eighteen, her reasoning had seemed so sound, but had it truly been?
Hadn’t James had the right to know the calamity that had befallen her family? To be a part of the decision she’d made that had so disastrously affected both of their lives?
In truth, these past few days, she’d begun to doubt the wisdom of her girlish decision. And still, the words remained stuck in her throat, her mouth dry as sand, and fear of further rejection rendering her mute.
Since when had she become a coward?
He scraped his fingers through his hair in a disarming manner, leaving a few strands tufted and endearingly boyish. “Ah, would you care for coffee?”
Already in the process of donning one glove, she brought her gaze up to meet his.
Warmth and masculine approval shone in his eyes.
Duchess of His Heart Page 6