A Heart of a Duke Collection: Volume 1-A Regency Bundle

by Christi Caldwell

  As if in mockery of his efforts, Lady Katherine’s brown eyes, filled with fire and passion, flitted through his mind.

  Jasper shook his head and continued walking.

  He could explain away his fascination with Lady Katherine. She, unlike the lords and ladies who’d had the misfortune of crossing his miserable path, appeared wholly uncowed by him. Rather, she seemed to find an unholy delight in tormenting him.

  Since Lydia’s death, nay, since he’d killed her, people had been wise to avoid him, and what was more, fear him. People didn’t dare speak to him. And they certainly didn’t tease him.

  But Lady Katherine did.

  Yes, he could explain away his fascination with the young lady. He could not, however, explain what had possessed him to purchase that damned volume of Wordsworth’s and run after her like some callow youth.

  Over the years, Jasper had embraced the stark coldness that filled him. For a man without a heart could never again know the mind-numbing pain of losing one’s wife and child.

  Then Lady Katherine had fallen into the Thames River and upended his icy world.

  Seeming incapable of guile she wore her every emotion upon her face like an artist’s palate of colored paints. The lady’s outrage, her fury, the amusement, hope, all of it, etched at upon the graceful lines of her heart-shaped face. She reminded him of the fresh innocence he’d possessed, of a simpler time, of the joy he’d known, before his world had fallen apart.

  And it scared the bloody hell out of him.

  At long last, Jasper arrived at his white stucco townhouse with the cold brick front that suited the bleakness of his life. He stomped up the steps.

  As if on cue, the door opened, and Jasper sailed through the entrance. He shrugged out of his cloak, and tossed it to a waiting footman.

  “Your Grace,” the butler greeted, with a deep bow.

  Jasper gave a curt nod in greeting and continued onward down the long corridors, through the length of the house. He paused outside his office door a moment, and then entered.

  Jasper kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. A panicky sensation gripped his chest. He counted to ten, and when it didn’t help, he counted again. Since Lydia’s death he’d found that focusing on those small, succinct numbers diverted his thoughts away from any unwelcome thoughts or emotions.

  He crossed over to the rose-inlaid mahogany table and picked up a decanter of brandy. He poured the amber contents to the rim of a glass, and carried it over to the window. Jasper stared out into the intensifying storm, the flakes swirling outside the windowpane. He took a slow sip.

  Coming to London had been the height of foolishness. He’d allowed Guilford to cajole him into paying a visit to his townhouse. As most members of the ton had left for their countryseats to celebrate the Christmastide season, Jasper would be spared the pointed glances and snide whispers as they gossiped about the Mad Duke. Ultimately, he’d been too much a coward to face the ugly remembrances that lived within the castle walls.

  A knock sounded on his office door.

  “Enter,” he called, his gaze fixed in the streets below.

  The door opened.

  Then the soft shuffle of steps. “Your Grace, a package arrived for you.”

  Jasper stiffened.

  A package?

  “Your Grace?” the butler asked hesitantly.

  “Leave it on my desk.” And get the hell out. The words screamed inside his head but he remained silent. He stared down into the contents of his brandy. He didn’t want any blasted company this day. He blinked as the rich hue put him in mind of a fiery pair of brown eyes. “Christ,” he hissed. Jasper downed his brandy in one long swallow, welcoming the trail it blazed down his throat.

  He set the empty glass down upon a nearby table, and looked over to the package on his desk.

  The fabric, dampened from fresh melted snow, familiar.

  Jasper hesitated, and then strode over to the desk. He picked up the package and undid the velvet ribbon that held the fabric together.

  The Excursion

  He fanned the pages of the book.

  A note slipped out.

  The Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge, cold, heartless bastard he’d become after Lydia’s death wouldn’t care about the blasted contents of the letter. That Jasper would have crossed to the hearth and hurled an unread note into the flames.

  The Jasper Waincourt who’d attended the Frost Fair and rescued a young, unchaperoned lady, bent down, and opened the scrap.

  Your Grace,

  I understand you find my company objectionable, which is all right, considering I’m not overly fond of your frowning countenance.

  Jasper smiled, and continued reading.

  I am, however, eternally grateful for your rescue. Even if you are not. Grateful to have rescued me, that is.

  That gave Jasper pause.

  The young lady couldn’t be more wrong. It would have been a dark day if the light in Lady Katherine’s eyes had been forever darkened by the icy river waters. The velum crackled in his hands, and he forced himself to lighten his hold upon the page. He didn’t care to consider just why it should matter so much to him. It just did.

  I greatly appreciate the kindness you showed this afternoon in offering me the sole copy of The Excursion. In spite of how it may have seemed, I was not merely baiting you. I am in fact, an ardent admirer of Wordsworth’s work. Though in actuality, I did have a good deal of fun teasing you as well.

  I digress…

  I hope you enjoy the pages, as they should be enjoyed.

  Signed,

  Lady Katherine Adamson

  Jasper examined the note, almost willing there to be more than—his finger tapped the parchment as he counted—ten…he blinked. She’d dashed ten sentences upon the page.

  That diversionary number that had brought him temporary distractions over the years.

  He strode over to the hearth, paper in hand, and extended it toward the flame. Black singed the thick ivory velum, as the hint of a flame licked at the corners.

  Jasper cursed and with his hand, killed the faint stirrings of a flame. The ink used by Lady Katherine smeared and smudged, but it remained readable.

  Letter in hand, Jasper made his way over to his desk, pulled out the overstuffed leather chair, and sat.

  It would be madness to send a note to the young lady. Jasper didn’t give three goddamns on Sunday about propriety. Society could go hang.

  It was this desire to write the note in the first place that should reserve him a spot at Bedlam.

  But then, they did not call him the Mad Duke for little reason.

  He tugged open the front drawer of his desk and pulled out a single sheet of parchment. Then, reaching for a pen, he dipped it in an inkwell, and proceeded to write a note to Lady Katherine.

  The tip of his pen upon the paper tapped an annoyingly loud rhythm upon the hard surface of his desk. Jasper, again dipped his pen in ink.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” Jasper barked, not picking his head up.

  What the hell did his butler want with him now? “Has the bloody Queen of England come to visit,” he called, heavy sarcasm intended in that question.

  “I do say I’ve never been confused for the Queen of England. That is certainly the first.”

  Jasper’s head whipped up so quickly, he wrenched his neck. “Guilford,” he said. He rubbed the aching muscles.

  His friend strode over to the table with crystal decanters and poured himself a brandy. Glass in hand, he wandered over to claim the seat across from Jasper. His gaze paused a moment on the empty brandy glass. His eyes narrowed, and then his probing stare swung to the nearly completed letter. “What are you doing?” Guilford craned his neck in an apparent attempt to read Jasper’s private correspondence.

  Not that Lady Katherine was his business. She wasn’t.

  She was…

  A winsome, fiery miss.

  Where the hell did that thoug
ht come from.

  One. Two. Three. Fou—

  “Bainbridge, I say are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he snapped.

  “Because you don’t seem nearly as surly as your usual self. Oh, do not be mistaken, you’re still quite foul, just not as foul as you usually are.”

  He’d had enough of his friend bating him. Jasper tossed his pen down. “What do you want?” He personally wanted the other man gone so he could see to his letter for Lady Katherine.

  Guilford hooked his ankle across his knee. “I wanted to issue an invitation to join my family for the Christmastide—”

  “No,” Jasper cut in. He did not celebrate the holiday season. The godforsaken time of year represented birth and life. His lips twisted at the bitter irony that it also coincided with the time Lydia and his child had been cruelly ripped from the living.

  Guilford continued, either unaware or uncaring of Jasper’s silent tumult. “I’d also wanted to inquire as to whether you’d returned the young lady’s reticule?”

  Lady Katherine as she’d been earlier that afternoon, with a mischievous smile and too-full laugh, flashed to mind. It would appear the Ice Princess had thawed, and in her place was a lively creature that continued to wreak havoc upon his life. He’d not encourage Guilford questioning. “Which lady?” Jasper growled.

  His friend grinned. “Never tell me you’ve heroically rescued another young lady besides Lady Katherine Adamson?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I merely noted that since you met your Lady Katherine you seem in a far less black mood than usual.”

  “She is not my Lady Katherine.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Do not make more of what took place at the Frost Fair than there was.” Jasper picked up his pen and proceeded to compose his note to Lady Katherine. He’d not dare mention to Guilford that the high-spirted creature had occupied a corner of his mind since that chance meeting upon the Thames River. “The lady’s affairs are her own.”

  “Oh?” Guilford took a sip. “I’d just imagined you’d be curious about the young lady.”

  Jasper began to count. He’d not indulge his friend. Jasper was not curious about anything, particularly marriageable misses with tart tongues. “Why should I care about matters involving the young lady?” The question was spoken for both Guilford’s benefit, as much as for his own.

  Guilford passed his glass back and forth between his hands. “Very well, then I shall not mention…” He took another slow, deliberate drink.

  Jasper folded his hands on top of the desk. “What?” that one curt question cost him the hard-won effort to maintain a semblance of disinterest where the lady was concerned.

  “Rumors would have it that her mother, the Countess of Wakefield is eager to make a match between Lady Katherine and Mr. Bertrand Ekstrom.” Jasper’s brows dipped. What parent would dare wed their child to Bertrand Ekstrom? Jasper had known the loathsome bully in his Oxford days. It was no secret that the bastard had unnatural proclivities behind chamber doors. On the heel of that thought came the sickening image of Bertrand Ekstrom’s stubby fingers binding Katherine’s wrists to a bedpost and …

  The pen snapped in his fingers.

  Guilford frowned. “Are you all right?”

  No, he was not all right, and he wished his friend would leave him to his own miseries. Jasper yanked his top desk drawer open and pulled out another pen.

  Guilford carried on with a wave of his hand. “It would seem Ekstrom is next in line for the earldom behind Lady Katherine’s young brother.” His brow furrowed. “The boy’s a mere thirteen or fourteen years, I believe.”

  Jasper would have bartered his own black soul to the devil for just one more breath from his son. Yet, Lady Katherine’s mother would consign her to a life in which she’d be subjected to Ekstrom’s perversions all on the possibility of a what-if? In that moment, he was struck by something he’d thought long dead and buried—sympathy for Lady Katherine. Such a spirited, bold woman deserved far more than an avaricious parent who’d sacrifice her happiness.

  Guilford must have detected that he had an avid audience with Jasper, for he went on in a low, hushed tone. “I’ve heard Ekstrom has taken to using hot wax to scald…”

  A film of red rage descended across his vision at the thought of Katherine’s skin marred by the weasly-bastard. He forced himself to take a steadying breath. “I know what you are attempting to do.”

  Because in the end, Lady Katherine and her future didn’t matter to him. Jasper’s future included no one and that was far safer than worrying after the fate of one young lady.

  His friend sat forward in his seat. “Oh, and what is that?”

  “The lady does not matter,” he lied. She did. Whether Jasper wished it or not. Perhaps it was the bond of pulling her flailing body from the river, and thumping water from her lungs until she breathed once more. Then his interest in her future could be explained. It should not matter the tinkling bell-like quality of her laughter, or the impish smile…his fascination with such attributes could be less easily explained.

  Guilford finished his brandy, and set his empty glass down upon the edge of Jasper’s desk. “You’d live your life where no one matters, Bainbridge. You’d go through life, cold, unfeeling, untouched. That,” He shook his head. “Well, that is a sad way to live.”

  Jasper surged to his feet. “What would you have me do?”

  “I’d have you rejoin the living,” Guilford replied automatically. He stood and met Jasper’s stare. “I do not know if there is any real interest on your part in the Lady Katherine. I don’t know if there is any young lady who could ever recapture your heart after Lydia’s death. But I would that you try and at least find happiness where you can.”

  Jasper waited for the familiar sensation, that sensation of being kicked in the gut whenever he heard his wife’s name mentioned.

  It didn’t come.

  Which in itself sucked the breath from his lungs. He gripped the edge of his desk.

  Guilford glanced down, and said nothing for a long while. They stood locked in a silent, unspoken battle. His friend broke the silence. He gestured to the surface of Jasper’s desk. “I do know a gentleman does not pen notes to, how did you phrase it? Ladies that do not matter?”

  Jasper opened his mouth to reply, but could not force words out.

  Guilford bowed his head. “If you’ll excuse me.” He started for the door.

  The hiss and pop of the blazing fire in the hearth filled the quiet. “I don’t want your help, Guilford,” Jasper barked after him.

  His friend turned back to face him with a smile. “Fortunate for you, I don’t care, Bainbridge.” He closed the door behind him with a firm click.

  Jasper stared at the door, long after Guilford had taken his leave. He reclaimed his seat, and stared blankly down at the note he’d penned. Guilford was his last remaining friend in the world, but oh, how he loathed the other man, just then. How dare Guilford force him to come London, and what’s more, force him to confront what, until this very moment, he’d denied—he, Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge was—lonely.

  Jasper blinked down at the letter he’d written to Katherine. Guilford was correct. Gentlemen did not pen notes to ladies that did not matter.

  He picked up the thick ivory velum and crushed it in his hands.

  Chapter 8

  THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

  The earth, and every common sight,

  To me did seem

  Apparell’d in celestial light,

  The glory and the freshness of a dream.

  It is not now as it hath been of yore;—

  Turn wheresoe’er I may,

  By night or day,

  The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

  The words roused thoughts of the Duke of Bainbridge, as she considered the reality that they were not so very different after all. Life had altered them both in very profound ways.

  A knock sounded a
t the door. She glanced up.

  The butler cleared his throat. “You have a letter, my lady.”

  Her mother and sister’s gazes swung to Katherine.

  Anne set aside her embroidery frame and edged closer to Ollie. She craned her neck in an apparent attempt to identify the wax seal upon the missive.

  With a frown, the servant pulled the silver tray bearing the missive closer.

  Katherine’s heart warmed at his silent defense of her personal privacy.

  Mother returned her attention to the embroidery frame stitched with a colorful peacock. “Who has written you, Katherine?”

  Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out that she surely could not yet know who’d written. “I’m not certain, Mother,” she murmured, and accepted the thick, ivory velum with a smile for Ollie. He gave an imperceptible nod, and ever so quickly, winked at her.

  She looked down at the letter with a familiar seal. A crest that bore a lion rearing up on its legs. Her heart paused.

  “Who is it from, Katherine?” her sister asked with a dogged interest.

  “Benedict,” she replied instantly.

  Anne frowned, and shot her a look that said she knew that Katherine lied.

  Suddenly eager to escape her sister’s probing fascination, lest her mother shift her attention away from the embroidery she presently worked on, Katherine stood. “If you’ll excuse me. I find myself developing a megrim.”

  Her sister made no effort to conceal the unladylike snort that escaped her.

  Katherine hurried out of the room, and wound her way through the house, abovestairs to her own chambers. She glanced over her shoulder to ascertain whether her sister had followed, and then slipped inside.

  She closed the door, and turned the lock.

  Katherine leaned against the door, and considered the letter in her hands. The Duke of Bainbridge did not strike her as the type of gentleman who penned words to young ladies. Her lips twitched with amusement. Quite the opposite. She rather suspected he’d rather send all females, wed and unwed, to the devil quite happily.

  Katherine slid her finger under the seal and unfolded the note.