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

by Christi Caldwell

  Oh, what she wouldn’t trade to have just another several of inches or so with which to boldly face down his impossibly tall frame. She jabbed at him again.

  “And what was that for, Your Grace.”

  “For being so blasted tall,” she muttered.

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  “For being so bloody foul,” she amended, for that might make more sense to her surly ogre of a husband.

  He captured his chin between a thumb and forefinger and rubbed it contemplatively. “I’d rather thought you said—”

  “You’re wrong,” she cut in. Her eyes narrowed. “And you’ve deviated beyond the point, Jasper. We will celebrate Christmas.”

  “I do not—”

  “You do now, husband. So accustom yourself to the very thought of it. Now,” she marched over to the door and pulled it open. “If you will? I have matters to attend.”

  With his unreadable gaze, he did a cursory search of the barren room.

  If he so much as mentioned the absence of any trunks or material possessions that constituted things she could attend to, by God, she’d plant him a facer.

  Jasper stood there, a firm set to his intractable lips, and then took those remaining paces out into the hall, pausing a moment to turn back.

  He opened his mouth, and Katherine closed the door. She turned the lock with a satisfying click.

  Through the years, as the Duke of Bainbridge, Jasper had come to expect certain deferential treatment where he was concerned. Hardly, obsequious on his part, but rather demonstrated through the actions and words of those who’d crossed his path since he’d been a surly babe in the nursery.

  He knew he stared, and had lost track of how many minutes he’d now stood rooted to this particular spot staring at the door his new wife had closed in his face.

  And locked, the devilish imp had locked it as well.

  Because he’d become so accustomed to those certain deferential treatments afforded his status, he found himself quite flummoxed by being shut out of a room, in his own manor.

  He supposed many of the previous Dukes of Bainbridge who’d lived within these dank walls, many, many years ago, would have taken the door down with their hands.

  The other Dukes of Bainbridge surely would have been too occupied by their mistresses to either know or care that said door had been locked.

  Lest he be discovered by his rather limited household staff gaping at a door like a nannypanny, Jasper spun on his heel and strode with determined steps through the house, until he at last reached the library.

  People didn’t defy him, and yet, this small slip of a lady had not only defied him but commanded him, insisting he celebrate the Christmastide season.

  Jasper shoved the heel of his Hessian boot against the door. He relished the reverberations as it shook in its frame.

  Lock the door on him, had she.

  Jasper stormed over to the floor-to-ceiling-length shelving of books, and tugged free a white sheet draped across the leather volumes. It danced to the ground in a noisy, wrinkly heap. He stepped over it, and furiously scanned the titles of books he’d not touched in years.

  He pulled out a collection of Coleridge’s poems and tossed it to the floor. The disregarded sheet dulled the solid thump of book hitting floor.

  What had she expected of him?

  Jasper pulled out one of Byron’s works. His eyes skimmed the title, and then he dropped it atop the forgotten Coleridge works. Considering the fury thrumming through his energized frame, Jasper would sooner burn the romantic work of Byron than read it.

  She’d been clear that theirs would be a marriage of convenience and that she carried no real affection for him. His brow wrinkled. Or, he’d not believed she’d mentioned anything where emotion was concerned.

  His Katherine was practical and logical and not the heady, flighty creatures flitting around London.

  Only in the two days and a handful of hours since they’d been wed, she’d shown herself to be a highly emotional creature, and he didn’t know how to handle such feelings. Especially not with the years he’d been shut away from Society. And especially not with Katherine, the one person who’d managed to infiltrate the fortress he’d constructed around his heart.

  He preferred the cool indifference he’d carried toward not only life, but to anyone who crossed his path.

  Jasper didn’t want to worry about another being hurt, or injured, or even happy, for that matter; because all of those sentiments required something of him, and he didn’t want to give anything, because frankly—he didn’t have anything left to give.

  Or he’d thought he had nothing left to give, no warmth or joy or interest—until Katherine.

  He reached slowly, absently for another book and stared unblinking at the title.

  She’d forced him to accept the disquieting, uncomfortable truth.

  He cared.

  Somehow, she’d shattered the lie he’d made of his life since Lydia’s death.

  Wordsworth.

  Jasper reared his arm back to toss the volume atop the copy of forgotten books, but froze. He lowered it, and studied the title a minute. An hour?

  He walked over to the leather sofa, creased and weathered from age and wear and sat with Wordsworth’s book on his lap.

  Before Lydia, he’d considered himself a sensible gentleman. He’d possessed a reputation amongst the ton as a ruthless, emotionless man. Then Lydia had shown him happiness could exist.

  With her death, he’d realized happiness was nothing more than an illusion and so he’d retreated from Society and buried himself in the solitude of his castle to lick the wounds left by his misery.

  Now, with Katherine she’d opened his eyes to the staggering truth—he lived; he lived, and still felt desire and all other sentiments he’d hoped to keep buried.

  Jasper shoved the book atop the pile of misbegotten books where it fell open upon its spine.

  He rested his elbows onto his knees and stared down at the floor, as he acknowledged the truth: he did not, could not resent Katherine. Rather—he hated himself. For seated there, he couldn’t dredge forth Lydia’s face. Not the color of her hair, or the sound of her laughter. Nothing.

  In his mind’s eye, she’d been replaced by a woman with tight brown ringlets, a tart tongue, and a husky alto laugh. A woman unimpressed by his title who challenged him on every score.

  His gaze landed on that open page.

  And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope,

  An undistinguishable Throng!

  And gentle Wishes long subdued,

  Subdued and cherish’d long!

  She wanted him to again celebrate Christmas, and though it seemed the ultimate betrayal of Lydia and his unborn babe, Jasper was fast finding it nigh impossible to deny Katherine anything.

  Chapter 20

  Katherine walked a circle around the massive, stone foyer, hands propped upon her hips. She angled her head and studied the white sheets draped over the tapestries hung on the stone walls. She’d expected the servants would have removed the coverings, and yet, in the light of a new day, the draperies remained.

  Katherine nibbled at her lower lip, and wandered closer to the nearest sheet. She really couldn’t see to the proper Christmastide trimmings with the castle in its present state. Arching on tip-toe, she made a grab for the corner of the covering.

  “Might I be of assistance, Your Grace?”

  Katherine screeched and spun around to greet the butler. She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “No. I was just…”

  He angled his head.

  Katherine’s lips flattened. “Actually, yes, Wrinkleton you can be of assistance. I’d like to take this down.” She pointed up at the sheet. “And that one.” She waved her finger over to the next covering. “And all of them. If you would be so good as to send several footmen.”

  The servant blinked like a night-owl. “Remove them?”

  Ahh, it would appear they were up at the duke’s urging, and not merely bec
ause Jasper had been in London. “Remove them,” she said with a nod.

  The older servant shuffled back and forth upon his feet. He held his hands folded in front of him, wringing them in an agitated manner. “His Grace would—”

  “Want me to do as I see appropriate with the household furnishings.” She crossed her fingers and hid them in the folds of her skirt.

  A bead of sweat dotted Wrinkleton’s brow. He removed a kerchief from within his jacket and dabbed at his head.

  “If you’d speak first to the duke, and ascertain if that is to his pleasure, I’d most surely assist, Your Grace. It is just…” his words trailed off. “What are you doing, Your Grace?” he blurted, in his seeming nervousness forgetting his status. Or mayhap it was merely that he feared his employer that much.

  She’d forgotten that whole Mad Duke nonsense.

  “I’m taking them down myself, then,” she murmured, and made a swiping grab for the nearest sheet.

  The momentary thrill of satisfaction surged through her, as her fingers made purchase with the fabric.

  She tugged it back and forth, and then in a fluttering cloud of white, it tumbled to the floor.

  Katherine stared at it with satisfaction, ignoring the manner in which the butler closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth.

  “I assure you, my husband will voice no complaint.” After all, this seemed a rather small indulgence in the scheme of the cold, practical union Jasper insisted upon.

  She would have wagered the nails upon one of her hands that he muttered, “We shall certainly see.”

  Katherine mustered her most winning smile and returned her attention to her task. “Will you send round the servants? Or shall I…” Her words ended on a breathless whisper. “Oh, my goodness.”

  The meticulously stitched fabrics could rival any embroidery in all the kingdom. She tiptoed closer to the work of art. She angled her head and studied the piece. Adorned in a cascade of red, fuchsia, and violet rose bushes with a powder blue sky filled with white clouds, the image drove back the cold of winter, and called forth thoughts of spring.

  “Her Grace completed them.”

  It took a moment for the servant’s words to penetrate her awe. Katherine blinked.

  The butler coughed discreetly. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

  Katherine glanced over her shoulder. She spoke with gentle tones. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Wrinkleton.” The stunning craftsmanship called her notice once more.

  The former duchess had managed this? A pang pulled at her heart, as she imagined a happy woman married to an equally happy man, sitting together. In that vision Jasper sat reading poems to his perfect duchess who completed the embroidery.

  Her throat moved up and down in a reflexive manner, and she loathed herself for begrudging them the happiness of even an imagined bucolic moment together.

  “Your Grace?” Wrinkleton spoke again, interrupting her melancholy musings.

  “Then they need to come down, Wrinkleton. It is unfair to the duchess’ memory.” And if he’d not help her, well, then she’d tear down every last one of the sheets herself.

  With an unladylike leap that would have earned her quite the setting down from Mother, Katherine reached for another sheet. From beyond her shoulder, she registered someone moving close, and then stopping beside her.

  She peered over at Wrinkleton.

  He cleared his throat. “Then, please allow me to offer my assistance.”

  A polite rejection hovered at her lips, at the prospect of burdening the older servant, but instead she nodded. They set to work and a short while later, the tall, imposing foyer had been transformed into a kind of floral heaven forever memorialized upon the fabric by the former duchess. I’ve not much time,” she went on, and moved over to the next sheet, “before the eve of Christmas.”

  Katherine stepped back and considered the work she and Wrinkleton had done here. A kind of bittersweet wistfulness filled her heart. How very odd to consider that these masterpieces were done by the woman who’d earned Jasper’s love, and that they should hang here forgotten and forlorn for none to see.

  She meandered over to the corner of the explosion of roses and studied the fabric. A chill stole through her as she considered that the other woman’s fingers had handled the piece. It served as a stark reminder that Katherine was nothing more than an interloper on what had been a true marriage between Jasper and Lydia, his true duchess.

  Her gaze climbed up the product and settled on the vicious thorns upon the fuchsia rose bush. She angled her head. How very out of place those vicious points were. Mayhap sewn there by the other woman to remind whichever woman who entered these halls of the danger in expecting affection from the duke.

  The greenish-black thorn blurred before her eyes, and with a frustrated sense of shock, Katherine realized that tears threatened to spill. She blinked them back. She’d not shed a tear since her father had died and left their lives in utter shambles. Now, since she’d met Jasper Waincourt, the 8th Duke of Bainbridge, he’d turned her into a veritable watering pot.

  A white kerchief dangled before her, and she stiffened, accepting the silent offering from Wrinkleton. She discreetly, dabbed at her eyes. Taking a steady, controlled breath, she looked to the butler.

  “Now, is there perchance a footman who might assist me?”

  Jasper tapped the tip of his pen in a distracted rhythm atop the surface of his mahogany desk. The click-click-click-click of the pen meeting wood uncharacteristically loud in the quiet of his office.

  His steward had left him several hours ago.

  He paused, mid-movement, the pen suspended above the surface of the desk.

  Jasper suspected he’d offended his wife’s sensibilities with his clear articulation of the expectations for their union. She’d not joined him to break her fast, and had remained conspicuously absent.

  He tossed his pen down and leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked in protest.

  Jasper did not care for what change his actions had wrought upon his wife. The Katherine he knew since he’d first pulled her free from the Thames had a vibrant spirit that could not be quashed, and yet in the matter of her forty-eight hours and handful of minutes since she’d become his duchess, she’d closeted herself away in her chambers and not come out.

  And he didn’t like her absence from his life.

  Rather, he detested it.

  His gaze strayed over to the wide floor-length windows along the back wall of his office. The grayish-white sky perfectly suited his mood.

  He swiped a hand across his face.

  He might not want a marriage in the true sense with his spirited wife, but neither did she deserve his recent callous treatment. With her absence, she made him feel…feel…guilty. And he didn’t like to be made to feel guilty. Or feel anything, for that matter. With a growl, Jasper surged to his feet. He’d done a formidable job of separating himself from the thoughts and feelings of those around him.

  Then Katherine stumbled into his life, literally stumbled, if one considered their meeting at the Frost Fair and in one fateful meeting, she’d thrown his world into upheaval.

  Jasper wrenched the door open, and stormed through the entrance. He marched with deliberate steps toward her chambers.

  Well, he’d not allow her to play wounded soul any further. She’d suggested a marriage of convenience. In her discussion, she’d been practical in all matters pertaining to a possible match between them. Now she’d act the injured party for an agreement she’d willingly entered into.

  His bootsteps marked a staccato path upon the floor.

  Jasper took the stairs to her rooms two at a time. His long stride made short work of the space between them. He reached for the handle of her door, and then paused, remembering himself.

  In spite of her bold spirit and fiery eyes, Katherine was still an innocent, proper, young lady. If he were to simply storm her chambers like the lords of old, then she’d only further retreat into this protecti
ve indignant state she’d created for herself.

  So he knocked.

  And knocked again.

  And…

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  Jasper jerked at the lapels of his double-breasted jacket. He was the bloody Duke of Bainbridge. He made for the handle yet again, but stopped and forced himself to draw in an even breath.

  “Katherine?”

  Silence.

  Jasper turned the handle and entered.

  His gaze scoured the room. The immaculately folded bed indicated she’d risen some time ago.

  With a scowl, Jasper turned back around.

  He cursed.

  “Christ, Wrinkleton, don’t you know one mustn’t sneak up on a man? What is it?”

  Wrinkleton inclined his head. “My apologies, Your Grace,” Though in Jasper’s estimation, the butler hardly sounded anything but apologetic. “But Her Grace is not here.”

  “Not here?” Jasper repeated, knowing he must sound like a perfect lack-wit.

  “She has gone out, Your Grace.”

  Gone out.

  Gone out?

  Surely he’d heard the man wrong. Jasper glanced over to the windows and scowled. The snow continued to fall in earnest. What madness possessed his young wife to go out in such weather?

  Then he thought of their first fateful encounter. Should he expect any different in the woman who’d forsaken a chaperone and braved Society’s censure to take part in the festivities of the Frost Fair?

  “Yes, that is correct, Your Grace. She’s gone out,” Wrinkleton said in slow, exaggerated tones.

  Jasper narrowed his eyes upon the old, family servant. The man had known Jasper since Jasper had been tormenting his tutors, and running the servants ragged with his antics throughout the castle. Otherwise, he’d hardly tolerate such insolence, in anyone…except, Wrinkleton.