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

by Christi Caldwell

  He’d intended to send her away with a curt rejection, back to her protective, but not protective enough, mama’s side. Except, she’d mentioned Katherine and as a friend, he could not in good conscience let her go without talking some sense into her senseless head. He’d wager his entire land-holdings that if he sent her back to the evening’s festivities with a simple no, she’d surely find the second someone on her list to help her with this plan. He balled his hands into fists. “Who do you intend to seduce?”

  Hope flared in fathomless depths of her eyes. “I can trust you?”

  “Really, my lady?” He scoffed. “You’d ask me to teach you how to seduce a man but you’ll withhold his identity?”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled the plump flesh. “To be skeptical, that is.”

  His gaze went to her mouth. Heat surged through him at the innocently erotic movement. And then he remembered the sweet taste of her, orgeat and honey. His fingers twitched with a sudden urge to pull her back into his arms and avail himself to …“Christ.” The angry entreaty burst from him.

  She jumped, clearly misinterpreting the reason for his annoyance. “Forgive me. The Duke of Crawford. I’d like you to teach me the skill of seduction so I might…er…earn the duke’s affections.”

  She’d clearly mistaken the reason for his frustration. He imagined the fun Anne would have at his expense if she gleaned his sudden desire to kiss her senseless until she was moaning in his mouth once more.

  Then her words penetrated the mad haze around him. “The Duke of Crawford?” he repeated.

  She nodded.

  Crawford. The thirty-year-old duke who’d inherited his title nearly ten years back was rumored to be in the market for a wife. Obscenely wealthy, coolly proper, company desired by all, Lady Anne could not have set her marital sights on a more sought-after bachelor.

  Harry’s lip curled back in a sneer. Surely a title-grasping miss should no longer take him aback. Not after Margaret Dunn’s betrayal all those years ago. As long as there was an unwed duke about, there would be a scheming miss at hand. Lady Anne Adamson could not be more different in appearance than the woman who’d broken his heart many years back, but she was remarkably similar in her goals and desires.

  Lady Anne waved her hand in front of his face. “Lord Stanhope?”

  He squared his jaw. “So, you’ll trap poor, unsuspecting Crawford?”

  She patted the back of her head. “I’ve already said I do not intend to trap His Grace. I intend for you to teach me how to teach him to desire me.” Another blush. “For a wife,” she said hurriedly.

  He folded his arms. “Why Crawford?”

  “Well, if you must know—”

  “I must.” Though he already strongly suspected not much more than the man’s old, revered title most accounted for Anne’s interest in the duke.

  She gave a slight shrug. “He’s pleasantly handsome.”

  He snorted.

  Anne bristled. “And he’s unfailingly polite.” She gave him a pointed look.

  “I gather that’s because you’ve never insulted the gentleman,” he muttered. Unlike Harry, who’d become something of an archery target for her well-placed barbs since their first meeting. Though, in, fairness at this particular moment he quite deserved the lady’s displeasure.

  “I suppose you are correct,” she surprised him by concurring. Her next words ended all such shock. “But then, the duke has never done something as reprehensible as trying to seduce my sister.”

  A dull flush climbed up his neck. And when put in those blunt terms, he did feel properly chastised.

  She continued either uncaring or unaware of his discomfiture. “He’s wealthy and in possession of one of the oldest titles.” Ah, there it was. “And he doesn’t even know I exist,” she finished on a dramatic sigh.

  Harry tugged at one of her golden ringlets. “It is your ringlets—”

  “Oh, do hush.” She slapped his fingers again. “It is not my ringlets.”

  “Then, what is it?” he asked in a lazy whisper as he laid claim to the silken strands once more.

  Anne froze, her mouth screwed up in concentration. He used the momentary quiet to study her. Though not the lithe, exotically dark beauties he generally preferred, she really was quite lovely; in an unsophisticated, English-lady, type of way. “I don’t know what it is,” she said at last. Her shoulders rose and fell. “I’ve tried to capture his attention.”

  He swallowed a chuckle, imagining just what that had entailed.

  Her face set in a familiar scowl. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “You need my help,” he reminded her and released the satiny strand.

  She squared her shoulders. “I’ll still not humble myself and be mocked by you because I’ve sought your help.”

  Good for the young lady. With her steely strength, Anne rose in his estimation. Oh, he’d never admit as much to the spitfire. He drummed his fingers upon his thigh. There was no helping it, he really must know. “How have you gone about trying to capture Crawford’s notice?”

  She gestured to her skirts. “My gowns.”

  He looked at her wildly gesticulating hands. “What about your gowns?”

  “I’ve worn my finest gown.”

  It would seem Harry was more a gentleman than even he believed because he managed to resist pointing out that her ivory ruffled skirts wouldn’t manage to stir interest from even the most staid, respectable lord in the market for a wife. Instead, Harry mentally stripped the proper gown from her lean, lithe frame and replaced it with the gold, water-dampened skirts the Viscountess Kendrick’s had worn. He must have had too many spirits to even be considering such an outlandish thought involving the tart-mouthed Anne Adamson. “Hmm,” he said noncommittally.

  “And I’ve dabbed lavender oil behind my ears.” She recoiled. “What are you doing?”

  He froze, his nose a breath away from her ear. “I’m smelling your lavender-scented skin, my lady.”

  Color stained her neck. Harry inhaled the sweet, fragrant hint of lavender that clung to her and started. He’d never found the innocent scent to be the least enticing and yet… “Well?” Anne prodded.

  “Yes, certainly the scent of lavender, there…ow…” She jammed the heel of her slipper into his toes. He’d always taken her for a bloodthirsty creature. With that disagreeable attitude the young lady stood little hope of snaring the sought-after Duke of Crawford.

  “Oh, hush. I’m speaking of the duke. Not about my skin.”

  My skin.

  Something sultry and spellbinding held him captive as he considered the delicate, satiny softness of Lady Anne’s skin. When she’d been in his arms, he’d appreciated the silken feel of her, smoother than the finest French fabrics. Christ, he must be going mad to notice such things as—

  Anne jammed her heel into his foot yet again.

  He grunted in surprise. “What the hell was that for?”

  “Er, you seemed distracted. That was merely to obtain your attention. Will you help me attain the duke’s affections?”

  He snorted. “Title grasping and fortune-hunting, my dear?” Just like Margaret. His humor fled as with Anne’s scheming, she dragged him back into a past he’d buried long ago, and forgotten—until now. Until Anne and her talk of wealthy, powerful dukes. “I must say not wholly unexpected for one such as you.”

  She folded her arms across her chest once more, and drew his gaze to her plump breasts. He angled his head. How had he failed to note her rather enticing décolletage? “Why must you use that ‘one-such-as-you’ phrase? It’s rather insulting.”

  “Are you trying to seduce a gentleman for his title?” He shot back.

  Her color deepened to the red of a sun-ripened strawberry. “It’s…I…you wouldn’t understand.”

  Harry thought back to a different woman. A young lady he’d been reckless enough to waste his heart upon. He thrust thoughts of her from his mind. He lowered his head
so his lips nearly brushed Anne’s. “No, you are correct. I wouldn’t,” he whispered. “Nothing can ever merit seducing a gentleman for his wealth and title.”

  She angled her head back and withered him with a glare. “No, but seducing a woman for her…female attributes is entirely honorable, my lord?”

  Touché. And, hell, when she put it that way…

  She tapped his cheek. “Will you help me or not?”

  Most any other young lady would be fluttering her lids and using a honeyed tone to convince him to do her bidding. Anne, however was immune to his usual charm. “I cannot, my lady.” In spite of Society’s low opinion of him, he still had some sense of honor. Honor enough to not teach a marriage-minded, innocent miss the art of seduction.

  She sprung forward on the balls of her feet as if prepared to launch her whole self into the protest on her lips but then sank back on her heels. “Very well.” She gave a flounce of her curls and started for the door.

  He crossed his arms and drummed his fingertips on his forearm. He knew from those mere two words and the steely resolve in her tone that the young lady had already moved on to the alternative in her plan to ensnare the duke.

  Do not ask. Do not ask. Do not ask.

  Her fingers touched the handle of the conservatory door.

  “Who do you intend to seek out next, my lady?” Because a lady as resolute to snare the duke, a lady who’d crafted this ill-advised plot had surely already considered the course of action after his inevitable refusal.

  Anne spun back to face him. “The Marquess of Rutland.”

  Bloody hell.

  She tipped her head. “What was that?”

  Of all the men in the whole damned kingdom, she’d picked Rutland. He fisted his hands at his side. “What was what?” His question emerged as a steely whisper.

  She glanced about, seeming wholly unaffected by the inner turmoil raging through him. “Er, nothing, I’d believed I’d heard—”

  “Do not try and change the subject, madam,” he bit out.

  She waved her long, graceful fingers breezily about. “No matter, then.”

  He stared transfixed at her elegant fingers and unbidden thoughts entered of the innocent Lady Anne Adamson using those hands upon that bastard Rutland, using them for things no proper lady should ever do. The irony in her selection for tutor was not lost on him. Nearly ten years ago, he’d battled Rutland for the avaricious Miss Margaret Dunn’s hand. His lips twisted in a humorless smile. In the end, they’d dueled and she’d chosen neither of them. Since then, Rutland, with his shocking proclivities for bondage and riding crops behind chamber doors, had earned a reputation far blacker than Harry’s.

  And Rutland wouldn’t hesitate to assist Lady Anne and introduce her to the art of seduction.

  “Good evening, my lord,” Anne’s parting greeting, yanked him back from the hell of his past. The click of the door opening sounded like a shot in the night.

  He imagined her slim body stretched out, bound to that bastard’s four-poster bed. A cold chill snaked through him. “Stop,” he said quietly. He must be going mad. There was no other explaining the fact that he now seriously contemplated her proposal.

  She spun around yet again and all but sprinted across the expertly manicured grounds. “Have you reconsidered, my lord?” Hope danced in her eyes.

  “Quiet. I’m thinking.” He stared out at the Lord Essex’s meticulous grounds. He fixed his gaze on the massive rendering at the farthest corner—a life-size stone Hercules with his spear thrust toward two lions reared in battle. Harry would be wise to seek out Lady Katherine and let her know just what request her sister had put to him. And yet… He glanced at Anne.

  She studied him with a somber expression.

  Perhaps it was boredom on his part. He looked back at the vicious stone lions. Or perhaps he and Rutland were not unlike those primitive beasts. He’d be damned if he allowed Rutland the upper hand in this matter. Not when it affected Katherine’s sister.

  Something compelled him to help her. To protect her from not just Lord Rutland but also any of the other reprehensible rogues who would gladly take advantage of her naiveté. Yes, if he were any kind of friend to Katherine, he’d throw Anne his support.

  Her blue eyes sparkled. “You’ll do it,” she breathed, having clearly followed the silent direction his thoughts had traveled. She excitedly clapped her hands. “You must—”

  He held a hand up and effectively silenced her. “Let us be clear, Lady Anne, I’m doing this merely to protect you from yourself.”

  Her mouth formed a small moue of displeasure.

  He took a step toward her. “I’ve no intentions of touching you.” Did she appear crestfallen? “I’ll help until he makes you that offer.” And Harry had little doubt under his tutelage, the haughty duke would be offering for the infuriating Lady Anne well before the end of the Season. “I’ll instruct you on how to entice a gentleman but beyond that, do not expect anything else of me.”

  She spoke on a rush. “Of course not, my lord.” A golden ringlet fell over her eye.

  Harry brushed the silken tendril back. “Harry,” he corrected. For many years, he’d detested the nickname. It held reminders of the empty promises on Margaret’s lips as she’d breathed his name. He lowered his lips close to Anne’s ear. “If I’m to teach you the art of seduction, then I imagine you should use my Christian name.” Now he embraced the sobriquet for it reminded him of the perils in loving another.

  With their closeness, he detected the audible inhalation of breath, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She trailed her tongue over her lips. So the minx wasn’t immune to him. Harry reveled in that slight attestation of her feminine interest. Harry dropped his gaze lower as he once again appreciated the creamy expanse of her full breasts. He nearly choked. What in hell was he doing ogling Lady Anne’s charms? Hadn’t he just stated in no uncertain terms he’d not, in any way, touch her?

  She squared her shoulders as if bracing for battle and said, “Very well, then.” She paused. “Harry.” All antipathy for that name, Harry momentarily lifted. There was a husky, almost sultry quality to Anne’s voice. It filled him with a sudden urge to hear it upon her plump, red lips once more.

  She stuck a hand out. “Then you must call me Anne.”

  He stared blankly down at her outstretched fingers. “What in hell is that?”

  “What is what?” She looked around and then followed his gaze to her hand. “This?” She waggled her fingers. “This is a hand, my lord.” Confusion tinged her reply.

  “Harry,” he corrected and sent a prayer skyward in search of patience. “And what are you doing with your hand, Anne?”

  “I’m offering you my hand, Harry.” She smiled.

  He counted to five. “For what purpose?”

  “Well,” she screwed her mouth up as if pondering his question. “It seemed like a kind of an introduction between us and then I thought we might shake hands to seal our agreement.”

  The young lady intended to enlist his tutelage in the art of seduction and she thought to seal that with a bloody handshake? His lips twitched.

  She lowered her hand back to her side. A frown chased away her cheerful smile. “Have I said something to amuse you, my lord?”

  Why did he suddenly mourn the momentary camaraderie between them? The curl fell back over her brow. She blew it back. Harry caught the sun-kissed lock between his thumb and forefinger. “You have.”

  She gave a flounce of her curls and spun on her heels. “Oh, do forget I ever mentioned anything. I don’t need your help. I’ll speak to Lord Rutland. I certainly don’t need—”

  The hell she would.

  She gasped when he settled his hands upon her shoulders and slowed her steps. He placed his lips a breath away from the long, graceful stretch of her neck. “Lies,” he breathed. “You do need me, sweet, or you wouldn’t have set aside your dislike, risked your reputation, and put such an offer to me.”

  It didn’t escape his notice
that she didn’t contradict his claim. It shouldn’t matter whether or not she disliked him. After all, the imp had hardly endeared herself to him this past year. Except, he loathed the idea of her seeking out Lord Rutland or any other nameless bounder. But especially Rutland.

  Anne gasped and arched her head as though tickled. “S-stop,” she whispered. She didn’t make to pull away and he was encouraged.

  He ran his hands from her shoulders, down her forearms and wrapped his fingers loosely about her wrists. “You mistook the reason for my amusement, sweet Anne,” he breathed.

  “D-did I-I?” she angled her head and looked back up at him.

  “I laughed at the idea of shaking on an agreement. I imagine our agreement would best be sealed with a kiss.” Only what had begun as a game in teasing now became something all too real. He dropped his gaze to her lush lips and groaned.

  With the pink tip of her tongue, she traced the seam of her lips. She raised her gaze to his mouth and for a moment he believed the bold vixen intended to lean on tiptoe and brush her lips against his. “B-but I believed you’d said you had n-no intention of touching me.” Then, a slow, knowing smile wreathed her cheeks. “Oh.” She swatted at his hands. “You’re teasing me.”

  No, no he hadn’t been. He really should let her go. They flirted with disaster. Someone would surely notice the young lady’s absence and if he were discovered with her… He shuddered at the prospect of being saddled with marriage to the insolent baggage.

  Anne danced out of his arms on a small laugh. “It is settled then.” She placed her fingers in his and gave a firm shake.

  It certainly wasn’t. “Not quite, sweet.”

  “Don’t call me sweet.” She frowned with all the stern disapproval of a woman vastly older than her twenty years.

  He propped his hip on the wrought-iron bench behind him. In his experience, ladies loved all manner of endearments. Sweet. Dear. Lovely. The only one he took care to avoid at all costs was love.

  Anne took a step back toward him. She squinted as if trying to study his features in the moonlight. “What is it you want?” she said with a world-wise wariness. Perhaps the first sensible thought from the lady all night.