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

by Christi Caldwell

  Her mother leaned across the seat and glared at them.

  Harry promptly removed his arm from behind the back of Anne’s chair and she mourned the loss of that closeness. The countess returned her attention to the performance. He returned his hand to its earlier position, and briefly brushed his knuckles along her exposed shoulders.

  Anne shivered at the spiraling heat that coursed through her. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his deliberate touch. All the guests in front remained with their gazes trained forward. She could ill-afford the scandal of Harry intimately touching her in public, yet she craved his expert caress.

  His grin widened, as though he knew the very effect he was having on her. “Now that I have your attention, sweet.” His whisper fanned her ear.

  “Behave,” she scolded. She leaned forward in her chair determined to put aside thoughts of Harry’s touch, or his heated gaze, or well, anything and everything him. She leaned sideways in attempt to gather a better view of her beloved pianoforte around Lord Cumberland’s, well his er, cumbersome frame.

  “Anne,” Harry whispered.

  Warmth unfurled in her belly at the hot intensity of his bold stare.

  “It is time for your next lesson, sweet.”

  She gulped. With his thick, golden lashes he made her forget the plan that had brought him into her life. “Here?” God help her, she was as weak as her now heartbroken mother.

  “Here,” he said, quietly. He leaned down, closing the distance between them. “Music. It is the food of the soul.”

  She blinked several times. This is what he’d speak of? Not forbidden kisses and heated caresses. “I thought that was poetry,” she blurted. Katherine and her mother shot her a glare. Anne sat back in her seat, cheeks ablaze.

  “Music, poetry. It is all the same, sweet,” he continued, either unaware or uncaring of the disapproving stares trained on him by her family. Knowing Harry’s reputation as she did, Anne ventured it was the latter. He pressed his thigh against hers. “You do know how to sing?”

  The great, big lummox. She pursed her lips. “Of course I do.”

  He removed his hand from the back of her seat. “Not the soft, lyrical soprano type of voice, sweet, but rather the husky whisper of song that makes a man think of bedrooms and bedsheets and all things forbidden.”

  She should be scandalized by his outrageous words and yet, she’d never thought of music as a tool of seduction. Through the years, music had been the small pleasure she’d allowed herself in life. Something she was tolerably good at in a world where people didn’t see her as very much good at anything. It seemed inherently wrong to use song to earn a gentleman’s affection.

  The crowd erupted into applause as Lady Amelia Westmoreland’s piece abruptly ended. Anne clapped her hands until Lady Ava Westmoreland stood and approached the pianoforte. The plump, bespectacled young lady launched into song two.

  She winced at the high-pitched squawk of the woman’s voice, and stole an upward glance at the chandelier, fearing for the well-being of the crystal. The young woman’s somewhat dismal performance, however, gave her something to focus on other than Harry’s clear attempt at shocking her.

  Alas, Harry was relentless. “Will you regale the duke with a song this evening, Anne?”

  She scowled. “Do hush.”

  He leaned ever closer, so close the scandal sheets would have had quite a bit to print the following morning if Anne and Harry weren’t seated at the back of the hall with only the servants as their witnesses. “You’ll sing,” he commanded. “And you’ll remember my lesson. You’ll sing in a husky—”

  “A lady cannot determine whether she is a contralto or soprano, my lord,” she interrupted. He might know all manner of things about seduction, but was remarkably ill-advised in matters of music.

  “Sultry, contralto, Anne.”

  “Humph.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared at the back of Lord Cumberland’s baldpate, determined to ignore the rogue at her side.

  The young lady thought to ignore him. Unfortunate for Lady Anne Adamson, she’d yet to learn it was nigh impossible if Harry wanted a lady’s attention.

  Not that he wanted her attention, per se.

  He stole a sideways glance at the proper English miss beside him with golden ringlets and… that single curl wound with a ribbon, nestled between her plump breasts. He swallowed hard. When he’d agreed to school the termagant Lady Anne Adamson on the art of seduction, he’d never for a moment considered that he himself would be tempted by the young lady who’d been quite rude to him since their first meeting. Even with her curved-in-all-the-right-places figure, Anne would never be the manner of miss to tempt him. Her tongue was too tart. Her frown of disapproval too deep. There were enough sweet-lipped, sultry-eyed beauties that Harry wouldn’t bother with the Lady Anne’s of the world.

  Yet, something about her intrigued him. Perhaps she represented a diversion from the ennui that had plagued him for these months since Katherine had left London and returned with her husband. Mayhap it was the thrill of teaching a young lady the art of seduction. Whatever it was, she’d drawn him into her siren’s net and he was loath to shake free of her hold.

  The crowd broke into a smattering of applause as Lady Ava concluded her piece that might have been one of Shield’s works, but Harry certainly would never make any significant wagers on the actual composer of the song. He hooked his ankle across his knee and continued to eye Anne. She pursed her lips and stole a quick glance up at him and then promptly returned her attention to the front of the hall. His lips twitched. Yes, the lady might attempt to ignore him, but she was little match for his charm.

  “Don’t you know it’s impolite to stare?” she whispered from the corner of her mouth.

  “Yes,” he said on a grin.

  Anne pointed her gaze skyward and returned her attention to Lady Caro Westmoreland, the next Westmoreland girl to take the floor. The young lady could have sprouted wings and joined the heavenly choir of angels amidst Lady Westmoreland’s recital hall and Harry would still be unable to look away from Anne’s breasts. The pale creamy white of her modest décolletage evoked all manner of sinful thoughts that involved her on her back and…

  He groaned.

  Concern replaced the earlier annoyance in Anne’s pale blue eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Harry waved a hand. “Fine, fine,” he said quietly, his voice garbled. Really, far from fine. Because by God, Harry did not desire proper, marriage-minded misses. Even if they did possess lush forms to rival the fabled fertility goddesses. More specifically, he did not desire Anne.

  She was cheeky.

  And rude.

  And condescending.

  To him, anyway.

  And he’d enough ladies clamoring for his notice that he didn’t need or want the attention of an impudent creature like her. She craned her long, graceful neck around Lord Cumberland’s cumbersome frame in attempt to view the front hall, her attention on Lady Caro now singing her off-key tune.

  “She’s wearing a pale yellow satin gown with white lace trim,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

  Anne blinked. She looked around.

  He gestured to the front of the hall. “I gather you’re trying to see the young lady’s gown?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Why would I care about the lady’s gown?”

  Anne’s family glared as one at the two of them.

  Harry grinned in response and continued. “Isn’t that what you have, my lady? A keen appreciation for fashion and—”

  She snorted. “Lord Harry, I wear white and ivory satin ruffled monstrosities. Do I take you as one to spend the evening mooning over a pretty gown?”

  “Quite the reason to moon over a pretty gown,” he amended.

  Her mouth screwed up. “I suppose.” She shook her head. “But I’m not staring at her gown. I’m watching the performance,” she spoke as if scolding a recalcitrant child.

  Lady Katherine frowned at the two of
them. Harry winked and the Katherine he’d come to know as friend gave her head a disapproving shake.

  “Oomph.”

  Anne jabbed an elbow in his side, a frown on her plump lips.

  Bloody hell. The chit had sharp, dagger-like elbows. “What was that for?”

  She opened and closed her mouth several times like a trout plucked from a well-stocked lake. “You weren’t paying attention.” He cocked his head. “To the recital,” she clarified.

  Lady Caro concluded her song and thunderous applause filled the hall, applause which likely had a good deal more to do with the actual end of her piece than anything else. The next Westmoreland lady stepped forward to wound the ears of those present. She eyed the crowded room with something akin to horror, and Harry suspected this particular Westmoreland was well-aware of her precise level of talent. She opened her mouth and another off-key song resonated throughout the marbled space.

  He sighed. “Another lyrical soprano,” he said, knowing it would infuriate Anne.

  She jabbed an elbow in his side. Again.

  Harry winced. He was going to have a vicious bruise to his ribs by the end of the evening’s performance.

  “I’ve already told you, a lady can no more determine the pitch quality of her voice than she can…”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  She frowned. “Than she can…well, I don’t know. But I do know a lady cannot simply decide if she is a soprano or contralto. It is something she’s born with and not something she can or for that matter should” another jab, “want to change, all to earn the affections of a man who’d have her with a husky singing voice.”

  “Sultry.”

  She cocked her head.

  “Husky and sultry. You forgot—”

  “Will you two hush?” Katherine whispered.

  Color flooded Anne’s cheeks and she gave a curt nod.

  Lady One-of-the-Westmorelands at last concluded her piece, ushering in a brief, and much needed intermission. A loud buzz, like a hive he’d once knocked down as a boy, filled the room as the members of the ton present gossiped and chatted.

  Harry tilted back on the legs of his chair and yawned.

  “I imagine you may leave now,” Anne murmured.

  He glanced at her. “Trying to be rid of me, hellion?” He didn’t know why the thought should chafe.

  Her cheeks blazed red in a familiar blush. “No. No, not at all,” she said hurriedly. Too hurriedly. He narrowed his eyes. Which seemed to indicate Lady Anne did care to be rid of him after all.

  Hmm, well this was not common for the Lord Stanhope, rogue and charmer of dowagers and debutantes alike. “I think I care to stay the remainder of the performance,” he lied. He didn’t give a fig about the current show. He did, however, give a fig about Anne’s sudden desire to send him on his way like a nursemaid giving her charge a pat on the head and smile, before hurrying them off to bed.

  Anne glanced around, and then looked back to him. “I truly appreciate your being here, Harry,” she said, her words so soft they barely reached his ears. “But I’d not impose on you any further than I have. Your presence has been noted. I’m sure there is any number of…” she colored, “places, you’d care to go.”

  What did a young, innocent lady like Anne know of the places he frequented? If she knew a hint of what occurred in those very places, she’d have swooned right there. Anne’s supposition would have been true two days ago. Two days ago he’d have been at one of the less reputable gaming hells or in some notorious widow’s arms. Now, for reasons he didn’t understand, nor cared to consider, he wanted to be here.

  Just to help the young lady, he assured himself. Why did that feel like a lie?

  “Lord Stanhope, how unfair of you. Occupying the attention of the most lovely lady present this evening.”

  Harry stiffened. He stood and greeted the pleasantly handsome and unfailingly polite Duke of Crawford.

  Chapter 5

  The only silence amidst Lady Westmoreland’s entire hall happened to be with the five people seated in the very last row.

  Mother broke the awkward pall. She rose in a flutter of silvery-grey skirts. “Your Grace,” she tittered behind her hand. “What an absolute pleasure.”

  Anne winced and reluctantly came to her feet wishing she could dissolve into a puddle of embarrassment at Mother’s clear grasping.

  Polite greetings were exchanged between Katherine’s husband, the Duke of Bainbridge and the young Duke of Crawford.

  She waited for a hint of jubilance at the duke’s seeming interest, yet as she studied him conversing with her brother-in-law, she felt only a bored disinterest in what matters the two young dukes cared to discuss.

  The heart of a duke. This is what you want. You’ve dreamed of the title of duchess and with it the security and stability represented in that lofty ascension of rank.

  With pleasantries aside, the Duke of Crawford turned the full force of his ducal regard on Anne. She shifted at his intent scrutiny, while fingering the ribbon woven through her hair. The duke’s gaze drifted lower and her cheeks burned.

  She released the satin striped fabric. “Your Grace,” she murmured and sank into a deep, respectful curtsy.

  The duke claimed her hand. “Lady Anne,” he said quietly. His lips hovered above the inner portion of her wrist and he raised it to his mouth.

  Disappointment surged through her at her body’s total lack of awareness of that slight caress. He released her hand and she fisted the fabric of her skirts. From the corner of her eye she detected Harry’s hot, furious stare. What did he have to be angry with? He was the cad who’d been eying her sister in the midst of the recital, which only mattered because he was supposed to be feigning interest in Anne.

  The Duke of Crawford looked between them.

  Liar.

  He settled his autocratic gaze on Harry. “Not your usual entertainments for the evening, Stanhope, eh? I thought you made it a rule to avoid all respectable events.” He chuckled at his own charge.

  Annoyance churned inside her. She knew the man was a duke and surely had been reared to believe he could say anything without fear of rebuke, but really, his words were borderline crass.

  Harry’s hard muscles went taut, straining the fabric of his expertly tailored black coat. But then his firm lips turned up in a half-grin, an insolent smile for the other man, proof that she’d merely imagined his reaction to the duke’s words. “Some rules are meant to be broken. And,” he looked to Anne. “Some people are worth breaking rules for.”

  Her breath caught. And she knew his words, the look in his eye was merely part of his efforts to help her secure the duke’s hand, yet, in that moment everything, everyone melted away so that just they two remained.

  “Indeed,” the duke murmured. He shifted his attention to Anne, promptly dismissing the earl. “My lady, may I request the pleasure of calling on you?”

  Anne looked around, uncertain why her sister, mother, and Harry were staring at her. Then it occurred to her. “You want to call on me?” Embarrassment twisted in her belly. “I…that is—”

  “What my daughter means to say, Your Grace,” Mother interjected with a pointed glance for Anne. “Is that she would very much welcome your visit. Isn’t that right, Anne?”

  Anne managed a jerky nod. “Er, yes.” This is exactly what she wanted. “I would welcome a visit, Your Grace,” she finished lamely. Perhaps Harry would need to instruct her on the art of communicating with an eligible lord on the marriage mart, as well.

  The duke appeared amused by her confounded response. His lips twitched and he captured her hand. “Until tomorrow then, my lady,” he murmured. He placed a final kiss on the top of her hand.

  Couldn’t there be shivers of awareness, like she felt at Harry’s touch?

  Couldn’t there be the warm fluttery sensations in her belly she’d read about in her Gothic novels?

  Couldn’t there be—something?

  “I look forward to your visit,” she said so
ftly. All the while, Harry’s hard gaze fairly burned a hole into her person.

  The Lady Westmorelands returned to the front of the hall, signifying the beginning of the next set of performances was to begin.

  The duke released her hand after a longer than appropriate amount of time. “Stanhope,” he said, his tone harder than before. He bowed to the other gentleman and then bid the remainder of her party a good evening.

  “Well,” Katherine said, a smile on her lips.

  Anne sank back into her seat. “Well, what?”

  Her sister sat and whispered, “The heart of a duke. It appears you are on your way to the title of duchess, sister.” She made a face. “Oh, dear. That sounded rather mercurial. I’d not have you wed a duke unless your heart is engaged. Nor any gentleman for that matter or—”

  “Hush, Kat. This isn’t the place.” Her sister appeared ready to launch a full-defense of her earlier words. Then something only twins shared, passed between them and Katherine gave a solemn nod.

  As she settled into her uncomfortable chair, she thought she should feel a giddy sense of victory, yet all she felt at the duke’s interest was oddly hollow. He did not know her. He’d not even spoken but a murmured greeting at all the functions they’d attended together. Until the ribbon.

  Until Harry and his blasted advice.

  Advice she’d sought.

  And welcomed…

  But… She didn’t want the duke to want her for her…her…endowments alone. “Silly,” she mumbled.

  “What was that, sweet?”

  “Don’t call me sweet, Harry,” she said, not taking her gaze from the front of the hall where Lady Leah Westmoreland reclaimed the pianoforte bench.

  “What would you have me call you? Duchess?” Thick sarcasm underscored his question.

  She flinched at his deliberately placed barb. “Must you be so odious?” She blinked back foolish tears of hurt and glared at him.

  Instead of properly chastised, Harry quirked another golden eyebrow. He leaned close so his brandy-scented breath fanned her lips. “Isn’t that what you want, sweet?” he said, almost tauntingly. “Title of duchess and by Crawford’s interest in that,” he jerked his chin at her satin ribbon, “golden ringlet—”