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

by Christi Caldwell

“You are to stay the hell away from my wife’s sister.”

  Katherine’s sister, as the cold, arrogant bastard referred to her, in fact, had a name. Her name was Anne and she was not defined by her connection to Katherine, even as the lady’s family and Society believed it to be the singularly most important thing about her.

  Harry firmed his jaw. He leaned close, his words intended for Bainbridge’s ears alone. “You can go to hell.”

  The duke continued as though he’d not even spoken. “If you hurt Anne and through that hurt Katherine, by God I’ll end you, Stanhope.”

  Harry suspected that threat had a good deal more to do with his whole attempt to seduce Katherine, than anything else. He gave a curt nod. “Are we finished here?” he said with an affable grin.

  If looks could kill, Bainbridge would have smote him with the fire in his eyes and probably eaten the ashes for an evening meal.

  A loud buzz filled the ballroom. Knowing it would infuriate the other man; Harry directed his attention to the arrival of the guest who’d caused a stir at the front of the ballroom. He blinked. There was something vaguely familiar about the tall, voluptuous woman at the top of Lord and Lady Preston’s stairs. She may as well have been any blousy widow he’d…

  The air lodged in his lungs.

  “What is it?” Bainbridge snapped.

  Miss Margaret Dunn, now the Duchess of Monteith, had returned.

  Chapter 17

  Anne had done three small laps throughout the walled in gardens, this little sliver of country a mere illusion in the grimy, crowded city streets of London. She paused beside a peony bush. A slight breeze stirred the flowers around her, catching them in a gentle night dance.

  She shivered at the uncharacteristic cold and hugged her arms close to her chest. Perhaps he’d not come after all. Perhaps even in this, Harry—notorious scoundrel, unrepentant rogue—had demonstrated greater constraint than the notoriously impulsive Anne Adamson.

  The moon’s glow beamed down on a pale pink bloom. She leaned forward and smelled the fragrant bud…and sneezed. Anne straightened, wrinkling her nose. It really was such a shame being unable to appreciate the full beauty of the bloom. A shadow fell over the illuminated flower and she smiled. Large hands came up, rested upon her shoulders. She straightened and leaned back into Harry’s touch. And froze.

  Her heart raced with panic as the scent of cheroot and coffee unfamiliar and not at all Harry, filled her senses. A husky baritone whispered against her ear, “Hullo, love.”

  She’d been sweet, Anne, hellion, minx, and termagant to Harry. But only twice before had she been his love. Anne spun around and jumped backwards. She knocked against the pink flowers. Her heart pounded loudly as she stared up at Lord Rutland. A hard, stone cold smile turned the man’s lips in feigned warmth, the only suggestion of gentleness in an otherwise harsh, angular face. “L-Lord Rutland,” she stammered and sidled away from him.

  A glint sparked in his brown eyes.

  She frantically searched the gardens with her gaze.

  “Are you perhaps looking for someone, Lady Anne?”

  His faintly mocking question jerked her attention back to him. She shook her head and looked over his broad shoulder for sign of Harry. “Er…no…I merely sought some air.” Panic built in her breast. Should anyone else come upon her and Lord Rutland, she would be ruined.

  “Air?” Rutland murmured and advanced toward her.

  She hastened back another step. “Er. Yes. Air. You breathe it.” Stop rambling, Anne. The ghost of a smile played about his lips, which was really impossible. Men like Lord Rutland, who fought other men to first blood, did not smile. “It is particularly beneficial when it is extremely crowded or hot, which it was. Inside the ballroom, that is.” He continued his forward approach. “Wouldn’t you agree?” That gave him pause.

  Lines creased his brow. “Wouldn’t I agree about what? The need for air? Or that you’re rambling?”

  “Oh.” Her knees knocked against a wrought iron bench. “Did I speak that aloud?” She had that nasty tendency when she was nervous. She shot another glance over his shoulder for Harry.

  He stopped so close their legs nearly brushed. “You did, Anne.”

  Drat. She frowned at the sheer insolence of the man. “I didn’t give you leave to use my Christian name.” She should err on the greater side of caution, alone with this blackguard, but really he had no leave to go about using her given name.

  He touched his thumb to her lower lip. She gasped and drew her hand back. He caught her wrist before her palm collided with his cheek. “Tsk, tsk. You shouldn’t do that.” He lowered his brow to hers. She shivered as the thick scent of brandy fanned her lips. “Unless I demand it. In which case you should do it quite hard.”

  She cocked her head. “Whyever would you want me to slap you?”

  He froze, and then tossed his head back and laughed. The sound came rusty and hoarse as though from ill use.

  She’d never understand gentlemen. Not a single one of them. Not her somber brother-in-law, Jasper. Not Harry in his many lessons. And not this stranger who spoke of welcoming a slap to his person. Anne shoved against his chest, but he was as immobile as Lady Preston’s towering brick wall. For her efforts, a strand of hair fell loose from her expertly arranged curls. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “I’m going to kiss you, Lady Anne,” his words emerged as a steely, satiny promise.

  Her stomach lurched. “No.” She shook her head. “No. No you are not.” She slammed her fist into the hard muscles of his stomach and cried out. He grinned as though amused by her ineffectual attempt.

  He lowered his head and she arched away not wanting his kiss. She’d already had loathsome Lord Ackland’s tongue in her mouth. And then Harry. Now, she’d know no one else but Harry’s kiss upon her lips. Certainly not Lord Rutland, the cad who’d dueled Harry for his ladylove, Margaret.

  Anne slipped out from under his arm and all but sprinted toward the door. When Harry arrived, she’d have certain choice words for his rather delayed entrance and—She gasped when a strong arm closed around her waist, bringing her close.

  “Do you know, Lady Anne, I never imagined when I followed you out here that I’d find our meeting so vastly entertaining.”

  She pulled his forearm. “I’m so very pleased to be able to entertain you, my lord.” Her desperate attempt at nonchalance came out breathy with fear. Did he hear it? Did he delight in it? Somehow, she suspected it brought him perverse pleasure.

  “I merely thought to sample the charms known by Stanhope.”

  “I assure you, there’s been no sampling of charms.” She pursed her lips. Well, that didn’t sound altogether correct.

  He tweaked her nose. “Do you know, I believe you’re lying to me, Lady Anne?” The teasing gesture was so vaguely reminiscent of all the times Harry touched her so, Anne slapped at his hand.

  He chuckled.

  She shot a glance over the marquess’ shoulder, searching out Harry.

  “In fact, I’d wager you’re out here even now awaiting a meeting with Stanhope.”

  “I’m not,” she said a touch too quickly.

  “And,” he continued, the unholy glint in his eyes indicating he delighted in her unease. “I’d venture you’ve come to even love the earl.” A mocking sneer wrapped about that supposition. He must have taken her silence for an admission. He tossed his head back and laughed, a chillingly empty sound that sent fear spiraling through her.

  She yanked her arm, but he only angled her body closer to his. “What do you want?” she asked, proud of the steady deliverance of that question. Panic churned in her belly. If she were discovered with Lord Rutland, she’d be ruined and forced to wed the bounder—if a cur like him were even capable of honor. “I really must return, my lord. If you’ll unhand me.”

  He pulled her closer and whispered as if his was the most delicious secret in the world. “Surely you wonder where your love is?”

  She flattened her lips into a ti
ght line to keep from responding to his deliberate baiting.

  “Tsk, tsk. Poor Lady Anne Adamson. You’ve no idea how little you matter to him.”

  All her mother’s warnings, Anne’s own fears twisted about, magnified by the poison in his taunting words. “What are you speaking about?” she snapped.

  “Come now, surely you know of his Margaret.”

  His barb hit like a well-placed arrow to her heart. She gave a toss of her curls, determined to conceal the effect his taunting words were having. “I believe she was your Margaret, as well.”

  His body went taut like a King Cobra poised to strike she’d once viewed as a small girl at the Piccadilly Circus. “No,” he spat. “She was always Stanhope’s.” A deep-rooted bitterness coated his words.

  And for the fraction of a moment, she felt awash with guilt for deliberately hurting Lord Rutland. Instead of loathing, she felt a kindred connection to this man who loved another incapable of returning those sentiments. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

  A dull flush stained his cheeks. “You’ve never been anything more than a diversion,” he lashed out ruthlessly. “I suggest you return to the festivities so you may see just why Stanhope has left you out here alone. With me for your only company.” He pressed a hard kiss to her lips.

  Anne recoiled as revulsion turned her belly. And then he set her from him. He gave her firm nudge between her shoulders, sending her toward the garden doors.

  The hard beating of her heart filled her ears and matched her fleeting footsteps. Her slippers skidded upon the moisture of the grass. She continued running, knowing if she were seen she’d appear a madwoman loose in the halls of Bedlam. When she’d reached the corridor leading to the ballroom, she patted her cheeks, smoothed her skirts, took a deep breath and returned to search for Harry.

  As she entered the ballroom, she expected the lords and ladies to eye her with charged accusations in their eyes, expecting someone to know Lord Rutland had cornered her. All the while his cruel words weaved around her mind, refusing to relinquish their tentacle like hold as she sought Harry out. Surely there had been a reason Harry had failed to come to her. Surely he’d merely been deterred. Surely—

  The din of whispers tugged at her attention. The ton moved as one, as their gazes swiveled to the front of the room.

  Anne frowned and leaned around the edge of the wall to study the tall, willowy creature who’d captured their notice. With raven black hair and a diaphanous gown that clung to a lush, perfectly curved figure, she’d earn the resentment of all ladies present and the admiration of all the gentlemen. Even in the darkest times for her family, Anne hadn’t allowed herself that iniquitous emotion of envy. Her own struggles had taught her that one never truly knew the inner tumult carried by others. Still, the stranger possessed an ageless beauty it was not hard to be the slightest bit jealous of.

  A figure moved beside Anne. “Where have you been?” her mother snapped.

  “I tore my hem.” The lie came easily. She returned her attention to the stranger at the front of the room. “Who is she?”

  “Why, that is Her Grace, Lady Margaret Monteith.”

  There was something so very familiar in the name. Lady Margaret Monteith… Lady Margaret… Her mind slowed to a stall. Margaret.

  As in Miss Margaret Dunn.

  As in Harry’s love.

  As in her heart was breaking open and bleeding for all to see, if they weren’t already focused upon the breathtaking creature that held Harry’s heart.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. At the unrepressed admission, her mother shot her a scathing look. Anne gave her head a shake, but the fog retained its hazy hold over her. She could not leave, and bury her head, a coward to the truth, so instead, she stood, witness to the horrific unfolding tableau. Of rival suitors who’d waged a duel. Of a long-returned love. Of a reunion.

  Of a life that Anne did not belong to.

  Lady Margaret searched the crowd with her piercing, cat-like eyes and Anne knew as sure as she knew the count and color of every ribbon to her collection just who the woman sought, and also the moment her unwavering eyes found him.

  Anne sucked in a shuddery breath. She watched, as though a voyeur to some other pathetic woman’s publicly agonized pain as Harry’s love glided through the crowd. She didn’t know what she expected. Perhaps, the foolish naiveté that compelled her to read silly Gothic novels imagined Harry would turn his back, storm across the floor, claim Anne’s hand and publicly declare his love. Then, for any of that to happen, Harry would have to love her. And he didn’t. As Lord Rutland had ruthlessly, yet accurately, pointed out, Harry had forever seen her as an empty-headed, pleasantly pretty miss, and not much more.

  Lady Margaret stopped before Harry, so close their bodies brushed. Anne curled her fingers into the palms of her hands so tightly she left crescent marks upon her skin. A glutton to this agonizing pain, Anne continued to watch the reunion of two old lovers.

  The magnificent creature eyed him with such familiarity, Anne felt the worst sort of interloper on their private moment. Theirs was an intimate connection that moved beyond mere lovers. The room swayed beneath her feet and she shot her hand out in search of purchase, finding it along the wall. Her throat worked spasmodically.

  Did Harry still love her?

  Of course he does, you ninny.

  Heart cracking with each unknown word spoken between Harry and his Margaret, Anne forced her gaze away. Her agonized stare collided with Lord Rutland’s stock-still frame. She stared blankly at him. The monster who’d held her outside a short while ago and threatened her very existence had seemed incapable of all feeling and emotion. Yet, studying him, agony bled through his eyes, so stark, so real she may as well have peered into a mirror.

  He jerked his stare away from the reunited couple and inadvertently caught her gaze. Something honest and real passed between them; a bond shared by two people who would never be the choice of the one they truly loved. Then the moment faded as quick as it came.

  Her mother leaned close and kept her tone low. “Have you gathered now, the exact identity of that woman? That, my dear, is the Duchess of Monteith. The woman who truly holds Lord Stanhope’s heart.” A viselike pressure tightened around her middle. Mother patted her hand, her next words indicating how greatly she misunderstood the reason for her daughter’s upset. “You needn’t be envious, Anne. You too shall become a duchess.”

  Why would Anne be a duchess? Ah, yes, then reality came crashing. The Duke of Crawford. The heart of a duke. Harry’s role in helping her to ensnare him. A lump clogged her throat and she struggled to swallow past it.

  Suddenly, Rutland’s jibing made sense. He’d known. He had known Margaret had returned. Just as he’d known Harry would be so thoroughly bewitched he would forget poor Anne with her silly ringlets and her need for spectacles, waiting for him like a lovesick fool. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, lest someone see. But then someone would have to notice Anne, and the ton had still not removed their rabid curiosity from the scene still unfolding before them.

  “And this is the man you’d wear such a scandalous creation for,” her mother said with disgust.

  Humiliation burned like fire on her cheeks. “I didn’t… I…” the words died on her lips. In this moment, stricken by the pain of Harry alongside his love, she couldn’t muster even a false word.

  “I’ve told you, Anne. The duke will make you a splendid match. A safe match.”

  Staring at Harry again, conversing with his black-haired beauty, Anne could admit to the vast appeal of wedding for safety. For then, a woman wouldn’t know this mind-numbing agony of watching the man you loved on display for all polite Society. Then you needn’t know, and more, care that another had come before you, who’d mattered in ways you never would.

  The woman, Margaret, a name somehow made her, made this, more real, brushed his arm with a hand.

  Jealousy, green and vile with a life of its own unfurled within her, but Anne conti
nued looking on, just as the crowd did.

  I am supposed to mean more to him. Only, he’d given her no indication that he either wanted or needed anything more with her. Quite the opposite, in fact. Rather, he’d been shockingly clear that Anne, a woman he called sweet, was no different than any other who’d earned that empty endearment from him.

  Fool. Fool. Fool.

  A small smile turned Margaret’s lips. She eyed Harry through thick, smoky lashes.

  She possessed the kind of beauty men fought wars for.

  Yes. Yes, indeed, she did.

  “I want to go home,” Anne whispered.

  When Harry had been a boy of thirteen, his mount had taken a jump too low. He had been tossed aground. Staring at Margaret as she reentered his life, like a ghost of a distant past, he felt much the same way he did that long ago day. A loud buzzing filled his ears.

  Tall and regal like a queen stood Margaret, now the Duchess of Monteith. Resplendent in a gold satin gown with black lace overlay, she peered out amongst the crowd. Still every inch as beautiful as she’d ever been, she bore but the faintest traces of the innocent young lady she’d been. The lines of her mouth, slightly harder, the set to her shoulders stiffer.

  His friend, Edgerton sidled up to him. “I gather you did not know? Your Miss Margaret, I suppose she is now the Lady Margaret, has returned to London. Her old husband made a widow of her some months ago.”

  He shook his head. “No.” After she’d wed, he’d not been presented with the constant reminder of her defection. She’d gone off to the remote corner of Northumberland and he’d been content to keep her memory buried there. In time, his, the ton’s, once cherished memories of Miss Margaret Dunn faded.

  Edgerton gave him a sideways look. “She’s not even waited the requisite period of mourning before making her return. Why do you think that is?”

  The hostess, Lady Preston, rushed forward to greet Margaret.

  Harry registered the attention fixed his way by gossipy ton members. He rescued a flute of champagne from a nearby servant and took a sip damning polite Society and their sick fascination to hell. His life, his past, to bored nobles was nothing more than a momentary amusement for an apathetic lot. He stared on disinterestedly as Margaret wound her way through the crowd; her gaze scanned the room, searching, searching, and then finding him.