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

by Christi Caldwell

  “Forgive me.” Amusement threaded his half-hearted apology.

  “Humph. Are we almost there?” she muttered. They’d arrived in Harry’s townhouse, nay their townhouse, nearly two hours ago. She’d changed into a modest nightshift and waited expectantly for him to come and make love to her, at last.

  Alas…she grunted…

  “My apologies,” Harry murmured once more as he steered her into what might have been a sideboard. It felt like a sideboard. “Just a bit further.” He stopped, bringing Anne to a halt. “Here.”

  She reached for the cravat he’d secured about her eyes, but he stilled her movements. “Just a moment, love.”

  A fluttering sensation filled her belly. Her heightened senses registered the slight scrape of a chair being dragged over the hardwood floor. He guided her into a seated position and the backs of her legs knocked against a bench.

  Harry loosened the folds of his cravat and tossed it aside. “Here.”

  Anne blinked as her eyes struggled to adjust in the dimly lit room. She looked about the grand parlor. High, sweeping ceilings and resplendent in gold, the parlor may have belonged in the king’s palace. She’d never truly considered where Harry made his home. The space was extravagant. The gold upholstery of the sofas lush and finer than most owned by her family, even before all their goods had been carted off by the creditors. She registered Harry’s gaze trained upon her. “It is beautiful,” she murmured.

  Harry knelt at her feet. “Not the room, love.” He guided her around in her seat. Anne’s heart froze as her fingers collided with a much-loved, familiar instrument. And then the organ inside her chest thudded wildly. She touched a reverent finger to the AA carved alongside the Wedgewood cameo.

  Anne looked wordlessly to him.

  He caught a golden ringlet between his fingers. “I spoke to Westmoreland some time ago,” he said. He continued to rub the lock between his thumb and forefinger. “After you told me about the Westmoreland girls playing your pianoforte, I couldn’t leave it there. Not knowing that someone else played what belonged to you.”

  Tears blurred her eyes and she blinked them back. A single drop slipped down her cheek. This gift, was about so much more than simply a material possession. It was about a link to her innocence, stolen by the profligacy of a shameful parent.

  Harry caught it with his thumb. “Even if I couldn’t have you, Anne, even if you wed Crawford, I needed to know your pianoforte was cared for.” His voice grew hoarse. “I’d rather it sit here unused, out of tune, with me holding onto this sliver of you. Touching the keys you once touched—”

  Anne kissed him. She kissed him as he’d taught. Kissed him as she’d longed to since that first meeting in Lord Essex’s conservatory.

  Harry froze and then claimed her mouth with his. He pulled her into his arms, swallowing the small, startled squeak that escaped her lips. With a remarkable ease, he turned around and marched the same path they’d walked a short while ago, upstairs, effortless and… “Oomph.” He collided into a wall.

  A breathless laugh escaped her as he cursed and then strode quickly through the magnificent townhouse; down the long corridors, up the stairs, three doors down, to his chambers. He paused and pressed the handle. He shoved the door open and carried her inside.

  Harry kicked it closed with the heel of his boot. He set her down in a way that her body slid down his. “Look at me.”

  She suspected if he spoke in that commanding, silken whisper, she couldn’t very well deny him anything. She met his gaze.

  He cupped her cheek. “You once came to me and asked me to teach you the art of seduction.” He placed his lips against her temple. “Tonight, I’m going to teach you the art of seduction.” He moved his lips on a determined path, caressing her cheek, her nose, the corner of her mouth. “I’m going to teach your body how to sing.” He trailed his lips lower. “I’m going to caress you until you aren’t capable of a single word.” He palmed her breast.

  “I…” She fought to muster words to tell him she was very nearly there.

  “I’m going to love you until you are capable of nothing else but feeling.”

  She drew in a shuddery breath. “Harry?”

  He lowered his brow to hers. “Yes, Anne?”

  “Get on with it then, already.” The words hadn’t even left her mouth when he’d swept her into his arms and carried her over to the massive four-poster bed at the center of the room. He carefully laid her down and came over her.

  She shoved herself up on her knees and appreciated the moment he disrobed before her. He shrugged out of his elegant black jacket and tossed it aside. His white shirttails followed suit. Her mouth went dry at the sight of his broad, muscular chest, dusted with a sprinkling of tightly coiled golden curls. She caressed him.

  He groaned and encouraged while Anne trailed her fingers over the flat nipples that puckered under her attention. Harry sucked in a breath. He gently undid the fastenings of her robe and tossed it atop a heap of rapidly growing garments. He reached for the hem of her robe.

  She pulled away, more aware than ever before of the vast difference between her and the voluptuous, scandalous women to come before. “Don’t,” he commanded when she folded her arms across her chest. He pulled the nightshift over her head and dislodged her arms. Silence reigned. She shifted, her body heated with embarrassment at Harry’s silent perusal. She kicked him with her toes.

  He winced. “What was that for?”

  “You aren’t doing anything.” And then mortified heat promptly coursed through her body at the bold-sounding words. “That is…What I’d meant to say is—”

  He kissed her into silence.

  She moaned and reached her arms up about his neck. “Must you always do that?” she managed to rasp as he came down over her and trailed his lips down her neck. “Must you…?” He closed his lips over the turgid peak of one breast and she cried out. He drew the fortunate nipple deep in his mouth and sucked. Oh you must. You really must. Anne’s hips shot off the bed and he lowered his hand between her legs. Harry found her center and proceeded to work her with his clever fingers.

  She tugged at his hair and forced his attention to her other breast. Hardly fair to leave one so horribly neglected…ohhh… “Harry,” she cried out as he slipped another finger inside her. “I’m…” Going to shatter into a million shards of nothing.

  “Yes?” he asked, his gruff tone hinted at the thin shred of control he retained.

  And somehow that empowered Anne and filled her with a wanton desire to show him the same pleasure he now showed her. She reached between them instinctively and stroked her hand over the swell in his breeches.

  Harry groaned. He shifted away and she moaned in protest at the loss of him, but he merely shed his breeches and tossed them aside.

  Her mouth went dry and she stared unblinking at the enormous shaft stretched eagerly toward her. “What are you going to do with that?” she blurted. Because the much needed lesson given her that morning by her two sisters seemed vastly more daunting and…quite impossible.

  Harry grinned. He took her hand and guided it to his manhood. His smile faded as his flesh leaped involuntarily at her gentle caress.

  Anne’s reservations slipped aside as she explored the length of him. She ran her fingers over the length of him then took him in a fist and worked him. Up and down. Up and down. Harry’s head fell back and he arched into her hand.

  “Ah, God, you need to stop, love.” His voice came out garbled, desperate and pleading, and hot desire flooded her center at the sight of him finding his pleasure at her hands.

  She continued to work him and her efforts were rewarded when he reached between them and found her center once more. Then Harry shifted his weight atop of hers. He braced himself upon his elbows and thrust a knee between her legs. “Forgive me, Anne,” he whispered.

  She brushed back the moisture from his brow with a tremulous hand and gave him a soft smile. “There is nothing to—” Her eyes flew wide as he thr
ust deep inside her. “Bloody hell,” she gasped. She gave his shoulders a nudge. “That is quite not well-done of you, Harry,” she charged as pain throbbed at her center.

  He remained frozen above her, his eyes clenched tightly. A faint muscle ticked at the corner of his mouth and her annoyance fled in the face of Harry’s tenderness. She touched his cheek until his eyes opened. “It will be all right, Harry,” she promised. She couldn’t be absolutely certain of that, but… She frowned. “Are you laughing at me?” His shoulders shook and it certainly appeared as though he were. She gave him another nudge. “How—?”

  Her words ended on a breathless gasp as he flexed his hips and began to move inside her and all the earlier discomfort melted away to be replaced by the most exquisite, desperate rightness of his loving. His strokes grew deeper, longer, and she arched her hips aching to know…something…that her body would know once it found it. Harry’s brow remained furrowed as if in deep concentration as he thrust inside her. Again. Thrust. And again. “Oh, dear, Harry.” She bit her lip.

  “Yes, love, come for me.”

  She wanted to. She really wanted to. Except she feared if she plunged over the precipice she now clung to, she’d dissolve into a puddle of nothingness she could never recover from. Then he stroked her center. “I love you, Harry,” she whispered and then shattered in a fiery explosion of color and light.

  Harry groaned and poured himself into her; his hot seed flooded her center and she wanted the moment to go on and on. Their cries blended together in a sweet song until he collapsed atop her. His chest heaved up and down from the force of his release.

  Anne folded her arms about his broad back and stroked her fingernails lightly over his sweat-dampened skin. A smile played about her lips. “That was quite splendid.”

  He rolled off her and carried her with him, pulling her into the curve of his arm. “Indeed it was.” He touched a finger to her lips. “I love you, Anne,” he whispered, raising her hand to his mouth. He kissed her wrist. Delicious shivers raced from the point of contact and spiraled throughout her body. He fixed his gaze on the heart pendant he’d gifted her that she now wore about her neck. “I know you desired the heart of a duke. I know Crawford, or any other duke, would have made you a better husband and yet, selfishly, I could not live without you.”

  How could he possibly believe that? She swallowed hard. How could he not realize he was all she wanted? All she’d ever wanted? Losing him to Lady Margaret would have sucked the very soul from her and left her a wispy shell of a creature who’d once loved and lost. Anne touched her fingertips to his cheek. “Oh, you silly man. Surely by now you realize?”

  Emotion roughed his voice. “Realize what?”

  A smile played about her lips. “How could I have ever wanted Crawford, when I have more than a duke?”

  He touched his brow to hers. “And what is that?”

  She brushed her lips against his. “I have you,” she whispered.

  The End

  The Love of a Rogue

  By

  Christi Caldwell

  Dedication

  We all need a little help in making our dreams come true.

  To Dr. Leondires, Dr. Patrizio, Dr. Fleischman, and Dr. Reel for allowing me my first dream—the dream of becoming a mother.

  And

  To My Amazing Readers.

  Every day you allow me my second dream—turning out worlds of happily-ever-afters—and for that, I thank you.

  I’m nothing without you.

  Acknowledgements

  For My Meme Master

  Thank you for always finding my Chapter 22s

  And more importantly, thank you for being my friend!

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Spring, 1815

  The day Lady Imogen Isabel Moore had made her Come Out almost three Seasons ago, she’d taken the ton by storm.

  Not, however for any reasons that were good.

  One glass of lemonade held in trembling fingers, one graceless misstep and an inconveniently situated Lady Jersey in the hallowed halls of Almack’s had placed Imogen in polite Society’s focus. At the time, that glass of lemonade had proven the most disastrous moment of her then eighteen years. In a single night, she’d shocked polite Society…and also earned the attention of the gloriously handsome, Duke of Montrose.

  With a sigh, Imogen glanced down at the copy of The Times.

  The D of M, recently wedded had returned to London…

  She skimmed the details of the article. Hopelessly in love. Devoted… Love at any cost… Imogen tossed the newspaper aside, where it landed with a thump upon the mahogany side table.

  He’d returned. The gloriously handsome, golden duke with his glib tongue and winning smile and his black heart. And he’d returned with his wife—Imogen’s, younger by a year sister, Rosalind. Or, the Duchess of Montrose, as she was now properly titled.

  “Never tell me you are melancholy again.”

  A gasp escaped her and she spun around so quickly a blindingly bright, crimson curl slipped free of its chignon and tumbled over her eye. In a flurry of noisy, blue bombazine skirts, her mother swept into the room. “Mother,” she greeted with a weak smile for the parent who’d merely been happy that one of her daughters had secured the duke’s title. None of the rest had mattered. “I’m not melancholy,” she added as an afterthought. Egads. Her lips pulled in a grimace. That faithless, roguish duke she’d imagined herself in love with had turned her into one of those dreadfully miserable types to be around.

  Mother came to a stop before her and wordlessly brushed the errant, hideously red curl back behind Imogen’s ear. Narrowing her eyes like a doddering lord in need of his monocle, she peered at Imogen.

  Imogen drew back. “What is it?”

  “I’m looking for tears. There are to be no tears. Your sister is happy and that should bring you happiness and….” Her mother launched into a familiar lecture; a nonsensical lesson on sibling loyalty expected of Imogen when her own sister had been anything but. “…you will take the ton by storm.” Those hopeful words brought her to the moment.

  An inelegant snort escaped her, earning a hard frown from her mama. “I did take the ton by storm, Mother. Remember? There was the whole incident with the lemonade two,” nearly three, “years ago.” That defining moment which had brought the Duke of Montrose into her life and into her heart.

  That blasted glass of lemonade.

  Her mother waved a hand about. “Oh, do hush, Imogen. That is not the manner of storm to which I refer.” Alas, Mother had never been capable of detecting sarcasm. “You shall go to events and smile and find a gentleman.”

  “I found a gentleman,” she took an unholy joy in pointing out. “The Du—”

  “Would you have had him wed where his heart was not engaged?” That handful of words struck like a well-placed barb.

  Ah, so her mother had become something of a romantic. “Indeed, not,” she squeezed out past tight lips. Greed for a duke tended to do that to a title-grasping mama.

  “We shall find you a powerful, titled nobleman and then you shall be blissfully happy. Just as your sister.” Another well-placed mark. If her mother weren’t so very flighty, Imogen would have believed her words were intended with deliberate cruelty. A startled squeak escaped her as her mother claimed her cheeks in her hands and squished Imogen’s face. “I promise this shall be your last Season as an unwed lady. We shall see you attend all the most popular events and dance with all the most eligible bachelors.” All of which, sounded utterly dreadful. With a smile, her mother released Imogen and spun on her heel.

  Her mind raced. Surely even her flighty mother knew that anything and everything the ton discussed would not be Imogen’s suitability as a match, but the scandal surrounding her name. “But—” Her protestation trailed off as her mother slipped from the room. From the corner of her eye, the open copy of The Times stared mockingly at her. With a curse unfit for most gentlemen’s ears, she swiped the new
spaper and carried it over to the windowseat. As she claimed a seat, Imogen scoured the page for other poor souls who’d already earned the ton’s attention this Season.

  Lord AE, the notorious Lord Alexander Edgerton, has taken up residence at his scandalous clubs and gaming hells.

  Well, that was hardly news. She scoffed. Lord Alexander Edgerton, her dearest friend Chloe’s brother, had earned a reputation as quite the scapegrace. A rogue. A scoundrel. In short, another Duke of Montrose.

  The young duke had, at one time, been an outrageous, scandalous gentleman most mamas would turn their noses up at. Until a distant relative had gone and died making him the unlikely new duke…and suddenly perfect marriageable material for all those protective mamas.

  Imogen threw the paper aside once again and turned her attention to the window, studying the passersby below. There were certainly worse things than having your betrothed sever the contract just three days before the blessed wedding. It was a good deal harder finding those worse things when one’s betrothed broke your engagement—to marry your sister. Imogen desperately tried to call up those worse things.

  She could…

  Or there was…

  Imogen sighed. Nothing. There was surely nothing worse than this.

  A soft rapping at the door cut into her musings.

  Imogen knocked her head against the wall. “Go away,” she murmured to herself. She didn’t want company. Certainly not her harebrained mother. Another knock. She was content to become one of those outrageous spinsters who brought their wildly attired pups to fashionable events and earned furious amounts of stares from—

  Another knock. “My lady…”

  Oh, bother. “Do come in,” she bit out, not taking her gaze from the carriages rattling along the London streets below.

  The butler cleared his throat. “Lady Chloe Edgerton to see you.”

  Imogen spun about. Her best friend stood in the doorway, a wry smile on her pretty face. She dangled her legs over the side of the seat. “Chloe,” she greeted with far more excitement than she’d felt for anything or anyone since the broken betrothal. She’d been wrong. There was one person she’d care to see.