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

by Christi Caldwell

  In her life, she’d been Jane Munroe. Mrs. Jane Munroe. Miss Jane Munroe. But never before had she had a true name. Not until now. Now, she had one that bound her to a man in a way she’d sworn to never want, in ways that had posed a danger to her freedom and control.

  Gabriel removed her chemise and revealed her naked frame to his gaze. Then, there was far greater danger in being the bitter, broken person she’d been all these years. A woman who could not forgive. A woman who could not forget. But this beautiful coming together with another person did not weaken her. It made her stronger. With that, a sense of peace filled her chest. It drove back the animosity that had consumed her all these years.

  “You should hate me,” he whispered and placed a kiss at the corner of her lips. “I lied to you about your funds.”

  Yes, but then life had taught her that sometimes in order to survive a person did what a person must. Gabriel placed a kiss at the opposite corner of her mouth. It did not make it right. It made it…life. “Do you want me to hate you?” she teased breathlessly as he moved his questing lips down her throat, to the swell of her breast.

  He palmed the flesh and weighed them in his hands. A moan worked its way up her throat as he raised first her right breast to his mouth. “I have dreamed of doing this from the moment I kissed you.” His breath fanned her nipple and the flesh pebbled with the gentle stirring of air.

  Jane bit down hard on her lip and held her breath in anticipation as he closed his lips about the turgid bud. An agonized groan ripped from her throat and her hands automatically came up to clasp his head to her chest. He sucked at the flesh until a wild yearning pooled between her thighs. Then he shifted his attention to her other breast. “Y-you are c-certain you’ve never d-done this before,” she cried out as he suckled her.

  “Quite certain.” He slid a hand between her legs and with his long fingers, stroked the thatch of golden curls that shielded her womanhood.

  “You m-must think me a wanton,” she rasped and splayed her legs wide, encouraging him to continue his quest.

  “I think you perfect,” he whispered and then slipped a finger inside her.

  A keening moan echoed throughout the room as she tightened her legs reflexively about him. Then he slid another finger and she bucked in a desperate bid to be closer to him. He continued to work her, teasing the hot nub at her center until thought fled.

  She cried out as he suddenly stopped. “Why—”

  “I need to feel my skin upon yours,” he whispered. Gabriel quickly removed his shirt. All the while, his wife’s passion-glazed eyes took in his every movement. After he tugged free his boots and tossed them to the floor, he shucked off his breeches. Gabriel returned to Jane’s arms. As he lowered himself from above her, he took her mouth under his once more. Heat spiraled in her belly and spread like a slow conflagration of desire for this man.

  There had never been another but her. Tears popped behind her eyelashes and she blinked them away. But a lone drop slid down her cheek. He drew back and momentary horror stamped out the desire etched in the harshly angular planes of his face. “Have I hurt you?”

  “No!” She wrapped her arms about him and drew him down to her. “I am just happy,” she whispered and tilted her head to receive his kiss.

  Gabriel groaned and shifted himself above her and then with his knee, parted her legs. He settled himself between her thighs. “You will drive me mad,” he whispered and found her with his fingers. Then, he slowly slid himself into her. Jane brushed her fingertips through his hair. Agony ravaged his face as he moved within her tight, hot sheath. Her body closed around them, so perfectly suited to one another. “I love—” her words ended on a cry as he plunged deep inside her. Bloody hell.

  He stiffened above her. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely, his tone harsh. “Did that hurt?”

  Like the devil. “A bit,” she squeezed out but then he moved a hand between their bodies and stroked her center. Again and again until the pain receded and all she felt was the shared connection between them. The hot blaze reignited by his movements spread through her and threatened to set her aflame.

  He increased his rhythm moving in and out and she lifted her hips in time, taking him. The pressure built, pounding hard and fast inside her, and she stroked Gabriel’s face with tremulous fingers. He clenched his eyes tightly closed. And the rightness of their joining sent her over the precipice and she shattered into a million shards with white light flashing behind her eyes. Gabriel joined her immediately on an agonized groan that went on forever as he pumped himself deeper and deeper, and then he collapsed atop her—spent and replete.

  Jane sank into the satin coverlet with Gabriel’s broad, powerful frame pressing down on her. Her heart pounded hard and fast. Or was that his? He rolled away from her and she mourned the loss, but he only flipped onto his side and drew her into the fold of his arms. She burrowed against the solid wall of her husband’s chest. All these years she’d spent hating noblemen and the prospect of marriage, only to find she’d been saved—by the love of a lord.

  Epilogue

  1 month later

  Jane’s back ached. Then, a four-hour carriage ride along the rutted old Roman roads would do that to a person. She winced as the carriage hit another sizeable bump.

  “Almost there, love,” Gabriel confirmed.

  She frowned. “You’ve said that eight times.”

  He winked. “Well, this time we really are almost there.” The carriage hit another dip in the well-traveled road and pain radiated from her buttocks, up along her spine. She wrinkled her nose. Her husband had mysteriously ordered her valise and trunks packed and loaded that morning. He’d given no indication where they were going. Or when they would arrive. Or—

  “Blast and damn,” she mumbled as the carriage listed right and then it rocked to a blessed halt.

  “We are here,” he announced cheerfully and reached past her to shove the carriage door open. Leaving her sitting with her mouth open and closing, he stuck his head back inside the carriage. “Well, then. Aren’t you going to step down?” He held his hand out and she accepted his fingers.

  “I still do not see what has been so secretive,” she complained. She’d enjoyed a splendid month, the truly wedded wife of the Marquess of Waverly and would have been content to forever stay in London, in the comfort of the only home she’d ever known. With his hands upon her shoulders, he guided her forward and then shifted her to the left.

  “Just a bit further,” he encouraged and then stopped.

  Jane blinked several times at the stucco manor house with its shattered windows and crooked front door.

  Gabriel tugged off his gloves and beat them together. “I…” He frowned. “I was assured by my man of business that it would suit.” Then he returned his attention to the building and scowled. “Alas, it’s a bloody mess. It can be fixed. We will fix it. You will fix it, as you see fit…”

  She looked away from the old manor home and stared perplexedly at her husband. “Are we living here?” Though at this point, after hours within the confines of a carriage, she wasn’t altogether certain where here was.

  “Er.” He yanked at his cravat. “I would rather wish you’d live with me. And it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to live here. Not with you.”

  Jane scratched her brow. “I believe a man and his wife are permitted the luxury of sharing the same home, Gabriel.”

  “It is a school,” he blurted, yanking his attention back to her.

  Her heart started and she swung her gaze in the direction of the old manor home. A school. A school in which young women could attend and be free to exercise their minds and take part in real learning. A school where young ladies of uncertain circumstances might carve out a life for themselves. Love for Gabriel swelled in her heart and she touched trembling fingers to her lips.

  “Or rather it is your school. To establish, run, and control as you see fit.” He held his palms up. “I—” His gaze went to her fingers and then he took in her tea
r-filled eyes. He frowned. “If it does not suit, than you are free to—oomph.”

  Jane flung her arms about him and he staggered back. “It is perfect,” she breathed against his lips and then pressed her mouth to his.

  Gabriel took her lips in a gentle kiss. “You are perfect.”

  She drew back and cupped his face between her palms. “No, we are not perfect.” They were two very imperfect people who’d found each other. She drew him down closer and then pressed her brow to his. “And yet, together, we somehow are.”

  He rubbed his thumb over her lower lip. “I love you, Jane Edgerton.”

  “And I love you, Gabriel Edgerton.”

  And after years of being forgotten, dismissed, and rejected, Jane had in Gabriel everything she’d never had and always wanted.

  A family.

  The End

  The Heart of a Scoundrel

  By Christi Caldwell

  Dedication

  To Nana Lil

  For years and years, my Nana Lil was my cheerleader and champion. When things seemed impossible, she assured me my world would open up. She used to say: “I wish I’m around to someday see it.” I would tease her and say; “I hope I’m around to see it, too, Nana.”

  Two years ago, my cheerleader and champion was diagnosed with dementia. She no longer knows I’m her granddaughter. When I visit her, she smiles and loves to speak with “the young author who writes romance novels.” Of all she’s lost in terms of her beautiful, cherished memories of our family, she recalls my stories.

  And for that, and for everything you’ve been to me and for me—Nana Lil—this one is for you.

  Acknowledgements

  A very special thank-you to the dear Carol Cork for all her patience, and all the valuable time she spent answering my questions on Wales. Carol, you are a champion of romance authors and a fountain of information! Thank you!

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Spring 1817

  The lady wore an ivory, lace-trimmed, cashmere shawl. Such details generally only applied to an interest in how that delicate slip of material could be used for dark acts behind chamber doors. In this particular instance, that tedious, ladylike fabric would serve an entirely different purpose.

  Seated behind his mahogany desk in the comforts of his own office, Edmund Deering, the Marquess of Rutland, absently rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the old, silken black tress. Such an act would be considered sentimental in any other gentleman. A hard smile turned the corner of his lips. Then, he was not most gentlemen. Ladies, dowagers, widows, and the husbands of a whole host of discontented wives would, in fact, say he was no gentleman at all.

  And they would all be right.

  The tress had been clipped a lifetime ago. Given to him as a token of affection, it had ultimately come to signify empty promises and the indefatigable truth—women were faithless, fickle creatures who’d splay their legs for the right title and not a thing more.

  As if in agreement, the muscles of his right thigh tightened. He rubbed the old wound, welcoming the sharp reminder of his own past weakness.

  A knock sounded at the office door and he stopped rubbing his leg. In one fluid movement, he tossed that scrap of hair into the rubbish bin at the side of his desk. He shifted his gaze to the clock. Odd, he’d not expect a wastrel to also be perfunctory. “Enter,” he drawled. His butler, Wallace, a loyal fellow who’d served Edmund’s father, entered. “The Viscount Waters to see you, my lord.”

  Viscount Waters hovered at the threshold of the room.

  Wordlessly, Edmund inclined his head and the servant backed out of the room, closing the door behind him, and leaving Edmund and Lord Waters alone.

  The short, pudgy nobleman with a bulbous nose and, even more importantly, an enormous debt to Edmund shifted on his stout legs. “R-rutland,” he stammered. He tugged at his stark white cravat, highlighting the crimson red of his flushed cheeks. “Y-you summoned me?”

  Dispensing with formalities, Edmund sprawled back in his chair. “Come in, come in,” he murmured resting his arms over the sides of his chair.

  The balding viscount swallowed audibly and cast a desperate glance over his shoulder at the path the butler had retreated.

  “I said come in,” Edmund said on a lethal whisper.

  Lord Waters jumped. “Er, yes, of course, of course.” And yet, still, he lingered before stiffly moving forward. Perspiration dotted the man’s brow, which Edmund suspected had little to do with the exertions of his movement and everything to do with his unease.

  The man feared him. Anxiety bled from his eyes, seeped from his lips. Fear made Edmund powerful. Weakened others. Yes, fear was good. Very good.

  Lord Waters paused in front of his desk. He yanked a white handkerchief, embroidered with his initials, from the front of his pocket and dabbed at his brow, smartly silent. Likely the only thing which the man had ever been smart about.

  “You have a daughter,” Edmund said, a steely edge to his words.

  The older viscount blinked several times at the unexpected pronouncement. Always leave others unsuspecting. Unsettled individuals were careless and Edmund thrived off that the way he did fear. “A daughter?” the man squawked. Then a slow understanding glinted in his eyes. He paused mid-dab and thrust his handkerchief back into the front of his jacket. “Er, yes. Lovely, lovely gel. Quite lovely,” he rambled. “She’d make you a splendid—”

  Edmund leaned forward and laid his forearms upon his desk. “I’ve no intention of making a match with your daughter.” He peeled his lip back in a sneer.

  The man’s skin went ashen and he tugged out the kerchief once more. “Er, uh, yes…well, you’d have me settle our debt in other ways then, will you? Very well…”

  A dark, ugly laugh rumbled up from Edmund’s chest cutting into the man’s offer. Lord Waters would sell his daughter. The darkness in people’s souls had ceased to surprise him long ago. “I’ve little desire in tupping your virginal daughter,” he snarled. Virgins didn’t interest him. Simpering young debutantes, innocent misses, held little appeal. He’d wait until they were wedded, bedded, and craving real lessons on passion.

  “Oh.” The viscount rocked back on his heels. “May I sit?” He gave his lapels another tug.

  Edmund arched an eyebrow at the man’s unexpected show of courage. He pointed to the leather winged back chair and the fat, fleshy lord ambled over then sank into the seat. The leather groaned in protest to the man’s hefty weight.

  With deliberate, methodical slowness Edmund pulled open his desk drawer. He withdrew the leather folio inside.

  The man’s skin turned white and he gulped. “Y-you have a b-book.” It was a statement of fact—a confirmation of a detail he’d likely heard bandied about at his clubs and gaming hells but had, until now, taken it as a rumor.

  “Surely, you do not imagine you’re the only person indebted to me?” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. No, a whole host of gentlemen owed Edmund in some way or another. Exorbitant debts, promises made, favors pledged. Lord Waters was but one of those many and the man would now pay his debt. He opened the leather book, never taking his gaze from the viscount. “You owe me quite a vast sum.”

  Waters wet his lips but said nothing.

  “Five thousand pounds, your unentailed property in Hampshire.” Though Edmund had little interest or need in a country property. He didn’t leave the glittering filth of London. “Your pathetic wife’s jewelry.” The man winced. “Your eldest daughter’s dowry.”

  “Have you called to collect?”

  He strained to hear the man’s whisper. Edmund spread his arms wide. “Indeed, I have.”

  The man closed his eyes a moment. “And you’re sure you wouldn’t want my daughter. Quite beautiful she is, quite—”

  “I’m quite certain,” Edmund said, placing mocking emphasis at the man’s redundant choice of words. “I’ve little interest in your simpering—”

  “Oh, no,” Waters gave his head
a frantic shake. “Not simpering at all. If you care for feisty, spirited gels, my Phoebe will—”

  “I’ve already stated, I have no interest in your virginal daughter,” he whispered. Though an unholy humor twisted inside him at the truth that, for a bag of coin, a man would sell even his daughter.

  The viscount closed his mouth quickly and gave a jerky nod.

  Edmund reclined in his seat. He captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He did, however, have an interest in one virgin. A particular virgin with nondescript, brown hair, a slightly crooked lower row of teeth, and a pair of dull, brown eyes. In short, an uninteresting lady who’d never hold even the hint of appeal for a practiced rogue such as himself. The only thing to set the lady apart from all other ladies—her name: Miss Honoria Fairfax. The beloved niece of Margaret, the Duchess of Monteith. That love would lead to the girl’s ruin. Another icy grin pulled at his lips. He stood, unfolding his length to display the towering six-foot four-inches that terrified lesser men, such as this coward before him.

  Waters recoiled, burrowing deep into the folds of his chair.

  “You see,” Edmund began, wandering casually over to the sideboard at the corner of his office. “There is something I will require of you.” He selected the nearest decanter, a half-empty bottle of brandy. He pulled out the stopper and tossed it upon the table where it landed with a thunk.

  The viscount remained silent. He hungrily eyed the crystal decanter in Edmund’s hands. Only the man’s ragged, panicked breaths and the splash of liquor streaming into the crystal glass split the quiet. Bottle and brandy in hand, Edmund wandered back over to his desk and propped a hip on the edge. He took a sip. “Miss Fairfax,” he said at last.