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

by Christi Caldwell

  The man cocked his head and with confused eyes, looked about as though expecting to find the lady in question there. “Miss Fairfax?” he repeated.

  Edmund swirled the contents of his glass. “I’d like something that belongs to Miss Fairfax.” Her good name. Her virtue, and more—the agony of Margaret knowing her beloved niece would be forever bound to the man she’d thrown over for another. A thrill ran through him as the sweet taste of revenge danced within his grasp. Unfortunately for Miss Fairfax, she had rotten blood running through her veins and, as such, would pay the ultimate price for her aunt’s crimes.

  “I don’t know a Miss Fairfax,” the man blurted.

  Edmund stilled his hand mid-movement and he peered at the viscount over the rim of his brandy. It, of course, did not surprise him the man should fail to note those minute details of his daughter’s life. Likely, his lack of notice would result in that quite lovely daughter he’d described with her legs spread wide for some unscrupulous rogue.

  “Beg p-pardon,” the man said on a panicky rush. “I—”

  “Miss Fairfax is a friend of your daughter’s,” he interrupted. He glanced across the room at the long-case clock, ready to be done with this exchange.

  Lord Waters scratched his brow. “She is?” He frowned and Edmund could practically see the wheels of the man’s empty mind turning. Then, an understanding lit his unintelligent eyes.

  “Not the beautiful one,” he said of the other young woman Waters’ daughter considered a friend. It really was quite unfortunate the stunning Lady Gillian Farendale, whose sister had been jilted by some worthless cad, was not, in fact, the one he sought. He’d have delighted in taking his pleasure in that lady’s body.

  “Ah, the other one.” The man guffawed. “A taste for the ugly ones, do you?” he said with a crude laugh. “Then, they’re all the same when you have them under you.” He dissolved into a paroxysm of laughter. “That one has lovely bosom.” That fact likely accounted for the modest scrap of hideous fabric the lady donned with a nauseating regularity. A shame the young lady went through the trouble to hide her one mentionable attribute. Though convenient, considering the important plans he had for Miss Fairfax and her shawl. He eyed the man through hooded lashes until the demmed fool registered Edmund’s dark displeasure.

  His laughter faded and he swallowed audibly once more. “I know the one,” he said. He gave his cravat a tug. “Th-though my daughter has large bosom as well and is far prettier than the Fairfax chit. Are you sure—?”

  Edmund fixed an icy glower on the man that forced him into silence. Then, he took a long, slow swallow of his drink and set the empty glass down. Folding his arms across his chest, Edmund stood over the man in a method he’d long used to rouse terror in much stronger men than this coward before him. “She wears a shawl.” He dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “I would like that shawl.” Once he had that piece of fabric in his possession, it would set his calculated plan into motion. And from there, he would have more. A devilish excitement stirred in his chest.

  “Eh? A shawl?” The older man fixed his gaze on the empty glass of brandy and then cast a longing glance over at the sideboard. The man was a drunkard. He wore his need for liquor upon his person the way a fat dowager doused herself in too fragrant perfume on a hot summer day. Relishing the other man’s inherent weakness, Edmund picked up the decanter and splashed several fingerfuls into the glass. That failing had cost the viscount a small fortune, property, and, inevitably, his daughter’s good standing in Society. He held the glass up in salute and took another swallow.

  Lord Waters closed his eyes momentarily. Sweat rolled down his brow. This time, he did away with all hint of politeness and dragged the back of his sleeve across his head. “Why should I help you, Rutland? What are the benefits in me collecting anything for you? You already have enough.”

  Edmund passed over his half-empty glass. “Ahh, because I’m prepared to forgive a portion of your debt each time you gather information about Miss Fairfax.” Waters hungrily eyed the glass and then greedily grasped at the offering.

  Waters accepted the glass with trembling fingers. Liquid droplets splashed over the rim as he raised the tumbler to his lips and took a slow, savoring sip. “Why should I trust you?” he finally asked, eying Edmund with not nearly enough suspicion in his bleary eyes.

  “The way I see it, Waters, you’ve little choice.”

  Lord Waters downed the remaining contents of his glass and then eyed the amber droplets clinging to the rim. Then like the base animal he was, he licked the remaining liquid from the edge and set the snifter down. “You’ll forgive my debts, then.”

  “Each time you help.” Though he suspected those debts would be promptly owed him once more when they sat down behind a faro table at Forbidden Pleasures.

  The man scratched at his paunch. “Very well. The chit’s shawl.” He dusted his arm over his perspiring brow once again. “How do you expect me to collect this scrap?”

  Edmund cracked his knuckles. “That is for you to worry about.” He strode around his desk and reclaimed his seat. “We’re done here,” he said, coolly dismissing the viscount. With an unholy delight in the other man’s discomposure, he pulled out the folio that contained Waters and a whole host of other gentleman in his debt, and proceeded to review the names, dismissing the fat viscount.

  “But…”

  Edmund slowly raised his gaze, daring the man to speak.

  The man sketched a jerky bow and then all but sprinted from the room, knocking over the furniture in his haste to be free.

  He sat back, looking down at a whole host of names of men who’d already realized that one could never truly be free of Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland—unless he wished it. And unfortunately for Miss Honoria Fairfax, she was what he wished for.

  With a dark laugh that would have roused unholy terror in the unwitting young lady, he returned his attention to the men in his debt.

  Chapter 2

  Seated upon a gilt rope chair at the far back wall of Lady Delenworth’s ballroom, alongside her two dearest, oft-bickering friends, Miss Phoebe Barrett surveyed the dancers assembling for the latest set. Dubbed, the Scandalous Row, she, Miss Honoria Fairfax, and Lady Gillian Farendale, had found friendship early in the Season. Born to notorious families, who Society still spoke of with scandalized whispers, there had been something less lonely, something special in finding other scandalous sisters in this cold, heartless world. For the short time they’d known one another, they’d forged a bond stronger than most familial connections.

  Phoebe proceeded to study the crowd with no little boredom and a great deal of tedium.

  Then the orchestra struck up the chords of the next set.

  As the daughter to one of the society’s most reprehensible letches, Phoebe really should crave that tedium. And yet…eying the twirling waltzers, she perched on the edge of the seat hungering for more.

  Ignoring her friends’ prattling, Phoebe’s gaze snagged upon one couple. A tall gentleman angled the lady in his arms closer and whispered something into her ear that brought a blush to the young woman’s cheeks. Phoebe’s heart doubled its beat. A wistful sigh escaped her. To be the recipient of that—

  Honoria stuck her hand out and waved it before Phoebe’s eyes, startling her into a soft gasp. “Hullo? Are you listening?” she asked with the same exasperation as a governess dealing with a recalcitrant charge.

  Phoebe stole a final peak at the lord and lady and returned her attention to her far more predictable, far less exciting life. “Er, no I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

  “Phoebe,” Gillian wagged a finger. “You shan’t capture a single gentleman’s interest if you’re forever woolgathering.”

  She frowned. “I’m not forever woolgathering,” she said a touch defensively. Simultaneously, her friends arched a single eyebrow. She sighed. “Well, perhaps a bit,” she conceded. “About the waltz.” And being the recipient of such a gentleman’s devotion.

 
; Gillian gave her a smile of agreement. “I find it romantic, as well.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “Particularly if one has the right gentleman to—oomph,” she grunted as Honoria buried her elbow into her side. “There is nothing romantic about a waltz,” Honoria scolded. “It is only an opportunity for notorious scoundrels to place their hands—” Honoria continued over Gillian’s shocked gasp, “on a lady’s person. Cads all of them.” She jerked her chin. “Especially that one.”

  They followed her stare to Lord Allswood who brazenly eyed Phoebe, even over the head of his golden dance partner.

  Phoebe swallowed a groan. “Oh, blast.” Gillian patted her hand. “It is because you are so lovely.”

  “It is because he is so loathsome,” she muttered. She shifted in her seat, presenting the scoundrel with her shoulder. “My father likely owes him a debt.” After all, her father owed most gentlemen, and some not so gentlemanly men, one form of debt or another. The vile wastrel.

  “I daresay you require something such as Honoria’s hideous shawl to detract from your beauty.”

  Honoria touched the edges of the fabric. “I like this particular piece,” she said, defending the garment. She bristled with indignation. “Furthermore, we all conceal our…” she colored. “Er, attributes.”

  Phoebe reached over and gave the piece a bold tug. “Well, I, for one, think it is a silly habit for a young lady to fall into. Such protective garments should only be donned by aging ladies or ladies desperate to avoid attention.” She stuck her finger up. “Nor should a lady hide who she truly is.”

  Honoria pursed her lips. “I, for one, do not care for a gentleman who’d be so captivated by…by…” Her cheeks reddened.

  “Your charms,” Gillian supplied, her gaze still surveying the crowd.

  Though, it would be scandalous for any of them to say as much, they all knew what Gillian implied—Phoebe, too, needed to conceal her large bosom. Frustration ran through her at a world where women were seen for the connections they could make and their physical attributes and not the power of their minds or the beauty of their soul.

  A beleaguered sigh escaped Gillian. “Even honorable gentlemen are interested in…in…” She motioned to Phoebe. “That,” she substituted for which Phoebe was immensely grateful. It would hardly benefit any of their reputations to be discussing their…charms in the midst of Lady Delenworth’s crowded ballroom.

  “Regardless,” Honoria pursed her lips. “Well, we shall not allow him to approach you.”

  Phoebe stole a sideways peek at the still leering lord. He was nothing if not persistent in his intentions, intentions that were anything but proper.

  “No, you deserve an honorable and good gentleman,” Gillian said with a loyalty that pulled at Phoebe’s heart.

  An inelegant snort burst from Honoria. “There is no such thing.”

  She gave silent thanks when the strands of the waltz drew to a finish and the couples upon the dance floor glided back to their respective places in a flurry of satin skirts and brightly colored breeches. Phoebe worried the flesh of her lower lip. The tediousness of this whole husband-hunting thing was well and truly grating. She didn’t doubt she must make a match. It was inevitable. After all, there were few options for an unwed lady and one of scandalous origins, no less. Still, she held to firm ideals in the gentleman who would ultimately become her husband. Honorable. Respectable. Good-hearted. In short, a man nothing like her father.

  She studied the fashionable noblemen escorting their ladies out to the dance floor for the next set. The orchestra struck up a lively country reel and the couples whirred past in an explosion of vibrant satin skirts. Surely, there was a decent, honorable fellow among the lot. She cast a sideways glance down the row at her friends. Or rather, three. They required three gentlemen, more specifically. “Not all gentlemen are rogues,” Phoebe felt inclined to point out.

  Honoria let out a beleaguered sigh. “You are a hopeless romantic, Phoebe.”

  She frowned, not caring to be painted with their black and white brush. “Perhaps I am romantic,” she said, tilting her chin back. “But I’ll not judge everyone and anyone because of several dissolute men.” At her careless words, she bit the inside of her cheek.

  A pall of silence descended over their trio. Gillian, with her pale blonde hair and piercing green eyes was by far the most striking of the friends, and yet a scandal involving her sister jilted at the altar by a “rogue” had marked her as less than marriageable material. They took care not to speak of the scandal in her past—unless Gillian herself cared to discuss it. Which invariably, she did not.

  The country reel came to a rousing finish met by an explosion of applause.

  “Which dance is next?” Gillian arched her neck, in an attempt to see the orchestra as though in doing so she might find the answer to her question.

  “Consult your card,” Honoria said on a sigh. “Never mind,” she added and scanned her empty card. “A quadrille.”

  A gentleman, one of the roguish sorts with unfashionably long locks and a lascivious glint in his eyes, started toward Gillian.

  The three women fixed matching glares on him and sent him scurrying away.

  “He’d approach you without even a formal introduction.” Honoria jerked her chin toward the fast-fleeing rogue. “I told you. Nigh impossible to find the honorable gentleman you speak of.”

  Phoebe certainly hoped her friend was wrong in this regard, and she’d wager, if she were the wagering sort, which she assuredly was not, that both Honoria and Gillian hoped she was wrong, too. Gillian did not rise to Honoria’s baiting. “I know such a man exists.” Her eyes grew distant, hinting at secrets there. Widening her eyes, Phoebe stared at her friend. By the saints in heaven, some gentleman had captured Gillian’s attention? A blush stained the other lady’s cheeks and she rushed to speak. “Have you found such a gentleman?” Hope filled her almost lyrical words. From her pale whitish-blonde hair to the soft clarity of her voice, there was an almost otherworldly quality to the woman.

  Phoebe warmed under their scrutiny. “No, I hope to.” A gentleman who’d encourage her love of travel and welcome a lady who’d see the world beyond the dark, gray confines of their superficial London world.

  A wave of restlessness stirred in her and she fiddled with her ruffled ivory satin skirts. She surveyed the room once more and a shiver of distaste ran along the column of her spine. Lord Allswood, with his latest dance partner, continued to eye her with that lascivious gleam in his bloodshot eyes. Likely from too much drink. Gillian groaned and, for a moment, Phoebe believed her friend had noted horrid Lord Allswood’s unwanted attention. Then she looked out at the crowd.

  Gillian’s plump mother, the Marchioness of Ellsworth, marched through the ballroom with fleshy cheeks and a determined purpose in her stride. She had her fingers wrapped about the forearm of a reed thin, too-tall dandy in pink satin knee breeches.

  “Knee breeches, for the love of God and all the saints in heaven,” Gillian complained, mouthing a prayer to the heavens. “What gentleman wears knee breeches?”

  “Pink knee breeches, no less,” Honoria pointed out unhelpfully.

  Phoebe jabbed her in the side with her elbow. “Ouch.” The other lady winced. “I was merely pointing out…” Her words trailed off as the Marchioness of Ellsworth stopped before them. She peered down her broad nose at the ladies her daughter had marked as friends, in clear disapproval. Then with a dismissive once over, turned to her daughter. “Gillian, please allow me to introduce you to Lord Appleby Hargrove.”

  At the prolonged awkward pall of silence, Phoebe discreetly nudged the suddenly laconic lady with her knee.

  Gillian sprung to her feet with a pink blush. “My lord,” she murmured, dropping a curtsy.

  He tugged at the lapels of his mauve coat. “Lady Gillian,” he said in a nasal tone that caused all three young ladies to wince. The gentleman’s valet who’d let him go out with pink breeches and a mauve coat should be sacked first thing, Phoebe thought dr
yly. “A pleasure,” he said, his gaze lingering overly on Gillian’s generous hips as though she were a broodmare he was sizing up. Phoebe’s fingers twitched involuntary with a need to plant a facer in the letch’s face. Surely, the marchioness recognized even with the scandal in their family’s past, Gillian deserved a good deal better than a suitor more interested in her friend’s generous endowments?

  The marchioness reluctantly looked to her daughter’s companions. Phoebe wasn’t certain if the lady’s disapproval stemmed from their scandalous pasts or their status as mere misses. “Lord Hargrove, may I also present to you Miss Phoebe Barrett and Miss Henrietta—?”

  “Honoria,” her daughter corrected.

  “—Fairfax,” she went on as though Gillian hadn’t spoken.

  The young gentleman flicked his gaze disinterestedly over Honoria’s trim frame and ivory skirts. “Charmed.”

  “Undoubtedly,” she muttered under her breath.

  Pride swelled in Phoebe’s breast at her friend’s unerring pride in the face of the rude young nobleman.

  Next, Lord Hargrove passed his blue-eyed stare over Phoebe. His gaze fell to her décolletage, his eyes lingering overly long on her too-generous bosom. When he looked at her, a glint of lust reflected in the depths of his eyes. She shivered, willing to trade her left hand in this moment for her friend’s cashmere shawl.

  “I was mentioning how very graceful you are, Gillian,” the marchioness said sharply. By the hard glint in her eyes as she alternated her gaze between Phoebe and Lord Hargrove, she’d detected the dishonorable gentleman’s interest in a woman other than her daughter. “His Lordship has asked that I coordinate an introduction so he might ask you to dance.”

  With seeming reluctance, he returned his attention to the by far loveliest of the scandalous trio. “My lady, will you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set.”

  A desperate glint lit the young lady’s eyes, but then her mother fixed a black glare on her and Gillian spoke on a rush. “It would be a pleasure, my lord.” He held his arm out. Gillian hesitated a moment and then with the same enthusiasm as Marie Antoinette being marched to the guillotine, she placed her fingertips upon his satin coat sleeve and allowed him to escort her off.