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

by Christi Caldwell

  His smile was back in place and he strolled over with long, slow steps. He tossed the small package upon a nearby table while not breaking his forward stride. Phoebe dropped her gaze, noting the slight hitch of his right leg. For the effortless grace with which he moved, there was a hint of a limp. How had she not noticed such a small but important detail about him before now? He came to a stop before her.

  When she raised her stare to meet his, he peered at her through thick, dark, hooded lashes; the icy glint in his eyes at odds with the words upon his lips. Again, this stranger did not match with the grinning man she’d come to know. But do I really know him? We’ve met but a handful of times. And still for those three meetings, now four, there was a sense of knowing.

  He captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “A lady bold enough to wander on Lady Delenworth’s terrace in the midst of a ball and who seeks out curiosity shops surely will ask the question.”

  At that, she wet her lips, suddenly uneasy around him in a way she’d not been since their first unexpected meeting. “Th-the question?” Yet, for the unease, a pain tugged at her heart, as she confronted the truth: the indomitable, proud Marquess of Rutland feared by all, talked about in shocked and scandalized whispers, was insecure of his injured leg. No different than a wounded creature, snarling its fury while secretly nursing its hurts. Coward that she was, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  Edmund brushed his thumb over her lip with an impropriety surely deserving of a slap across his cheek. “Tsk, tsk, I’d taken you for a woman of courage.” He released her and stepped past her, disappointment stamped in the chiseled planes of his face. He stood at her shoulder, peering out the windows, down into the streets below. “What happened to your leg?” At her quietly spoken question, he stiffened. It was not merely morbid curiosity but rather an almost physical need to glean every last detail that had shaped him into this man he’d become.

  When he looked back to her once again, there was a grudging respect in his eyes. “I dueled for a lady’s heart.”

  At the unexpectedness of those words, Phoebe’s breath hitched painfully and she preferred the not knowing, blissful ignorance of Society’s tales of the dark Marquess of Rutland. An empty, mirthless grin turned his lips ever so slightly at the corner; all the more telling for the bitterness there. For if his heart was no longer engaged, there would be no stinging resentment. She stretched a hand out to him. “I am so very sorry, Edmund.”

  The lady’s fragile heart showed itself once more.

  Yet, this telling of Margaret’s betrayal had not been a crafty attempt to slip even further into Phoebe’s affections. The stories of his past, of the one woman he’d trusted was not a part he opened to anyone. Ultimately, Margaret had revealed a weakness in him that he’d since striven to strike from the remembrance of Society members who happened to recall a distant time when he’d foolishly allowed himself that momentary lapse and hoped for the elusive dream of happiness.

  Staring out the window, his back presented to Phoebe, he fought for the stable footing he’d become accustomed to through the years; one in which he didn’t feel the sting of hurt, embarrassment, shame—any of it. To be emotionally deadened was far safer, far more preferable than…this being flayed open and exposed before a young lady who really was nothing more than a stranger.

  Gentle fingers slid into his and he started, staring numbly down at their interlocked digits. The olive hue of Phoebe’s skin spoke to her Roman ancestry. Her hand, delicate and soft, and yet possessed of an inexplicable strength, drew him. Something shifted in his chest. Pull away, you blasted, pathetic lackwit. The muscles of his stomach clenched and he could no sooner relinquish the connection than he could sever off his duel-scarred leg.

  Perhaps in this scheme of revenge he’d drawn her into, he was the only weak one, for she came closer, when his mind rebelled and urged retreat, and then Phoebe stopped so her chest brushed against his.

  “Do you still love her?”

  By the tentativeness in those words his answer mattered very much to her and he thrilled at that for reasons that moved beyond his plans for Miss Fairfax. “I do not love her.” The harsh, guttural response intended to send her fleeing only brought her head back and a contemplative glimmer lit her eyes.

  A sad, little smile pulled at her lips. “Oh, Edmund, surely you realize if that were true you’d not be so very angry still.”

  By the wistfulness in the lines of her heart-shaped face, she certainly believed the veracity of her own statement. Yet… He frowned. Who he was and who he’d become had nothing to do with Margaret, but rather a collection of experiences that went back to a dark, gloomy, and very real childhood. “I assure you, I do not love her.” Or anyone. Love was dangerous. Love destroyed.

  “I believe you try to convince yourself as much.”

  Her adamancy set his teeth on edge and he stepped away from her. “You speak as though you know me and yet what do you really know?” Nothing. She knew nothing. Not even the miserable creatures who’d given him life had known him…or cared to. A muscle ticked at the corner of his eye.

  She arched a thin, brown eyebrow. “I know enough.”

  Hardly anything at all. For if she truly gleaned the black mark upon his soul, she’d not have that warmth in her eyes whenever she looked at him, just as she did now. Edmund growled. “How trusting you are,” he spat the words dripping with scorn for Phoebe because of her misguided faith and trust, because of him for his deceitfulness, but more for caring about this treachery when he’d never cared before. “You would see good where there is none.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he recognized that irrational attempt to have her shut him out of her life and then he’d be done with his plan.

  “Perhaps.” Phoebe took a step closer; the prey now turned predator. “And yet, I also realize a person can claim to be angry ten times to Sunday but if the smile on their lips meets one’s eyes, there is happiness somewhere deep inside.” Coming to a stop before him, she claimed his hands in a boldness that would have shocked any dowager, matron, and mama. She turned them over studying his gloveless palms.

  A garbled sound lodged in his throat. “Is that what you believe, that I’m smiling?” All laughter had died from his life twenty-five years ago.

  “Here.” Phoebe ran her finger over the right corner of his lip, shocking him with the innocent seductiveness of that faint touch. Her caress somehow more erotic than any of the scandalous, forbidden games he’d played behind chamber doors. “You smile, and then it is as though you remind yourself you do not want to smile and this muscle twitches,” she said, having no idea the havoc she now wrought upon his senses.

  Edmund shot a hand out and encircled it about her wrist, capturing the delicate flesh in his unrelenting grip. “What have you to smile for?” His words were not to taunt, but rather a desperate desire to know how she’d risen from the ugliness of life, the daughter of Waters to become…this woman who spoke of laughter and hope and happiness. It was too much. He dragged her wrist to his mouth and touched his lips to the wildly fluttering pulse there. Phoebe’s thick, nearly black lashes swept down as he continued to worship the soft skin, nipping at the juncture where her hand met wrist.

  Then, as though it were a physical exertion, she forced her eyes open and peered at him with an intensity of emotion that robbed him of logical thought. “I can go through life bemoaning the circumstances of my life.” Her lecherous sire. “Or I can choose to smile and celebrate where I can.” She met his gaze squarely. “I choose to celebrate, Edmund.”

  When she spoke with that resolve, she made him believe he, too, could try again at life and, as she said, smile where he could and bury the memories of the shameful deeds no child should ever bear witness to.

  Edmund lowered his head, to claim her lips under his once more and stamp the sincerity of her promise upon his soul. He took her mouth in a gentle meeting. There was none of the violent, desperate passion he reserved for every lover to come before her.
With a whispery sigh, she leaned up and wrapped her arms about his neck, availing herself to him and all he could offer. Emboldened by her eagerness, he deepened the kiss, devouring her mouth with his, over and over. Gentleness gone, he parted her lips and mated with her tongue in a bold thrust and parry. He swallowed her moan of desire, catching her to him as her body collapsed against his. “I want you, Phoebe Barrett,” he said harshly against her lips and, guiding her to the edge of the wall, he anchored her with his chest. He trailed his lips down her neck then kissed the silken shell of her earlobe.

  Phoebe captured her lower lip between her teeth, her head falling back. “M-my maid—”

  “Can go hang,” he whispered, worshiping the long, graceful stretch of her neck. He’d never worried about discovery before and he didn’t now. He drew her flesh between his teeth, gently nipping until she was moaning with unrestrained desire.

  In this moment, nothing but they two mattered. Not his plans for Miss Fairfax or his use of Phoebe’s father to advance that plan. What if there could be more between them? What if he abandoned this driving need for retribution? The curtain fell agape. It was as though the fates jeered his momentary weakening.

  Through the crack in the velvet curtains, his gaze snagged upon Miss Honoria Fairfax, the woman he’d take to wife, the sole reason he was even now with Phoebe, as she stepped down from her carriage, a mutinous set to her mouth. The pale-haired Lady Gillian followed along behind her. With a curse, Edmund wrenched away.

  Phoebe’s chest heaved with the force of her desire and it was all he could do to keep from conquering her mouth once again. He quickly set her hair to rights, adjusting the floral, jewel-encrusted combs woven into her hair. The light reflected off the too-dull gem and his gut tightened with the truth that she wore nothing more than paste baubles. And he who’d never felt an ounce of remorse, shame, or regret in his life, was consumed by a numbing guilt. He’d divested the lady of her dowry.

  “Wh-what i-is it?” Hesitancy underscored that question.

  He steeled his jaw. Nay, the lady’s father was responsible for those crimes. There were many other sins that could be laid at Edmund’s feet. “You’ve visitors,” he murmured, deliberately misinterpreting the question she put to him.

  They looked to the door just as her maid rushed into the room, head downcast. The young woman lifted her eyes a moment and a flush stained her cheeks as she continued to the corner of the parlor, swiftly claiming a seat. Ah, the loyal maid had allowed her mistress that scandalous privacy. She’d see Phoebe ruined.

  No, I’ll see her ruined…

  Footsteps fell in the corridor, punctuated by the excited chatter of one of those visiting ladies. Conditioned to living in the shadows, Edmund backed away. The surly and rightfully wary butler reappeared and announced Phoebe’s two friends.

  Lady Gillian stepped into the room with a wide, innocent smile. “Hullo, Phoe—” The warm greeting withered on her lips as she caught sight of Edmund. Silence marched out long and stilted between them.

  He broke the quiet. “Lady Gillian, Miss Fairfax.” Despite his polite greeting, Miss Fairfax lingered in the doorway with a staying hand rested upon her other friend’s forearm, as though she’d been unable to adequately protect Phoebe but would not so fail the innocent, golden-haired lady.

  Phoebe looked between them and then rushed over to greet the woman he’d take as his wife. Why was the taste for retribution less potent than this hungering to claim another? He slid his gaze over Phoebe’s lean frame, taking in the gracefulness of her back.

  “Gillian, Honoria.” Only one as deaf as a dowager would fail to hear the forced cheer in her tone. She motioned them to sit. “Will you see to refreshments?” she called to the maid in the corner. The too-obedient young woman hovering in the corner of the room raced to do her mistress’ bidding. “Lord Rutland was just visiting.”

  “Why?” the tart-mouth shrew who’d find herself his bride, snapped.

  Lady Gillian gasped, stifling the sound with her fingers. “Honoria,” she chided.

  Alas, it would seem there was but one sensible woman of their lot—a cynical, wary creature with loathing in her eyes. Yes, in temperament and cynicism she would make him the perfect wife. Why did that thought leave him strangely hollow? “If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured. “I’ll leave you to your visit.” He sketched another bow.

  “No,” Phoebe cried out. Her friends rounded their eyes in response. Color bloomed on her cheeks and she ran her palms over the front of the gown. When she spoke, her words emerged far steadier. “That is…” She wet her lips and then looked about as though in search of some desperate device to keep him here amongst two young women who appeared as if they’d rather have his head on a platter than his company for tea. Her gaze alighted on the small, rose-inlaid side table and she rushed over in a flurry of white skirts. “Your package, Ed—” Lady Gillian’s shocked gasp cut into that impropriety. “That is, you’ve forgotten your package, my lord.” With fingers atremble, Phoebe rescued the wrapped package and held it out. She lifted her gaze to his. Entreaty, apology, and a whole host of sentiments he was undeserving of, lit her expressive eyes.

  Edmund held his hands up. “You’re mistaken.” He lowered his voice, speaking in hushed tones. “It is yours.” Running his gaze over her face once more, he sketched another bow and adjusted his awkward gait then took his leave. He made his way out of Viscount Waters’ townhouse and away from Phoebe. This scheme he’d forced her into plunged Edmund into a realm in which he could never be redeemed.

  His lips turned up in a smile that likely would have chilled her back into a logical miss. Then, there was no redemption for a blackguard such as he.

  Chapter 9

  Phoebe stared down at the small, wrapped package in her hands. It was the height of impropriety to accept a gift from a gentleman. It was the level of scandalousness that saw a lady ruined, and when said gift was given by Lord Rutland, she might as well don crimson skirts and declare herself the next Harriette Wilson.

  “What have you done, Phoebe?” The desperation infused in Honoria’s tone brought her attention up.

  Had she been the furious, guarded, snapping young woman she’d been since she’d stepped onto Lady Delenworth’s terrace and discovered Phoebe and Edmund together, that would be easier to bear than this pitying, alarmed figure. “He wants to court me.”

  Her friends spoke in unison. “He wants to court you?” The young ladies, her confidantes these two years, shared a look.

  “Is that so difficult to believe?” She could not keep the affront from her voice.

  “Yes.” This from Gillian, the most hopeful romantic one of their lot.

  Honoria pounced, throwing support behind Gillian. “Don’t you see?” She swept over and stopped before Phoebe. “The Marquess of Rutland is a monster.”

  Gillian gave a hesitant nod. “It is true. He is.”

  The more cynical of her friends pursed her lips. “He doesn’t court young ladies.”

  Again, the world saw in Edmund what they chose to see. They looked at the veneer of him constructed of whispers and rumors alone, and failed to see a man who believed in hope, and dreamed of escape from the rigid confines of their cruel world. “You’re wrong.” Phoebe promptly pressed her lips into a firm line. Honoria bristled and settled her hands on her hips. “My aunt knew him well and…” she wrinkled her nose. “Though she’s not provided me details about how she knew him, it is enough to know the gossips are indeed correct about the man.”

  Her aunt? She gritted her teeth. “You’d expect me to condemn the gentleman based on tales you do not know, and on nothing more than your aunt’s words alone?” Disappointment filled her. Given each of their circumstances, she expected more honor from her friend. “Come, what manner of person would I be to judge another so.” She gave Honoria a deliberate look.

  Honoria had the good grace to flush.

  Surprisingly, it was Gillian who shattered the quiet. “Look at you, both, arguing.�
�� She sailed over in a flurry of noisy taffeta skirts and positioned herself directly between Honoria and Phoebe. “Perhaps there is good in him, Honoria.”

  The cynical one of their trio slashed the air with her hand. “Bah. There is not. He will hurt you,” she said to Phoebe and then turned to Gillian. “He will hurt her. Scoundrels, rakes, and rogues are not to be trusted.”

  Annoyed with the ease in which Honoria fell into the ranks of every member of the ton who’d serve as arbiter and executioner of a person’s reputation, she said, “I’ll not let myself be hurt.” As soon as that assurance left her mouth, she recognized the futility of that promise. Gillian and Honoria’s silence said they, too, recognized it. For Phoebe couldn’t truly protect herself—not fully. Edmund was not the monster Society painted him to be, but he was still a scarred and broken creature, and those were the most difficult to heal.

  Phoebe passed the gift he’d given back and forth between her hands. His unyielding visage flashed behind her eyes. “I know he is not…the most gentle of men.” She continued over Honoria’s disbelieving snort. “When I am with him,” she said, picking her gaze up, “I’m not the shameful Lord Waters’ daughter. I’m simply Phoebe.” And that is all she’d longed for people to see—not her familial connection to a letch who lived at his clubs and shamed her mother. Some of the tension left Honoria’s stiffly held frame, hinting at a wavering on her part. Phoebe pressed her vantage. “Surely you see no one could ever make him do something he does not wish.” I want you, Phoebe Barrett. “You warned me that his intentions can never be honorable and yet he wishes to court me.” Phoebe drew the gift given her close, hugging the package to her chest. “Why should he do that unless he wished it?”

  “I don’t know.” That terse admission came as though dragged from Honoria.