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

by Christi Caldwell

  Phoebe groaned in protest when he pulled away. The tense set of his mouth and the agony reflected in his eyes might as well have been a mirror into this desperate hunger she herself now knew. “From the moment I met you, I longed to have you naked, with your hair draped about our entwined limbs,” he whispered, and disentangled one hair comb from her intricately arranged hair.

  “S-surely not the first moment.” After all, their first meeting had been born on the wings of a lie.

  “Yes, the first.” He tossed it to the nightstand and then paused to run his gaze over her face. “I just didn’t realize it.” He reached for the other gold comb and freed her hair.

  Yet this was not the first time they’d join their bodies as one. “B-but you already had me.”

  “Not like this, Phoebe,” he said, his gravelly voice, harsh with desire? Regret? Surely he was incapable of that sentiment.

  She’d deserved her first moment to be made more than that quick coupling in Lord Essex’s gardens. Edmund swept his lashes low. Yes, that time could not be undone… but he would take his time loving her and learning every contour of her delicate frame.

  Phoebe’s auburn tresses tumbled in a shimmering cascade about her naked shoulders and the sight of her, an olive-skinned, lithe beauty to rival those spiteful Greek goddesses, stirred his emotions. Never before and never again would he hunger for a woman more than he did her. His ears filled with the raggedness of his own breath and hers as they joined their hands as one.

  With an almost physical pain at his body’s surging awareness of her, he ran a hand down the satiny smoothness of her forearm, lower and lower. With sure movements, he enfolded her hand in his and slid his fingers into hers so they were joined in unison—interlocked in ways he’d never before been. His vision was transfixed by the sight of the union of their hands, her fingers graceful, long, and delicate and his hard, dark, and scarred—an unlikely pairing—and somehow all the more perfect for it.

  The muscles of his throat moved in a reflexive swallow. Until Phoebe, he’d never bothered to hold a woman’s hand in bed. There had been no need. Nothing but a mindless, soulless desire had driven his past. Until now. Until her hand. Her fingers.

  “What is it?” Phoebe’s hoarse question brought him to the moment.

  He gave his head a shake and raised her fingertips to his lips. “You are perfect,” he said again. With swift, sure movements he removed her chemise and the remainder of her undergarments. For every woman who’d come before her melted away into a faceless, nebulous shape so all he saw, all he wanted to see, was Phoebe.

  Her cheeks pinkened under his stare. “You no doubt say that to ev—”

  Edmund crushed her lips under his once more, swallowing those words, willing her to feel the truth, when her mind could not believe it. In one fluid movement, he laid her down and came over her. He reached between them and teased the damp auburn curls that shielded her womanhood.

  Her hips arched off the bed. “Edmund,” she gasped and bucked into his touch.

  She might despise him for his crimes against her, but her body hungered for his. That would be enough. It had to be. “Do you want this, Phoebe?” he reveled in her panting, raspy moans of desire. He teased her pleasure nub until she cried out. “Tell me,” he demanded harshly, pressing the heel of his hand into her. “I do,” she moaned, her hips arching back, seeking, searching.

  Edmund drew his hand back to her sharp cry of protestation, but moved slowly down her body. He dragged his mouth over hers, trailing kisses down her neck, lower.

  Phoebe shot her hands out and clasped her fingers in his hair. With a wanton urging that sent blood racing to his shaft, she dragged his head to her right breast. He hovered with his mouth poised over her soft skin, gleaming with moisture. “Do you want my mouth on you here, Phoebe?” he whispered and brushed a faint kiss over her nipple.

  Her thick lashes fluttered open. “I do,” she rasped.

  Masculine triumph ran through him and he darted his tongue out teasingly and, to her cry of protest, he continued lower. He lowered his face between her thighs.

  She came up on her elbows. “Wh-what are you doing—?” Her words ended on a shattered scream and she fell back on the bed, as he pressed his mouth to her core.

  Edmund slipped his tongue inside and caressed her, laving her hot, throbbing center until she thrashed her head wildly upon the pillow. The taste of her sweet and more potent than any spirit he’d consumed drove him to the edge of madness. He pushed his tongue deep inside, working her until she pumped her hips toward his mouth in swift, jerky movements that indicated she was nearing that point of her body’s surrender. Edmund drew back. “Please,” she begged and ran her fingers down his back in a bid to pull him close, but in a frantic need to free himself, he shoved off his breeches and kicked them over the bed.

  Her lips parted on a soft moue and with that softening, he drew her up, flush to his frame. A harsh groan escaped him, broken and shattered at the burn of her satiny soft skin against his. With an ache to feel her hand upon him, he drew her small palm to his chest.

  She toyed with the mat of hair on his chest and then the same bold woman who’d danced away from Society’s reach at Lord Essex’s rubbed the flat circle of his nipple.

  He hissed and she picked her head up. “Did I hurt you?” Several lines creased her brow.

  In response, Edmund took her hand and brought it lower, guided it down to the burgeoning member that stood out in reach for her. He paused and studied her; aching to know her touch on his naked flesh, without the barrier of cloth between them this time. But he’d not take his own pleasure at the expense of her uncertainty.

  The air left him on a swift exhale as Phoebe stroked the head of his shaft. She looked up quickly, as though to ascertain whether she’d caused him more than this pleasure-pain, and then swiftly returned her attention to exploring the size and feel of him. She ran the tip of her index finger up and down the length of him; that feathery, light caress an exotic torture he’d have given his entire landholdings, his title, and every material possession to forever know. And since he’d already consigned himself to Hell for many sins before this, with his hand, he guided hers about his hardened member and showed her the slow, up and down rhythm.

  His head fell back on a pained groan as she began working him with a seductive hold both innocent and brazen that he nearly spent in her hands like some inexperienced youth.

  He wrenched away and she furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry—”

  Edmund kissed her hard, momentarily silencing her and then pulled back. He ran his gaze along her face, memorizing the delicate planes as well as the faint birthmark on the lobe of her right ear. In an imperfect world, she was the only piece of perfection. “You never have to be sorry for anything that happens here in this bed, between us. Ever,” he said on a gruff command and then closed his mouth over the turgid bud of her breast once more.

  Phoebe cried out and tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him in place, and urging him on with her pleading moans. Gently, he drew the swollen tip between his lips and then swirled his tongue over it until the room filled with her cries. Passion licked away anything but the feel, scent, and sounds of his wife in her unrestrained pleasure.

  Guiding her down onto her back once more, he came over her, and parted her thighs with his knee. Edmund worked his eyes over her flushed cheeks and then locked his gaze squarely with hers. “I have ached for this moment since Lord Essex’s. I will never have enough of you.”

  Those were the closest words of endearment he could or would ever give her. In response, Phoebe splayed her legs open. A wall of emotion slammed into him, humbling him with her unwarranted offering in light of his betrayal. Her arms came up and she wrapped them about him, holding tight.

  Then with a groan he slid himself into her welcoming, wet heat.

  Phoebe cried out and wrapped her arms about him.

  This meeting was not the gentler, more tentative meeting when he’d last joined
his body with hers in Lord Essex’s gardens. Now, they moved with a primitive savagery. He thrust himself hard and deep inside her. Over and over again. And she lifted her hips in perfect rhythm to his body’s movements.

  Low, hungry moans slipped past her lips. “Edmund.”

  Sweat beaded his brow and dripped into his eye. He fought the surge of desire threatening to take him under and urged her onward to her pleasure. “Come for me,” he demanded. “Come.”

  Phoebe’s body went still and then her eyes flew wide. “Edmund?” His body stiffened as he crested the precipice of release and then he was hurtling forward, careening in a blinding flash of light and color, and Phoebe was coming with him. He stiffened, his shaft spurting his hot seed deep inside her womb, filling her.

  Dragging in great, gasping breaths, Edmund collapsed atop his wife. He lay there, eyes closed, relishing in Phoebe’s own shuddering breaths. I will never have enough of you…

  Phoebe’s gentle caress up and down his back brought his eyes slowly open. “Edmund,” she whispered.

  “Yes, love?”

  She stilled at the endearment that had slipped out unheeded, unchecked. A slow smile formed on her lips, terrifying him with the emotion there. “You are crushing me.”

  With a curse, he immediately rolled off her. He pulled her into the fold of his arm and drew the blankets over them. There would be time for the resentment and anger that had brought her to this union later. For now, there was peace. With Phoebe’s auburn tresses a silken curtain wrapped about them, Edmund closed his eyes.

  Chapter 20

  The faintest rumble at her back penetrated Phoebe’s slumbering. Her body hot like the kiss of a sun on a summer’s day, she wanted to close her eyes and lose herself in that soothing warmth once more. Then a loud snore filled the room. Her lids fluttered open and she stared at the pale yellow wallpaper—the unfamiliar pale yellow wallpaper. She tried to make sense of her surroundings: the heat, the snoring, and then she remembered.

  God in heaven. She was married. To the notorious Marquess of Rutland, who’d only begun a false courtship to bring him closer to Honoria and who’d threatened to destroy her family if she did not wed him. That truth still ran through her heart with the same raggedness as the moment she’d overheard him speaking to her father yesterday morn. Had it only been yesterday?

  She scooted out from under the fold of his powerfully strong, well-muscled arm and turned on her side to look at him. Something pulled inside at the peaceful, unguarded evenness of the chiseled planes of his face. A loose, black curl tumbled over his brow, softening him. She propped her head in her palm and continued to examine this man she’d married.

  A slight smile twitched at the corners of his lips and there was nothing hard or cynical and practiced in this most honest of reaction of his sleep. What did a man like Edmund dream about that brought him to smile? Another shuddery snore escaped those lips and in his sleep, he rolled onto his back. The sheet slid down his frame further revealing the broad wall of his naked chest matted with tight, black curls.

  She slid her gaze over to the tray he’d brought in earlier; the food forgotten upon it, and that small leather book there, a conundrum wrapped in leather with gold lettering. What need had there been for him to select a book for her and deliver a tray of breakfast to her? A man so viciously methodical and whispered about by Society for his ruthlessness would not worry over his wife’s hurt feelings. That man Society loathed and feared wouldn’t give a jot if his wife had been hurt by talk of the women who’d come before. Nay, that man would delight in the weakness shown. Phoebe returned her attention to Edmund. But he’d not delighted in her hurt or sought to use it as a weapon with which to further manipulate her. He’d come with an apology. She inched closer and trailed the tips of her fingers over his bare chest.

  My heart does not lie…

  “Who are you, Edmund?” she whispered. The man who’d have his revenge at all costs? Or the man who knew her interests and in an attempt to right her hurts, would humble himself with an apology.

  As though disturbed by her questioning even in his sleep, he shifted. That slight movement further dislodged the sheet and it slid lower. She reached for the soft fabric to pull it back into place and a horrified gasp escaped her. A vicious, white, puckered scar traversed from the corner of his right hip down to the middle of his thigh. She shoved herself up from her reclining position and came to her knees. The angry mark upon his otherwise perfect skin displayed a vicious injury. I dueled for a lady’s heart… This was the mark he bore, as a testament to that former love. Agony swept over her at the prospect of this tall, powerful, commanding figure forever silenced. With the pain he’d caused her, she cared for Edmund still. Phoebe reached tentative fingers to that mark when a powerful hand shot out and circled her wrist.

  Her heart thundered hard and her gaze flew to Edmund. He eyed her through thick, hooded, black lashes that revealed little of his thoughts. She swallowed hard and mustered a smile. “G-good morning.”

  “Afternoon. It is afternoon.”

  “Is it?” Her voice emerged on a high squeak.

  “And the same day.”

  She looked to the window. She’d been Miss Phoebe Barrett, then found herself wedded to Edmund and now titled the Marchioness of Rutland, and had made love to him…and this had all been the same day? How many changes a person could undergo in so very little time. Phoebe pulled her hand back and he quickly released her. Her skin pricked with the heated intensity of his stare.

  “Surely you’ll ask the question?” His harsh baritone belied the just previously resting gentleman with a smile in his sleep.

  A man who snored like a bear in winter and grinned like a naughty boy while he slumbered did not evoke the same fear a man such as the Marquess of Rutland’s legendary ruthlessness did. Phoebe skimmed her fingers over his scar once more. “Is this from your duel?” For another woman. A woman he’d loved. He stiffened at her touch, but made no attempt to pull away. Otherwise, he remained stoically silent and she suspected he did not intend to answer. Disappointment swelled at the boundaries he’d keep between them, even married as they were. She stared at that angry scar. It should not matter, his silence. There were no illusions of love on his part; not the way she’d foolishly, optimistically hoped during his pretend courtship. She pulled the sheet close and swung her legs over the edge of the bed then made to rise.

  “It is.”

  Phoebe froze. She glanced over her shoulder to gauge his reaction to that admission. As usual, his inscrutable expression gave no indication to his thoughts. “Who did you duel for the lady’s love?” She could not keep the bitterness from her words and hated it for the weakness it revealed for this man, still with his treachery.

  Edmund sat up and the sheet dipped lower. “The Earl of Stanhope.”

  The name meant nothing to her. Recently wed to Lady Anne Adamson, there was a scandal surrounding their own marriage, but she’d never bothered with the details of scandals and such. Now, in this, she wished she’d attended more closely.

  He settled his hands upon her shoulders and she stiffened. “In the end she chose neither of us.” His hot breath fanned the skin of her neck, stirring the loose curls that hung haphazardly over her shoulder. “It was for naught. It did not earn me the lady’s love.”

  It did not earn me the lady’s love. If the duchess had, in fact, chosen Edmund, what a very different man he’d be than this twisted creature bent on revenge. That somehow made her agony all the more painful. Her belly twisted in a hard knot. Edmund stroked his hands up and down her forearms in a seductively soft, soothing rhythm.

  “I was young,” he confessed, touching his lips to her neck.

  Was she so very transparent in her thoughts? How unsophisticated she must be to this worldly, jaded man.

  She hated that she craved his kiss as she did, hated that she was so attuned to his every caress when she meant so very little to him. “How old were you?”

  “Twenty-one.”<
br />
  The same age as she was now. Old enough to know one’s heart. Her throat worked. She pulled back, but he applied a gentle pressure to her arms, as though willing her to stay because he needed her there, which was madness. “How very much you must love her.”

  “I don’t love anyone,” he replied with an icy automaticity that lashed at her weak heart. Of course he couldn’t love anyone—her included. Even knowing the ruthless scoundrel he was, why should that cause this vicious agony in her breast? She looked sadly back at him. “Everyone loves someone. Even if it is only themselves.”

  A slight scowl marred his face, a slight indication he’d detected her unintended barb. “I did not love her,” he said setting his jaw at a mutinous angle.

  Phoebe pulled away again and this time he made no move to stop her. She stood and tugged at the coverlet, holding it close to her naked frame, shielding herself from his eyes. “You protest any time I mention your loving your Margaret—”

  “She is not my Margaret.”

  “And yet you’d involve me and Honoria and my father and,” she slashed the air with one hand. “God knows whoever else so you might exact some revenge on the woman.” She tipped her chin up. “Do you still intend to have your revenge on her for a past hurt?” Phoebe held her breath, bracing for his response. He remained silent and with his lack of words, provided all the answer she required. “I would ask that you set aside this vengeful life you’ve set for yourself, Edmund.” Otherwise, it would destroy the remaining part of him that was still good. The part of him that could say sorry and carry silver trays with meals for a wife he’d inadvertently hurt, and a gift of a book that spoke of a man who’d listened to her interests and hopes.