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

by Christi Caldwell

  An impatient sound escaped him; part growl, part moan. “You do not understand.”

  “Then make me.”

  A muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth. A man who evoked fear in the hearts of most in Society was likely unaccustomed to having orders put to him. She released the breath as disappointment filled her. “Simply saying you did not love her does not make it true.” Phoebe readjusted her hold on the coverlet, tightening her grip. That slight muscle continued to tic away at the right corner of his lip. “And you still don’t realize that loving someone doesn’t make you weak.” She dropped her gaze to the rumpled sheets. Or perhaps it did. After all, was she truly any stronger for loving? “Is she why you ceased believing in love?”

  Edmund came up to his knees in one fluid motion. Unrepentant in his nakedness, he brushed his knuckles along her jawline. At that slight caress, she started. “I ceased believing in love long before Margaret.” His use of the woman’s Christian name somehow made this aching hole in her chest all the wider. Edmund paused that gentle caress and his mouth tightened. “I learned early on at my parents’ marriage. There is no love. There are simply people who would have their pleasures and take them. Love is an empty, useless emotion.”

  “My parents’ marriage is not a happy one,” she reminded him.

  “My mother took my father’s brother as her lover,” he said bluntly.

  She gasped. For her father’s shamefulness, this level of treachery Edmund spoke of was foreign.

  The unholy smile on her husband’s lips mocked her for her innocence and she recognized it as a protective grin he adopted to shield himself from inquiries into his life. “What, nothing to say?” He captured a loose curl between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed the tress almost distractedly. “Will you have me tell you how my father ordered me from the nursery and forced me to the room where my mother and uncle rutted like beasts?”

  Nausea churned in her belly. Oh, God. He’d once claimed she knew nothing about him. And Lord forgive her, these were the pieces of Edmund Deering she’d not known. Pieces that explained the puzzle of the man he’d become. “Would you hear more?” A hard glint sparked to life in his eyes. “Or shall I not sully your innocent ears any further?”

  The taunting barb, no doubt, was intended to silence her and end his telling, and yet…the pleading in his eyes, begged for her to hear these parts he’d shared with no one. “I would hear it all, Edmund.”

  His eyebrows shot up, but then he quickly smoothed his features.

  “Very well, then you’ll have me tell you how my father forced me to stand and watch them?” Bile climbed up her throat until she feared she’d cast the contents of her stomach at his feet. “Or how they were so enthralled with one another they failed to see me or my father at the doorway? How when my mother and uncle found their release, they finally saw me, and laughed.”

  He would have been just a boy. At his deadened tones, she pressed her eyes closed. There was an ugliness in her own soul, for she wanted to drag the now dead marquess and marchioness from their graves and choke them for shattering a boy’s innocence. His fingers tightened upon her shoulders in an almost reflexive manner. “From that point, I became a pawn used by my parents to inflict hurt upon one another. I decided at that moment I would never be used by anyone. I would never be hurt by anyone in any way.” He flexed his jaw. “I am no pawn and I will have vengeance on those who think they might inflict hurt. For if I do not, then my weakness will be used against me.”

  Phoebe dropped her gaze to his scar; the angry, vicious reminder of what had happened when he’d trusted that there could be more than ugliness in the world. What a warped, sad way to go through life.

  “Don’t do that,” he commanded harshly.

  She picked her head up.

  Edmund released his hold on her and she mourned the loss of his touch. “Do not pity me.”

  “I do not pity you.” She didn’t. Her heart ached for him and she wanted to take away a child’s pain so mayhap he might grow into a man who’d not been scarred by his parents’ depravity.

  “And with everything you’ve heard, you still believe in love.”

  She bristled at the cynical twist to that statement. “Just because you can’t love me, does not mean there aren’t others who d—” Her words ended on a startled squeak as he swiftly turned her around and brought her down beneath the wall of his chest. Her back burrowed into the downy soft mattress.

  Powerful emotion burned from Edmund’s eyes, scorching her with the strength there. “There will not be another,” he commanded, his tone gravelly.

  She blinked. “Another what?”

  He lowered his brow to hers so the brown of his irises bore into hers. “A lover.”

  Her heart started. He was jealous. “You are jealous.” Shock leant her words a breathy quality.

  Edmund ceased blinking, but he did not deny the charge.

  How could this man, who’d used her for nothing more than a pawn in his twisted, illogical plot against the Duchess of Monteith, care at all about anything? His reaction could be one of a man who’d have, as he said, revenge on those who sought to hurt him. However, something in his eyes spoke of a different tale. Her heart hitched. For even as she hated the ruthless man who wanted her at all costs, who would have destroyed her family if it so suited him, that blasted, weak organ would belong forever to him. She stroked her fingers down his jaw. “I will not take a lover,” she said softly. “Not because you command it,” his jaw flexed once more, “but because I will not become my father or your mother…” Or you…

  Edmund raked a gaze over her face as though seeking the veracity of her words and then he covered her mouth with his in a hard, possessive kiss. This was not the gentle searching of earlier that morning. This was unrestrained and explosive. He thrust his tongue deep and she moaned at that primitive kiss which set her body ablaze with a hunger for more of him.

  Her husband groaned and he found her wet center with his fingers. Then in a move made to, no doubt, torture, he pressed the heel of his hand against her until Phoebe tossed her head back and a sharp cry slipped from her lips. Edmund continued to work her, toying with her nub, even as he lowered his lips to the swollen tip of one breast. He captured the bud and drew the pebbled flesh deep, suckling until all rational thought fled and she became nothing more than a bundle of nerves and sensations. A whimper stuck in her throat and she parted her legs for him; hungry for the promises he’d made with his body earlier that morning. Edmund settled himself between her thighs and then with a gentleness she’d not known him capable of, moved slowly inside her. She braced for a hint of the earlier pain she’d known, but all discomfort faded at the slow, steady drag of him filling her, entering her, and then he plunged deep.

  Phoebe cried out and raked her nails down his back; holding him closer, wanting to bind her soul with his so there was no darkness within him and only light. With his mouth clenched in a tense line and sweat dripping from his brow, Edmund continued his steady thrusts. Retreating. Plunging forward. Retreating. Plunging forward. And Phoebe held on tight to him as she climbed that pinnacle and then a garbled cry burst from her throat as he increased his rhythm and then she plunged over the edge of all reason, falling, falling into the bliss of his sure movements. Then with a primitive, triumphant shout, he arched back and flooded her with his seed.

  And this time, as he collapsed atop her and then swiftly rolled off, pulling her into the fold of his arms, she knew that for the hurt he’d caused, her heart was in even greater peril where her husband was concerned. For it did not escape her that he’d not responded to her request for him to set aside the life of revenge he’d lived all these years.

  Chapter 21

  The following afternoon Edmund sat in his office. A ledger lay opened and forgotten upon his desk, buried under a familiar leather book.

  I would ask that you set aside this vengeful life you’ve set for yourself.

  He swiped the book from his desk and fanned t
he pages that contained years’ worth of men who’d wronged him, men who owed him debts and who, through those debts, could hold no power over him. Phoebe asked him to forget who he’d been for the past thirty-two years. In the whole of his life, he’d not been happy. Not truly happy, but he’d felt nothing and feeling nothing was far safer than feeling something. He’d made that mistake but once—with Margaret Dunn. On her, he’d pinned the fleeting hope, the whimsical belief, he could perhaps be different than his parents. With her faithlessness, and in her quest for power and the title duchess, she’d killed that foolish, fleeting weakness.

  Until Phoebe. He gripped the leather book hard in his hands. In her, she’d made him feel things he’d not allowed himself to feel in more years than he could remember. Nay, emotions he’d not wanted to feel. With her effervescent spirit, she was spring to his dark winter. She represented life and hope and happiness he’d long ago given up on. He drew his desk drawer open and tossed the book inside. Slamming it shut with a decisive click, Edmund swiped a hand over his face. And yet, for years he’d protected himself by making himself stronger as others grew weaker. Could he just set aside the years he’d spent trying to survive on the request of a woman? A dry laugh escaped him and he dropped his hand to the book. Could there be any greater weakness than that? Except—was it truly weakness if making his wife happy also brought him more happiness than he knew what to do with?

  Abandoning his work and tumultuous thoughts, he shoved back his chair and stood. He needed a visit to his clubs. He needed to clear his thoughts and restore order. With determined purpose, Edmund strode to the door, yanked it open, and took his leave. Yes, in his clubs he plotted and schemed. It was there he was comfortable. With those thoughts fueling him, he made his way through his quiet townhouse.

  “Oh, my.” The faint, whispery words carried through the still corridor and he slowed his steps, beckoned back toward the sound of his wife’s voice. He froze outside the closed door and listened at the panel.

  Like a blasted child at a keyhole. He blinked as with that he was transported years earlier to a different door. The muscles of his stomach knotted as his past converged with his present. Phoebe’s words called him back from the memories.

  “That is splendid. So very splendid.” What in blazes? Edmund threw the door open so hard it bounced off the wall and nearly closed in his face once more. He stuck his arm out to keep it from shutting.

  His wife shrieked and dropped the book in her hands. She swung her legs over the side of the chair and settled her feet on the floor. The taffeta of her gown wrinkled noisily as a wide-eyed Phoebe leapt to her feet. “Edmund,” she greeted. “What are you…?” her words trailed off as he stepped into the room and looked about.

  He blinked slowly. There was no one here. He returned his attention to her.

  “Are you looking for someone?” she asked furrowing her brow.

  “No.” Yes. A dull flush burned his neck. Had he expected Phoebe the day after their wedding to be rutting with some stranger or servant in his library? His answer, based on his own experience should be an emphatic yes and yet it was not. “What are you doing?” he asked, hearing the accusatory edge of his question.

  Phoebe stooped down and retrieved her book. “Reading.” She paused. “What are you doing?”

  Which was, of course, the far better question. “I was—” Going to my clubs. The words stuck in his throat and he remained rooted to the floor.

  “Did you know the Green Bridge of Wales is not really a bridge?”

  He cocked his head.

  “It is an arch. A naturally formed arch. It is approximately eighty feet,” she said animatedly and opened her book. She skimmed through the pages. “Though I don’t know how anyone can measure that with any real certainty.” There was something so very enchanting in the excitement in her tone and eager movements. “Do you know?”

  “Do I know what?” His tone emerged sharper than he intended. That handful of words were roughened by embarrassment.

  “How they measure such a thing?”

  Edmund gave his head a shake. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the opened door and then looked back to her. He should really leave.

  “Have you been to the Pembrokeshire Coast?” she called out, unwittingly staying him with her question.

  “I have not.

  Phoebe flipped her book open to a certain page. “Aha! Here it is.” She turned it around to face him. “Do you believe there is grass atop the arch?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled at it contemplatively. At any other point and any other time, all he would think about was his own sexual gratification and what pleasures that delectable mouth could be used for.

  Not now. Now, standing before her with that damned book, he was infected by her contagious enthusiasm—for life. Pressure weighted his chest and he made to flee once again.

  “I think I shall go here.”

  And he froze once more. Agony lanced through him. So, she would leave. You offered her freedom. You said you only wanted her as your wife and have since had her body twice. That should be enough. With a growl he stalked over. Yet it was not. He made to take the book from her hands to see what rival he now fought.

  Phoebe looked around his arm at the book he now held in his hands. “I suspect it must feel like the ladder to heaven, broken just shy of the gateway.”

  Was there a heaven? For people like her there would be and suddenly her cheerfulness grated. “Why aren’t you enraged?” The question ripped harshly from his chest.

  She picked her head up; confusion riddled her brow. Phoebe alternated her attention between Edmund and the book in his hands. “I daresay I will eventually go there. There is nothing to be—”

  “With me?” he snapped. She’d sworn her hatred not even two days earlier.

  “Do you want me to be enraged with you?” she asked hesitantly.

  Edmund thrust her book back into her fingers and dragged a hand over his face. “You made your feelings quite clear two days earlier, Madam.” When I forced you into marriage. He’d foolishly thought having her would be enough. How wrong he’d been. He wanted all of her. “Do you still not feel that hatred?”

  He didn’t realize his breath was bated, until a somber look settled over her face. Pulling the book close to her chest, she took a step away from him, and then retreated, giving him her back. “I want to hate you.” Some of the tension lessened in his chest. For her words hinted she still cared for him in some way. She shot a sad look over her shoulder and just then he’d give her everything he had to erase that glint that had no place in her eyes. “Should I go through life frowning and snarling because you’ve hurt me? Because you’ve forced me into a marriage?” That I did not want. Her words were like a dull blade in his gut. “I don’t want to become you, Edmund,” she said at last. “I don’t want to be destroyed by my misery. I will not have your love, nor will I want it as long as you are on a quest of revenge against anyone and everyone who you perceive as having wronged you. But neither will I be destroyed.” By me.

  “But you do not still fancy yourself in love with me?” He cringed as soon as the question left his mouth. God, he’d been transformed into a weak, mewling, pathetic excuse for a person.

  Phoebe took a step toward him. “You don’t fancy yourself in love with someone.” She gave her head a little shake. “You either are or you aren’t. And I fell in love with you alongside a Captain Cook exhibit at the Royal Museum. Now, it is just a matter of knowing if any part of that man is truly real.”

  He opened and closed his mouth several times and then like the coward he was, turned on his heel and fled.

  If ever there had been an indication as to her husband’s true feelings, his swift retreat this moment was it.

  “Did you expect he loves you?” she muttered. “Just because he wanted you?” Now he’d had her in the only ways he’d wanted her. What need had he of her any longer?

  “What was that, my lady?”

  Phoebe spu
n about and flushed at the butler who stood framed in the doorway. “Er, nothing….” The poor ancient servant was everywhere she turned.

  “My lady, forgive me. I did not have the honor of a proper introduction.” He bowed. “I am Wallace.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. No, her husband hadn’t bothered to perform those necessary introductions with the members of his staff. But then, a man so consumed on revenge and bent on hatred wouldn’t bother himself with such social niceties.

  The butler, Wallace, stood in stoic silence.

  She cleared her throat and broke the awkward quiet. “Have you been in the marquess’ employ long?”

  He inclined his head. “I began working for the previous Marquess of Rutland ten years before Lord Edmund was born.”

  Her mind raced. Why, that must make the gentleman at the very least—

  “I am seventy years old, my lady,” he supplied, his aged voice laced with amusement. “I’ve been in the employ of the Marquess of Rutland’s family for forty-two of those years.”

  Her fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of her book. For his dedicated service, the man had not been properly compensated with a deserved retirement. How could her husband not have generously rewarded the man for his years of service to his father? “I am sorry,” she said at last.

  Wallace’s aged brow wrinkled. “My lady?”

  “I expect for your dedicated service that, at the very least, you’d be deserving of a generously settled pension.” Disappointment filled her at Edmund’s lack of regard for the old servant. “I,” she held her palms up. “I will speak to His Lordship if you wish.” As soon as those words left her mouth she grimaced at the futility of them. She’d never hold any sway over Edmund; not in the ways that mattered, nor the ones that did not.