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

by Christi Caldwell

  A twinkle lit Martin’s eyes. “Kind of you to say as much.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But it is lousy stuff.” He nodded off to his wife and William followed his stare. “But I do not have the heart to tell her that it’s as bad as our accommodations here.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Takes pride in this place and I’m content to let her believe we run the finest inn in the king’s kingdom.” Martin gave a wink. “Then, that is what you do when you’re in love, isn’t it?”

  His smile grew brittle. To conceal that telling gesture, he took a sip of his awful ale. “Indeed,” he murmured. He’d never personally experienced that sentiment and with the future his parents expected of him, he never would. The man made to move, but William motioned to the seat opposite him. “Please, sit.” On a cold, dreary night like this, he didn’t welcome being alone with thoughts of the life awaiting him. The old innkeeper swiftly set down his jug and claimed the rickety chair William had indicated.

  In actuality, William knew nothing of being in love. His own parents’ marriage was a happy union, so he did not doubt that reality existed for some gentlemen. It just would not be him. For even as this man and that nameless harpie abovestairs who believed him to be a coarse commoner with his pockets to let…the truth was, he’d someday ascend to the vaunted title of duke. As such, those simple, but important pleasures afforded others—the ability to bind them to a person they respected and admired, and mayhap even loved—well, that was not a luxury afforded all members of the ton.

  The servant cut into the silence. “Do you have a lady you call wife?” he asked, following the path William’s thoughts had wandered.

  “No wife.” Not yet. He took another sip, welcoming the warmth afforded him by the miserable contents of his drink. But there would be. God help him, there would be. His throat burned for the sting of more drink and he raised his glass once more.

  “Ah, the lady abovestairs is indeed a lovely one.”

  William paused with his glass halfway to his lips. Surely he’d heard the man wrong. Or mayhap there was another, sweeter, smiling creature he’d not had the pleasure of meeting. He managed a noncommittal grunt.

  That glimmer deepened in the man’s eyes. “A spirited one, she is.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “She is a lady.” And more specifically, the manner of cold, unfeeling figures he’d spent his life avoiding. It was enough that his parents would see him honor a connection to one of those very ladies. William clenched his jaw as the age-old resentment swirled through him. Nay, they could not have selected a woman who was, at the very least, pleasing and kind. His mother’s devotion to her late friend had come before even William’s own happiness.

  Martin leaned close. “Eh, but then even with your coarse garments and bullish figure, I’m not supposed to believe you are anything other than a gentleman.” He gave a wink.

  William started. Craving the obscurity that came with being a titleless figure, he’d foolishly hoped those in this inn would fail to see past his unassuming attire.

  “Your secret is yours, my lord,” Martin assured.

  He passed his drink back and forth between his hands. “Thank you.” As it was, the freedoms enjoyed by him these years were nearing an end.

  “She was a bit cold.” Martin withdrew a stained kerchief and dabbed his brow. “But then, all ladies are a bit cold, and there is something to be said for those spirited creatures.”

  “Is there?” He infused a droll edge that earned a chuckle from the other man.

  “Oh, of course. In your youth, you just don’t realize it.” He nodded toward his wife who’d moved on to cleaning another table. “My Martha is a spirited one. In her earlier days, she could out bellow the gruffest of men to enter these doors.”

  “There is a difference between spirited and unkind,” William felt inclined to point out. And there was nothing redeeming in a woman who’d send her servant out into this fierce blizzard.

  “Perhaps.” Martin rocked back on the legs of his chair and hooked his fingers into the top of his pants. “But I always think there is more to a person than what is first seen upon the surface.”

  He bit back the retort. He’d not disabuse the innkeeper of his more hopeful thoughts. In actuality, William belonged to a world of cold, condescending nobles and had relished every moment of freedom from that same glittering society. His parents and siblings had proven the exception rather than the proverbial rule where the peerage was concerned.

  “Martin, come along. The guests abovestairs require their meals.”

  The innkeeper settled his chair back upon the spindly legs and climbed to his feet with a sigh.

  William touched the bridge of his imagined hat. “Good evening to you, Martin.”

  “My—”

  “William,” he cut in. “Just William.” For he’d embrace this last strand of obscurity afforded him before he was thrust back into the world he’d spent years running from. As the man hurried off, a twinge of sympathy pulled at him. He did not envy the innkeeper his dealings with that shrew abovestairs.

  Cara walked in a circle, surveying her rooms. She rubbed her hands back and forth over her arms to drive back the chill that still lingered from her trek through the snow. Her efforts proved futile. With her sharp gaze, she took in everything from the cracked wash basin and pitcher to the scratched and scraped hardwood floor. She surveyed the thin, threadbare carpet at the foot of a too-lumpy bed. Perhaps it was not as uncomfortable as it appeared. Cara crossed over and sat on the bed. She placed her hands on the edge and shifted back and forth, testing the lumpy mattress. With a beleaguered sigh, she closed her eyes a moment and then in a move that would have earned a stiff recrimination from her father, flung her arms out and sprawled backward, with her head hanging off the edge of the bed. She glowered up at the cracked plaster ceiling with water marks hinting at wear to the roof.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  In the dimly lit space, she sought out that grating fall of water. A cold, wet drop landed on her nose. She followed the path up to the ceiling where a puddle of moisture pooled on the peeling paint. Cara slid her eyes closed. With the disastrous course of her day, why should she expect anything else? Another drop landed on her forehead and she rolled onto her side, disabusing the fates of the further pleasure of tormenting her.

  Her teeth chattered noisily in the quiet space, punctuated by the gusting wind beating against the window. She drew her legs close to her chest and huddled in a ball and, because it was far easier to focus on a stranger who despised her than a father who did not care, she ran through her meeting with that brute in the taproom. His antipathy had been palpable and really should not matter. After all, no one liked her. And on most days, she did not even like herself. And yet… A blasted sheen of tears blurred her vision and she blinked them back.

  Foolish signs of weakness, gel. Her father’s thunderous admonishment echoed off these foreign walls.

  She shivered and burrowed into the thin coverlet adorning her bed. “M-material p-possessions. Brat, you’ll call me.” Cara shifted and turned deeper into the blanket, futilely seeking warmth. “But you are w-wearing your w-warm garments and drinking your ale in front of the fire.” And she would have traded all that material comfort as the lout had called it for that cherished gift left by her mother.

  A knock sounded at the door and she surged to her feet. For a brief instant, she hung onto the hope the earl’s driver had braved the beast’s command and the winter storm to retrieve her trunk.

  “My lady, I’ve brought you some things.”

  Her heart fell. Cara quickly dashed her hands over her eyes and then pinched her cheeks.

  “My lady?”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and settled her feet on the floor. Then, hurrying across the room, she reached the wood panel and pulled it open just as the woman would have knocked again.

  The white-haired woman froze with her hand poised to rap. A hesitant smile formed on her lips. “Oh, hello.”
She shifted the burden in her arms.

  Cara’s gaze went to the neatly folded garments held close to the innkeeper’s chest. Though not the satins and silks her father insisted she be adorned in, the vibrancy of the emerald green fabric momentarily stole her thoughts from her misery.

  Without asking to be admitted, the woman entered. “It is not the gowns you are surely accustomed to wearing, but still pretty nonetheless,” she said with the same sunny disposition demonstrated by Alison.

  She caught her lower lip as the woman laid the shift and undergarments upon the bed. As she prattled on, she snapped the dress open. The wrinkled muslin bore the evidence of its age in the pattern alone, and yet… “It is lovely,” she said grudgingly.

  The other woman widened her smile. A twinkle lit her eyes. “May I help you change?”

  “My maid—”

  “Is quite ill.” She made a tsking sound. “The young girl has a fever and is quite chilled.”

  And now Alison was ill, which left Cara absolutely and totally alone in this dratted situation. Letting loose another sigh, she presented her back and allowed the woman to assist her with the bothersome row of buttons down the length of her white satin dress. The garment sailed down to her feet. She stepped out of it.

  “I have prepared a holiday meal,” the woman chatted happily as she drew Cara’s shift overhead and reached for another aged, but blessedly dry, one.

  What precisely was a holiday meal? She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from freeing that curious inquiry and stuck her arms into the presented arm holes.

  “And now the dress.” The woman pulled the muslin piece over Cara’s head and set to work on the row of buttons along the back. “There.” She eyed her handiwork a moment.

  A cold drop fell on her hand and she followed it up to a new patch of dampened ceiling.

  “Oh, dear,” the woman murmured wringing her hands. “I daresay this storm has not proven helpful to the ceiling.”

  And Cara would wager the current snow had little to do with the condition of her rooms and everything to do with years of neglect. She opened her mouth to say as much when that brutish stranger’s earlier charges came rushing to the surface. By God she’d not feed that ill-opinion he’d drawn of her. She promptly pressed her lips into a tight line.

  “Perhaps you might prefer to take your meal downstairs.”

  “Splendid idea,” Cara muttered.

  And preferring the beast downstairs to the cold, wet conditions of her dreary rented rooms, she followed after the woman who led her to a table already set with a plate. The innkeeper had been optimistic. She wrinkled her nose. Then, considering the rapid drip above that lumpy bed, she’d likely wagered no person, lord, lady, or lad on the streets would want to remain in those chambers.

  “Here we are,” the woman said. Her husband rushed over and pulled out the wooden chair. It wobbled on uneven legs. Cara hesitated beside the table and warily eyed the suspicious burnt portions on her plate. On stiff legs, she claimed the seat and gave the couple a dismissive nod.

  The couple gone, Cara grimaced and picked up her fork. She shoved her fork around the holiday fare that might or might not have been some form of pudding. She picked some up on the edge of her utensil and carried it close to her eyes. If this was holiday food, then she most assuredly saw why Cook avoided these items on the menu.

  Splat.

  Cara wrinkled her nose as the ivory colored slop landed noisily amidst the burnt potatoes.

  “Never tell me,” a droll voice sounded beyond her shoulder, “you find yourself disapproving of your evening meal.”

  At that slightly mocking, rough baritone, she stiffened. “Surely you have something preferable to do this evening than to keep company with a brat,” she gritted out, not taking her gaze from her plate.

  With the effrontery better afforded a duke, he came around the table, pulled out the chair opposite her, and claimed the seat. His broad body filled the small, oak frame of the dining table. When no response was immediately forthcoming, she lifted her gaze, and found a sardonic half-grin on his lips. “Never tell me, I hurt your feelings, princess?”

  She thinks she’s a princess. And boys will want to marry her, but the only reason anyone will want her is because she’s a duke’s daughter.

  That memory of her first day at Mrs. Belden’s came rushing back and she stared unblinkingly at the opening of the stranger’s white shirt. She’d not thought of that moment in years, so much so that she’d convinced herself that those ugly sniggerings hadn’t really mattered. Why, with this man looking on, did she acknowledge the truth—it had mattered, mattered because they’d seen the lonely girl without a friend in the world as icy and aloof?

  He passed his blue-black gaze searchingly over her face. “Where are your biting words, princess?” He tried to bait her. As one who’d fielded snide looks and cruel whispers, she recognized as much. Would he even care that his words had caused this tightening in her chest?

  Heat burned her cheeks and she quickly dropped her gaze. “I have told you once, do not call me princess.”

  The legs of his chair scraped along the floor as he pulled closer to the table. “Never tell me I offended you…princess?”

  Cara swallowed the scathing retort. Over the years she’d had far more formidable foes than him. She’d not let him needle her. Schooling her face into an expressionless mask, she winged an eyebrow upward. “You might call me a brat and self-important and all other manner of insults you’ve leveled at me, but I am not a bully.” Liar. You have been a bully plenty of times in the past. Her half-sister, Jane’s visage slipped to her mind and an odd pressure squeezed her heart—remorse. Through her impulsivity and a futile attempt to protect herself from the hurt of her father’s disdain, she’d been the worst sort of bully to Jane Munroe. To rid her throat of the blasted lump there, Cara took a sip of the tepid glass of watered wine.

  The stranger dropped his chestnut eyebrows. She braced for his taunting challenge. Instead, a frown played about his lips and he set his tankard on the table. “My apologies,” he said quietly.

  Cara yanked her startled gaze up to his. Men did not apologize. Not her domineering father, or her self-important brother, and certainly not rude strangers who challenged her in a taproom before servants. Nor was she deserving of that.

  Another one of those half-grins formed on his lips, this time devoid of its early mockery and coolness. “Are you surprised I apologized?” And staring at him just as her heart started at the staggering truth—why, with his ruggedly cut features and too-long, chestnut locks, he really was quite—handsome. She forced her attention back to his words requiring a response.

  “I am,” she said stiffly. “Those I know do not apologize.” Even as the words left her lips, she knew she’d just fueled his ill perception of her.

  The man raised his glass to his lips. “That is unfortunate. An apology earned, is an apology deserved.” He stared at her over the rim of his tankard. “Regardless of rank or status.”

  She would have to be as deaf as an adder to fail to hear the silent admonishment contained within those words. He was one of those who despised the lords and ladies for their birthright. In truth, belonging to that cruel, glittering world, she secretly concurred with his assessment of that Society to which she belonged. Cara returned her attention to her plate, effectively ending any further opinion from him on manners and kindness.

  “Have you eaten a bite?” Humor laced those words.

  “I have.” She lied. The fork hadn’t made it past her lips and she’d wager the heart contained within her trunks, left behind in the snow-covered countryside, that he knew as much, too.

  He planted his elbows on the table and shrank the space between them. “Have you?” The man stretched out that last single syllable utterance.

  Lifting her chin at a defiant angle, she took a bite. And promptly gagged.

  “Then you are far braver than I, princess. I haven’t touched a single serving of mine.”
<
br />   Cara choked on her swallow and grabbed her stained napkin. “You, sir, are no gentleman,” she said around the fabric, glaring at him while he chuckled.

  “I never presumed to be, pr—”

  In a like manner, she dropped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Do. Not. Call. Me. Princess. One. More. Time.” They locked gazes in a silent, unspoken battle, but she’d had so many years of staring down mean-spirited girls and whispering servants that she’d not be shaken by this bear of a man.

  “Will.”

  She blinked in confusion. What was he on about?

  There was a grudging respect in his eyes. “My name is Will.”

  She tested that name, running it through her mind. William—the name of kings and conquerors. It suited this man who issued orders and commandeered conversations between unfamiliar ladies and servants.

  He continued to study her over his pewter tankard. “And does your station prevent you from sharing your name?”

  She frowned. “Propriety keeps me from freely sharing my name.” Except, as soon as the words left her lips, heat slapped her cheeks. Young ladies did not sit and converse with a stranger, in an empty taproom—and most especially without the benefit of a chaperone or escort. Speaking to this gruff man shattered the grounds of propriety in every way. His wry grin said he’d followed her thoughts, as well. “Cl—Cara,” she quickly substituted.

  Will winged an eyebrow upward. “And your title, princ—Cara?”

  Triumph filled her at unnerving the bold man who’d chided her since she’d arrived. He’d expected her to supply her title and hold him to the bounds of propriety. A thrill ran through her at the audacity of this entire exchange; her being alone in the taproom of an inn with a man, challenging him and his expectations for her and of her. Since her mother’s passing, she’d fit neatly into the mold designed by her father and Society. “What use would there be in turning the proper form of address over to a man who so disdains polite Society?”

  He stilled and then tossed his head back. The tavern thundered with his laughter and she started, stealing a glance about at that shockingly bold sound of his mirth. Then, Will raised his tankard in salute. “Brava, madam.”