Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  “Then why?” Duncan growled.

  She squeezed his fingers, aching for him. He still bore so much pain from his past, and now he was once again being forced to confront it. His grip on her tightened, as if he drew strength from her.

  “Because I will die soon, and I wish to make amends,” Amberley snapped. “My heart is ailing, my body betraying me, and I…I am responsible for Willingham. For what he became. I am also bequeathing everything that is not part of the entail to you and your heirs.”

  Frederica gasped.

  Duncan’s reaction was equally swift and strong. “I have built my own fortune, and I do not want or need anything from you, old man.”

  “You will have it whether you want it or not.” Amberley paused. “Regardless, you are my son.”

  There it was. The acknowledgment Duncan had been longing for.

  Years and a lifetime of heartache too late.

  Frederica ached for him.

  “There was a time when I would have given anything to hear you say those words, Amberley,” he said, “but that time is long gone.”

  Amberley inclined his head. “Fair enough, Mr. Kirkwood. But you shall be hearing from my solicitor, whether you like it or not.” He offered a stiff bow. “Good day, Mrs. Kirkwood. Son.”

  And then, he turned on his heel, and with achingly slow steps and the clack of his walking stick on the polished floor, he made his exit. When he had gone, Frederica drew Duncan into her embrace, still clutching his mother’s ring tightly in her hand. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling, his arms wrapping around her waist.

  “I dreamt of this day as a lad,” he whispered. “The day he would say I was his. The day he would call me son.”

  “Oh, my love,” she said softly, stroking his back, kissing his cheek. “I am sorry it took all this for you to have that day.”

  “I am not.” He pressed a kiss to her throat and then raised his head, gazing down at her with so much tenderness she trembled. “For if I had not experienced every day of my life that led me to you, I never would have found you. I would not now be holding you in my arms. I found my happiness in loving you, Frederica. I do not need the Duke of Amberley or the mantle of son or a moldering heap of stones for that. All I need is you.”

  “And all I need is you, my darling man.” She could not resist rising on her toes and kissing him.

  Epilogue

  Frederica sat in the yellow salon, a cheerful room she had transformed into her daytime writing office. It boasted another large, beautifully carved desk like the one in her chamber, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the charming little garden, and golden walls dotted with paintings she had chosen herself.

  Sunlight splashed everywhere, particularly in the afternoons, and she adored the brightness. After so many nights scrawling her work with nothing but a lone candle for accompaniment in the evening, so much light was most welcome, and being within the space never failed to fill her with a sense of gratitude.

  She dropped her quill back into its inkwell and surveyed her desk. Her latest manuscript was neatly stacked, complete with all its corrections and deletions. Her foul copy was often scarcely legible, and she knew it. But at least her next book was well underway, and not a moment too soon as the book she had retitled The Silent Duke was due to be printed any day now.

  Even so, as thrilled as she was that Duncan’s publishing company was about to make her novel come to life, there was another reason for the happiness bubbling up within her. Indeed, she could scarcely concentrate upon the scene she had been attempting to write.

  It was incredible. Frightening. Thrilling.

  It was everything, all at once, but she ought not to be surprised, because she had married Duncan Kirkwood, and each day with him was an adventure of the best sort.

  A knock sounded on her door, and she rose from her chair, needing to stretch. She had been writing away for at least three hours, and her knees were protesting, growing stiff. “You may enter,” she called out.

  Their hulking butler Pretty entered the chamber, bearing some parcels. Another of Duncan’s good deeds, the butler was still growing accustomed to his position, but he was nevertheless progressing nicely. “Good day, my lady. We have received another delivery from Her Grace.”

  Dear heavens. She certainly hoped her mother had not bought her more inkwells. Frederica strode to the servant, accepting the packages. “Thank you, Pretty. That will be all.”

  He bowed and left once more. Frederica opened the first package and found a sterling silver inkwell, along with a note from her mother. It was engraved with a rose motif and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Quite lovely, and dear, too, she was sure. Before she could inspect the other parcels, the door opened once more.

  And there stood her husband, so handsome he made her ache. She could not wait to tell him her news. “Duncan, you are home.”

  “Hazlitt is running the club for me today as I have more important matters to attend to. Namely, my wife, who is looking utterly fetching in this sunlight.”

  He moved to her and she to him, and they met in the middle of the chamber. They kissed with the frantic urgency of lovers who had been parted for a decade rather than a man and woman who had last kissed mere hours before. But that was the way of it with them, always had been and always would be. Frederica had been so caught up in his arrival she had neglected to relinquish her latest inkwell, and it pressed between their chests as their lips devoured each other’s.

  Duncan broke away first, caressing her cheek, his gaze trailing over her with so much heat she swore she would turn into a smoking heap of ruins at his feet. He looked down at the inkwell her mother had sent, already forgotten.

  “What have you there?” He dropped a kiss on her cheek.

  “Another inkwell from my mother, I am afraid,” she said. Much had changed for her since she had become Duncan’s wife, but some things would never alter, and her family was one of the latter. Her mother still spent most of her days engrossed in shopping, her father remained a disapproving jackanape who insisted she could have avoided a mésalliance with Duncan, and Benedict sided with Father, though he had warmed to Duncan in gradually increasing increments.

  “It is a miracle there are any inkwells left to be had in the city.” Duncan raised a golden brow. “She sent you five only yesterday.”

  Yes, she had, in addition to the three dozen or so she had already gifted upon Frederica. Tall inkwells, short ones, porcelain, glass, sterling silver… Mother had found, purchased, and given them all to Frederica. She rather fancied it was her mother’s way of apologizing for her lack of tender emotion toward her. But perhaps it was simply that Mother was running out of space for her acquisitions at Westlake House and needed a new location of storage. Frederica could not be sure.

  “This one is quite lovely, adorned with roses and mother-of-pearl,” she said blandly. “And you must admit, the inkwells are, if nothing else, a far more appropriate gift than the fans.”

  “Naturally,” he agreed, grinning down at her. “But who needs a hundred of the damned things all at once?”

  She smiled back and shook her head ruefully. “No one.”

  He framed her face then, gazing at her in that way of his, seemingly as if he could never tire of committing her face to memory. As if he could look a thousand times and it would still never be enough. “I have a gift of my own for you, my love.”

  “You do?” She could not resist drawing him to her for another kiss.

  She teased the seam of his lips, and with a growl, he opened for her, his tongue sliding against hers in a decadent caress. She could kiss this man forever and never grow weary of it. But she had news to share, and that news would not be contained. It rose within her, buoyant and miraculous, like an ascension balloon.

  She broke the kiss, gazing up at him with her heart in her eyes. “I have a gift for you as well.”

  “Do tell, Mrs. Kirkwood.” His gaze darkened with wicked intent. “I hope it involves you, naked, seated a
t your writing desk and me on my knees before you.”

  Heat shot straight to her core at his words. “I should like nothing better, but that is not the gift I had in mind.”

  “My gift to you first, because I am selfish and I cannot wait another moment for you to have it.” He reached into his coat and extracted a handsome leather-bound volume, holding it out to her. “An even exchange. Give me the bloody inkwell.”

  Her book, in print, at last.

  Awed, Frederica handed off the inkwell and accepted The Silent Duke, running her fingers over the cover, tracing the embossed gilt of her name. “Oh, Duncan. It’s beautiful! I love it so.”

  “It is the first copy, and I wanted you to have it.”

  “Thank you.” She hugged it to her. “Thank you, my love.”

  “The hard work was all yours.” He drew her to him for another kiss.

  When she was breathless, she tore her lips away once more, heart bursting with love and happiness. “Now for your gift.” She took his hand—the one that wasn’t holding the inkwell—and brought it to her stomach.

  His eyes widened, and he stilled, an expression of adorable befuddlement on his face. “Frederica?”

  “A babe,” she whispered, smiling as tears welled in her eyes.

  “Are you certain?” His tone was hushed, reverent.

  She nodded. “Do you like your gift, my love?”

  He caught her to him in a crushing embrace, burying his face in her hair. “It is the best gift I have ever received aside from you, angel.”

  *

  Sometime just before the sun began its daily sojourn into the sky, Duncan sat in his study and turned the final page of The Silent Duke. Tears burned his eyes as he stared at the cover of the leather-bound volume. F. Kirkwood, it read. She had chosen to use her own name rather than a pseudonym as most ladies in her position would have done.

  He was glad now, pride in her burning through him, for the novel he had just read was a masterpiece. It was all Frederica—imaginative, vibrant, bold, and determined. Her sentences flowed, her characters drew him in as he read, until he had desperately awaited the next paragraph, the next page, and he had read all night long, replacing his candles thrice until the story reached its completion.

  His heart pounding, he extinguished the lights and found his way to his wife, holding her book clutched in his fingers all the way. They had sold all the initial copies they had run, some one thousand of them, and he expected they would do another run within the month.

  He was happy for her.

  Grateful for her.

  Humbled to be privileged enough to call the gorgeous, talented creature that was Frederica Kirkwood his wife. Finding his way to her through the dark, he climbed stairs, stalked a hall, let himself into her chamber where he was greeted by the soft sounds of her breathing into the night. Shrugging out of his garments, he slipped beneath the bedclothes and alongside her.

  With a sweet sound, she reached for him, her hand landing upon his bare chest. He caught it in his and raised it to his lips for a worshipful kiss. “I finished your novel, Frederica.”

  She stirred awake, shifting closer to him. “Mmm. Duncan, I love you.”

  “And I love you, my darling wife.” His hands were upon her now, because he could not help himself, and she was naked as he had left her beneath the coverlets, so smooth, so silken, and warm. His goddess. The deliciously rounded arse he had so admired on the day he had first seen her nestled against his groin. “You told my mother’s story.”

  “Someone had to, my love,” she said softly, burrowing herself deeper into his arms.

  He smiled into the darkness, his hands moving to the gentle swell of her belly where the new life they had created together grew. Happiness settled into the marrow of his bones, deep and contented and exquisite.

  “Thank you, angel.” He kissed the top of her head. “Your novel is beautiful. I loved every moment of it. And I am heartily glad the duke loses his ability to speak.”

  Though his father had attempted to establish a truce, much time and healing would be required before Duncan could ever forgive him for his ill treatment of his mother.

  “It is not a fitting enough punishment.” Her hands covered his, warm and small and beloved. “But I could not have his manhood fall off, could I?”

  Duncan could not contain his laughter at her question, for it was so very Frederica, the essence of the sensual, intelligent, eccentric, bold woman who owned his heart. “Have I told you I love you recently?”

  “Two minutes ago or so, but you may say it again if you like.” She turned in his arms and pressed her mouth to his.

  Duncan had never stood a chance against the persistence of one midnight-haired lady who had taken his world and his club by storm one day. Smiling against her lips, he kissed her back.

  She was, without a doubt, the best gamble he had ever made.

  “I love you,” he told her again, and then he rolled her onto her back and made love to her as the sun rose over London.

  The End

  The Sins and Scoundrels Series

  Duke of Depravity

  Prince of Persuasion

  Marquess of Mayhem

  Earl of Every Sin

  Duke of Debauchery

  About the Author

  Bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency historical romances with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, their adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.

  A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything but especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. When she’s not reading, writing, wrangling toddlers, or camping, you can catch up with her on her website. Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.

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  Barefoot in Hyde Park

  The Hellion Club, Book Two

  Chasity Bowlin

  Dedication

  One day, my husband will get tired of having books dedicated to him. But not yet. So to my dear husband, I say thank you. Thank you for all that you do to support me on this crazy journey. And thank you for showing me that the kind of love I write about isn’t just fiction.

  Chapter One

  The grass was cool beneath her bare feet and there was a hint of spring in the air about her, but that was only wishful thinking. Spring was still months away despite the unseasonable warmth of the day. But her mind wasn’t on the hedonistic pleasures of traipsing barefoot in the park, with the sun bright overhead, though that was precisely what she was doing in that moment. It wasn’t even on the fact that if she was caught behaving so recklessly, in a manner that was such an utter breech of decorum, she would no doubt be sacked from her very good position with her grace, the Dowager Duchess of Templeton. No, her mind was ensconced rather firmly on the conversations that had just taken place in the somewhat dingy and definitely very dirty office of a legal firm that appeared to have more dust than clients.

  “Miss Burkhart, this is a sizable bequest,” the solicitor’s nasal drone replayed in her mind. One could accuse the poor man of being many things, but no one could ever accuse Robert Littleton, Esq. of being lively. The tiny little man, with his balding pate and frayed cuffs, had not appeared to be a very successful solicitor. But he had been rather kind to her, even in their short acquaintance.

  “But only if I marry?” Her reply had been skeptical. It all sounded utterly impossible to her. But the solicitor had been rather insistent. Her mother’s aunt, a woman she’d never even heard of much less met—though given that her own mother had died when she was very, very young and she’d spent all of her life in one school or another where her father would not have to be bothered with her—had left her a fortune. But that fortune could only be claimed on the condition that she marry and not follow in
her mother’s disgraceful footsteps. Of course, it seemed reasonable that if her great-aunt had been aware of her mother’s headlong and ill-fated journey on the path of ruin that she might have intervened for her niece rather than just for the illegitimate child that was the direct result of said fall from grace.

  Lillian had said as much to the solicitor who had then informed her that her great-aunt had been unable to locate her mother prior to her mother’s passing. It wasn’t until the marriage of Lillian’s half-sister, Wilhelmina, being announced in the papers, with all the scandal and kerfuffle that had accompanied it, that the frail and failing woman had any inkling of where to find her long-lost grandniece. Of course, he hadn’t actually said she was frail and failing, but it had been strongly implied with the sense of urgency he had pressed upon her regarding her decision.

  So there she was, employed as a companion to a dowager duchess who had the personality and temperament of a rabid bulldog, while her sister was off to the countryside with her handsome new husband whom she was completely enamored with. Effie was busy with new students who appeared to be as trying as Lillian herself had been. And she was alone. There was no one to whom she could go to for advice about her rather unusual situation. It wasn’t simply that she was alone, though. It was something much, much worse.

  Lillian was lonely. She’d always been alone—apart from everyone else somehow, including Willa. But it had never bothered her before. This was something different. Was it jealousy over her half-sister’s marriage? She certainly didn’t begrudge her half-sister’s happiness, but was it so terribly wrong to want some for herself? Would marriage bring her happiness? She’d never thought so, but now it could bring her financial security, something she’d never truly known.

  “Probably not,” Lillian muttered aloud. “I’ve never been very good with rules.” Marriage, it seemed, invariably came with a great number of them. That bit in the vows about “obeying” set her teeth on edge.