A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle

by Christi Caldwell

  He eyed her warily. “Go on.”

  “I’ll accept your company, if you pledge to curtail your drinking.” He emitted a strangled, choking sound. “You drink too much, Daniel.” Daphne lifted her walking stick slightly. “You use it as a greater crutch than the cane I use for walking.” What demons did he seek to bury in those bottles and flasks?

  She braced for his immediate rejection, for him to send her to the Devil for daring to suggest he limit his liquor consumption.

  “Curtail,” he said slowly, repeating that one word back. “As in cut off.”

  “As in reduce the amount, Daniel,” she corrected. “There is nothing wrong with having a glass of brandy.” She held a finger up. “There is something wrong with finishing off a decanter.” With his dependency on spirits, he could bury away all thought and feeling. And never truly live. Not the way he once had.

  He folded his arms at his chest. “And how will you know if I simply tell you what you wish to hear?” he challenged, as tenacious as the day he’d debated her use of his family’s lake almost twenty-three years earlier.

  “I’ll know,” she said softly. “Because when you drink you aren’t really present. You are a ghost. Ghosts cannot feel pain. They cannot be touched. And they are not alive. Not really.” She’d have him remember how much he loved simply being alive.

  Something veiled dulled all hint of emotion from his eyes. “I do not need liquor,” he said tightly. “I do not need anything or anyone.” Yes, she suspected he believed as much.

  They remained locked in a silent battle.

  Of course, he’d reject her appeal. What grounds did he have to say yes? It would require him to put aside his own pleasures for—

  A long sigh escaped him and then he held an arm out. Her heart jumped a beat. He’d agreed?

  “Well?” he drawled in his usual charming tones when she continued to stare at him.

  More than half-fearing he’d alter his mind and renege on that agreement struck, Daphne placed her left hand on his sleeve.

  She sucked in a preparative breath and resumed the long trek. What had been interminable earlier became bearable with him at her side. Daphne concentrated on keeping one foot in front of the other. With each jarring movement, pain radiated up her leg and she fixed on that sharp tingling for it prevented her from focusing on forbidden kisses. A nearly impossible feat, given the tall, gloriously handsome gentleman at her side. She reached the end of the hall and paused. Moisture dotted her brow and she paused to dust away those droplets. “I expect you have any number of events to attend at this hour.”

  “I should,” he muttered under his breath.

  At the annoyance edging those two words, she lifted her gaze. “You may go, Daniel. I don’t—”

  “You misunderstand,” he interrupted as they trailed down the hall past portraits of his distinguished relatives. “I am to be on my very best behavior.”

  Her skin burned with the heated memory of his touch. Did he even know what that meant?

  “My uncle would have me rein in my rakish ways until my sister is properly wed.” He chuckled. “I’m to avoid scandal and improprieties and at the Season’s end, will be richly rewarded for my efforts.”

  Daphne stared quizzically at him.

  “If I remain free of scandal, he will turn over eight thousand pounds entrusted to him by my mother,” he clarified. “Those funds which require I find a proper companion for Alice.” He grinned. “As you can see, your earlier worries were for naught. With the exception of my sister, you’re the only proper lady of my acquaintance.”

  His words knocked into her with the force of a runaway phaeton. Daphne tripped and he shot an arm out, catching her to him.

  “Staggering amount, isn’t it?” he drawled, wholly misinterpreting the reason for her stumble. With his spare hand, he gestured to the places on the wall where paintings had once hung, those glaring reminders of his declining wealth. “Enough that even I can behave for.” Eight thousand pounds? It was a fortune. The kind of funds that would see a family cared for and then their ancestors, long into the future. And yet, it was not those monies that would one day be Daniel’s that robbed her of speech and breath.

  …those funds require I find a proper companion for Alice… They reached the base of the stairs and she stared blankly at the bottom one. Ultimately, Daniel had drawn the same erroneous conclusion everyone had; a conclusion she’d been wholly content with the world keeping—that she was a proper, virginal miss. And why should they not see that? What gentleman would dally with or care to dally with a cripple?

  Only, the life she’d lived was a lie far more fragile than she’d ever credited. Daniel’s funds were dependent upon her good reputation and moral standing for his sister. And there was nothing good or decent about her. Her earlier wanton response to Daniel’s touch and kiss in the library were proof of that.

  “Daphne?” his gruff question slashed into her musings.

  Blinking slowly, she looked up at him. “I do not require any further assistance,” she said tightly. “I thank you for your company. If you’ll excuse me?” Unable to meet his eyes, she started the long, slow ascent. Her neck burned with the intensity of Daniel’s stare at her back.

  And as she climbed his thirty-three stairs, she wished life had traveled along differently, and that she’d never fallen, and he’d never been a rake, and she’d never learned the perils in loving a rake, by throwing away her virginity to that man. Because then, mayhap things might have been very different and life would have matched those silly childhood dreams she’d once carried.

  Now what?

  Chapter 12

  After an evening in his arms, of knowing his touch and embrace, women invariably vied for, or pleaded for a return engagement. They did not studiously avoid or ignore him.

  Except Daphne. She, however, did.

  At first, the morning after their explosive embrace in the library, he’d credited her averted eyes and laconic silence to shyness. He hadn’t a jot of an idea about innocent ladies, but he suspected Daphne’s responses to him well fit with how any proper miss would be after such an exchange.

  Nearly a week following their exchange in the library, the lady still would not fully meet his gaze. She was quick to leave a room whenever he entered, which given his deliberate entrance into the rooms where she happened to be, was really quite often.

  Not that he should care either way how Daphne was in his presence. She’d a role within his household, as companion for Alice, and her devotion to his sister was truly all that should matter. It should.

  And mayhap it would, if the lady didn’t all but plaster herself to Alice’s side when he was near.

  “…Ahem…”

  Blinking slowly, Daniel glanced up. His man-of-affairs seated in the chair opposite him, coughed into his hand. Furthermore, given the precarious state of his finances, he really had matters of far greater import than Daphne Smith. He thrust aside thoughts of the lady and attended Begum, the man he’d hired as soon as his father had passed and Daniel was made earl. That same greying figure now poured over the books laid out on the edge of his desk.

  “As I was saying, my lord,” Begum explained, his head bent over the books. “By these numbers here, in my estimation, the whole of Her Ladyship’s Season will cost near one hundred pounds.” The man scrunched his mouth, fixed on several inked lines in the ledger.

  The clock ticked noisily in the background. Daniel reached for the decanter at the edge of his desk. …You drink too much, Daniel… You use it as a greater crutch than the cane I use for walking… Curtail. She’d merely said curtail. Bloody hell. “Yes?” he asked impatiently, shoving aside the bottle.

  Begum scratched at his always tousled, steel grey hair. “There are additional expenditures, my lord.”

  Payment to Madame Thoureaux’s for five satin gowns and other…

  His man-of-affairs pointed to the line.

  “Is there a question?” Daniel prodded wryly.

 
With a frown, Begum removed his spectacles and sat back in his chair. “May I speak frankly, my lord?”

  “Don’t you always?” he countered. The unflinching honesty, when most servants, lords and ladies would prevaricate on matters of the weather, Begum had proven direct. He didn’t tiptoe around his questions or statements and for that, he was worth his weight in gold as a servant.

  “Your finances are as dire now as they were at the end of last Season, my lord.”

  Yes, the nearly depleted bookshelves and missing baubles were all testament to that.

  “Mayhap more,” Begum added, when Daniel still showed no outward reaction. “Between the cost of your wardrobe, and Her Ladyship’s, as well as the upkeep of this residence, your coin is being stretched quite thin.”

  “There is plenty more to liquidate,” he noted. And then there would be eight thousand pounds from which there would never stem another financial worry—until he squandered it all away again at the gaming tables.

  “You’ve membership to Brook’s, White’s, the Devil’s Den, Forbidden Pleasures, and the Hell and Sin Club, all payments nearly due. For a total payment of,” Begum tapped his pen on each respective column. “Two hundred pounds, my lord,” he said, looking up.

  Well, this was bloody sobering stuff, indeed. Going through life for his own pleasures; the inventive mistresses and actresses he took to his bed, paid in coin and baubles. His clubs and the wicked parties he hosted, where vices were celebrated…all of those mindless pursuits allowed him to forget, at least, when he lived within those moments.

  And then there was Begum. “Maintain membership at White’s and Forbidden Pleasures,” he muttered. Sad day, indeed, when a chap had to cut membership to his clubs. Damned Uncle Percival and his pinched purse. No doubt, the miserable bastard was bracing for his failure, anticipating it, and gleefully relishing the prospect of cutting him off from those desperately needed funds.

  Begum set his pen down perpendicular on the middle of Daniel’s ledger. With slow, methodical movements, he removed his spectacles, closed them, and set them alongside the pen. “As I have permission to speak frankly,” he began, sitting back in his chair. “You can barely afford funds for Lady Alice’s Season let alone a wardrobe and fineries for a mistress, my lord.”

  A mistress? Daniel furrowed his brow and followed Begum’s point to that line in the middle of the page. “She is not my mistress.” Though pairing Daphne with that word conjured delicious images of her spread out on soft satin sheets, her crimson curls draped about her naked body. Did the freckles still mar her shoulders and back as they had years earlier, when she was a girl baring herself in a lake without words like “proper” on her lips? “She is my sister’s companion,” he clarified, when Begum continued to sit there staring at him, perplexed. The same woman who’d asked him to limit his drinking and to whom he, for some reason he still couldn’t rationalize, had agreed.

  His man-of-affairs returned his attention to the page, assessing the purchases once more, but not before Daniel detected the skeptical glimmer in his eyes. “Uh, yes, well then, exorbitant purchases for any lady other than Lady Alice is, at this point, not a prudent use of your funds, my lord. I would rather encourage you to put your monies in safe investments to grow your wealth.”

  “Trade?” he asked bluntly.

  The other man hesitated and then nodded.

  Most members of the peerage sneered at lords, or any one really, dealing in trade. Daniel had never been one of those pompous, priggish sorts. He wasn’t so arrogant that he’d look down at those who made their fortunes.

  The truth of it was, he’d never worried after money. Those material matters always sorted themselves out. His uncle’s proposition was testament of that. “I have eight thousand pounds coming to me when my sister marries, Begum. I expect we’ve little to worry after that.”

  “My lord?” Begum asked, as he came forward in his chair and searched through the ledgers for information that he’d not find there.

  Daniel explained the funds that would be coming to the man who would be managing them. “As you can see, I but need to behave, allow Miss Smith to do her admirable work as companion, and,” he dusted his palms together. “All will be well.”

  Begum removed a kerchief from inside his jacket and picked up his spectacles. He cleaned the lenses on that crisp white fabric, which Daniel had learned came to indicate the man was weighing his words. “I believe you’d still do well to at least consider the possibility of a steam—” A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” Daniel called out, relieved by the interruption.

  The door opened, revealing his butler on the other side. “My lord, you’ve a visitor. His—”

  Oh, bloody hell. “I don’t require a proper introduction,” a familiar voice boomed. Daniel swallowed a groan as his uncle strode around Tanner and entered the room.

  “The Viscount Claremont,” the loyal servant offered anyway and then hurried out of the room.

  “Uncle,” Daniel greeted, tossing his arms wide. Two bloody visits in the course of a fortnight? This was bad, indeed. “A pleasure. First you pay me a visit in the country and now an unexpected morning one all the way in London, during the Season, no less? Why, despite your indications otherwise these years, I believe you do care.”

  His uncle snorted. “I’m not here for you, boy.” Uninvited, as arrogant as if he was the owner of this townhouse himself, his uncle came forward. Begum kept his head down and hurriedly gathered up his ledgers and reports. He made to rise, but Uncle Percival fell into the seat beside the man. “Going over your depleting coffers?”

  Refusing to be baited, Daniel inclined his head. “Indeed.”

  The viscount passed assessing eyes over Begum as he stacked the leather folios. “You’d best be a wizard to help this boy.”

  Did he imagine the smile twitching on Begum’s lips? Disloyal bastard. “That will be all,” Daniel drawled. His man-of-affairs promptly smoothed his features, stood, and, with a bow for the viscount and Daniel, took his leave.

  His uncle spent as much time in the country as Daniel did in London. Little drew him to the frivolities in Town which Daniel lived for. As such, he was not so naïve to believe this was anything but a calculated visit. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your esteemed company?”

  “Do you truly believe I’m going to offer you eight thousand pounds and not oversee you this Season? That I’d be so foolish as to trust you at your word?”

  Oversee him? Daniel choked. By God, his uncle spoke as though he were a green boy just out of university and not a man of thirty years. Still, his uncle proved himself the clever bastard he’d always been, with his rightful wariness. “Is it too much to hope you can’t simply take your word from the gossip columns?”

  Of which Daniel’s name was invariably found.

  His uncle laughed and his wide-shoulders shook with his amusement. “And you expect the gossips will have anything good to say about you this Season?”

  Yes, fair point, there. Mayhap it was better to suffer through the occasional visit and the Season with his uncle in the same city. Daniel covetously eyed that brandy. A damned crutch she’d called it. It wasn’t, but by God, if it didn’t feel like Daphne was right, in this moment.

  The viscount glanced around the office, searchingly. “I understand, you hired the girl a companion,” his uncle said suddenly.

  “Yes. Those were the terms you laid out, were they not?”

  His uncle grunted. “Well?” He stretched his hand out and thumped the desk. “Where is she?”

  So this is why he’d come? To make a judgment on Alice’s companion. Alice’s companion who was, in fact, Daphne Smith. Of course his uncle was right to question how he had wrangled up any suitable woman and so quickly. Nonetheless, he gritted his teeth at having to parade Daphne before him, for his viscountly approval, all because Daniel was dependent on the coins he’d hand over at the end of the Season. He gritted out a smile. “I’m afraid I do not keep her un
der my desk,” he said with a sardonic edge.

  Except, the mocking reply merely called forth wicked images of Daphne beneath his desk, on her knees. A wave of desire filled him.

  “I’m certain it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had a woman under there,” his uncle snapped, effectively dousing that delicious imagery.

  It was one thing for Daniel to have those enticing musings of Daphne, quite another for his blasted uncle to disparage the lady’s reputation. “I assure you,” he offered coolly. “The lady is entirely appropriate and will fit with all the terms you’ve set forth and your expectations.”

  The viscount rested his palms on his knees and leaned forward. “I will be the judge of that.”

  Daphne had convinced herself that one mistake in her past did not matter to her serving as Alice’s companion. As Daniel had said; he was a rake, with limited options.

  And Daphne was a woman nearly eleven years removed from that wanton night in her past. Surely the man who’d debauched her, with her approval, would not dare breathe that story to light if their paths ever did again cross?

  …you should be honored, Miss Smith. I’ve never rutted with a cripple before…

  Seated beside her charge in the breakfast room, Daphne’s stomach knotted. For after that night, she’d begged her father to leave London, never to know if Leopold had bragged of his conquest or whether whispers had surfaced. She absently stared at the untouched contents of her porcelain plate, hopelessly lost in those darkened memories and fears.

  At her side, Alice nibbled at a piece of bread and pored over the copy of The Times. “They mention countless names,” Alice observed, as she turned the page. “But not a single one of Mr. Pratt.”

  Mr. Pratt. The kind-eyed gentleman from the street. Diverted from her own depressed musings, Daphne attended her charge.