Duchess of His Heart

by Cameron, Collette

  To be fair, however, she must concede it wasn’t the height of the Season.

  As she marched along, Regine permitted her mind to wander.

  Not so long ago—eight years wasn’t so very long, was it?—she wouldn’t have believed the numerous extraordinary places she’d have visited. And yet—yes, it is true—she’d forfeit every single adventure, every monument, museum, great wonder of nature, and grand marvel of man, to have been permitted to select a different path for her life. The route she’d yearned to take with all of her heart, mind, body, and spirit.

  If she’d only had herself to consider.

  Two laughing boys—arms wildly waving—darted past, drawing her back to the present and earning them a tolerant smile.

  Children. The one thing Heartwaite couldn’t give her. Involuntarily, she pursed her lips against the scrape of disappointment such reflection always produced. She’d known that was the case from the beginning, but that didn’t render the sting any less sharp.

  As she passed a coffeehouse, a dapper elderly gentleman and a petite lady of middling years, attired entirely in flamingo pink with copious pink and white feathers adorning her bonnet, exited. Regine couldn’t help but inhale the heady aroma of coffee, escaping the establishment through the open doorway.

  At once, the familiar smell transported her to Spain, and the delicious coffee she and Heartwaite had enjoyed there. She preferred hers heavily dosed with milk, while her husband had enjoyed his black with four sugar lumps.

  Pausing, she inspected the charming frontage, making a mental note of the coffeehouse’s name: Royale Roast Coffee Shoppe and Café. Perhaps she’d return another day and bring Juliet with her. Once her sister became accustomed to her new spectacles, and to seeing clearly, she’d welcome more outings. Hopefully.

  Regine cast one last appreciative glance over the quaint building. With its bright blue shutters and white gingerbread fretwork, it reminded her very much of something from a storybook. Her attention snagged on a man engrossed in a newssheet on the other side of a sparkling, clean window.

  No. It cannot be. Her heart stuttered to a halt then resumed beating with the swiftness of a winded Ascot racehorse. Heavens above.

  She pressed her fur-lined, ruby kid glove-covered fingertips to her mouth. A half-gasp, half-exclamation of distress lodged in her throat upon recognizing familiar auburn hair with an endearing, unruly mahogany lock flopped over a high brow. His hair had always done that. How many times had she smoothed the silky strands of coppery-brown from that noble forehead?

  Head slanted in the manner that always bespoke deep concentration, he casually rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his chin.

  I’m not ready.

  She’d never be ready. Not if another eighty years came and went.

  Feet rooted to the wet pavement, she gawped, forcing people to skirt around her.

  James Brentwood. Good Lord.

  Even after all of this time, he had her at sixes and sevens.

  She hadn’t seen him in over eight years, but she would’ve recognized him anywhere. He looked much the same. Same straight blade of a nose, square chin, lips perfectly fashioned by God, and eyelids lowered over what she knew to be vibrant blue-green eyes. Intelligent eyes. Kind eyes. Eyes, which had once looked upon her with devotion and love.

  Such tender, reverent love.

  Followed by hurt. Confusion. Betrayal. And finally—the most wounding of all—disgust and antipathy. Even after all of this time, Regine’s lungs and stomach cramped with remembered pain, as if it had only been yesterday that she’d watched him stalk away from her.

  I’m sorry. So, very, very sorry.

  Swallowing reflexively, she lowered her hand from her mouth as she caught sight of herself reflected in the window. Blue eyes round and stunned and face pale as milk.

  And, devil a bit, if her smart, port-colored half-boots, didn’t carry her inside of their own volition. Even as her common sense and self-preservation ordered her to walk on.

  To forget James Brentwood. To protect her fragile heart.

  Piffle and twaddle. Regine wasn’t a shrinking violet. Never had been. A swift Hello and, How are you? ought to suffice. After all, to ignore him would be the height of poor manners. Hadn’t they been neighbors for over fifteen years? They’d been much more, as well.

  He probably doesn’t even know I’ve returned to London.

  He would soon enough.

  Regine slipped inside the cozy eatery, her attention riveted on James, and filled her lungs with the welcoming aromas. Robust coffee beans, heady tea, sweet chocolate, baking spices, and other delicious smells met her nostrils. Her tummy gurgled, reminding her she’d forgone her midday meal, and her light breakfast had consisted of coffee and toast.

  She half-wished he’d glance up and see her and half-hoped he wouldn’t. An urge to turn around and flee so overwhelmed her, she felt almost faint. Or perchance hunger made her light-headed. More likely, trepidation did.

  After sweeping a glance around the room, she returned the smiles of a pair of twinkling-eyed, apple-cheeked matrons nattering in one corner. A precocious towheaded boy, sitting on his knees and dragging a spotted toy horse along the back of his chair while making neighing noises, grinned at her, revealing a missing front tooth.

  A pair of gentlemen—bankers perhaps given their somber black suits—paused in their animated discussion to turn and boldly inspect her, their appreciative smiles and slightly inappropriate gazes, making her uneasy. Edging her chin upward, she focused on James—the man she’d once loved with all of her heart.

  How could a gentleman turned out entirely in black, save his starched shirt and confection of a cravat, be so hopelessly attractive? So sculpted? Splendid? Virile?

  Heat suffused her. Good God. What had prompted that particular thought?

  He’d stretched his strapping legs beneath the table and crossed his ankles. Though the chair was of average size, his tall, powerfully built frame and preposterously broad shoulders dwarfed the sturdy piece of furniture.

  Like a woman long-starved, Regine permitted her gaze to feast upon him and his sheer male essence. Memories flooded her: his breath whispering across her cheek; his strong fingers threaded through her hair; his solid body pressed to hers as he showered kisses upon her face and mouth.

  Oh, James.

  Of a sudden, Regine became aware she stared at him like a calf-eyed ninny. Her cheeks flamed hot—probably as ruddy as her shockingly bright mantle. Nothing like gawking in the manner of a gauche schoolgirl instead of a mature, widowed duchess. A world-traveler, woman of independent means, and guardian to a fifteen-year-old girl.

  Regine refused to peek from beneath her lashes and determine if any of the patrons had noticed her uncouthness. Better not to know. Ignorance being bliss and all that.

  In a few short heartbeats and an equal number of surprisingly steady steps, she stood indecisively beside his table. Her stomach wobbled with a whorl of emotion, and her pulse quickened, the blood sluicing through her veins at an alarming speed.

  Approaching him was a mistake. She should turn and leave. Now. That would be the wise thing to do. Yes, but she was well and done with doing what was wise and expected. Hence her unfashionably loud attire.

  Unfashionable for England, perhaps, but quite acceptable in the foreign places she’d stayed. She’d always preferred bright colors, and as a widow, she felt no compulsion to conform to Society’s expectations.

  Absorbed in his newssheet, James Brentwood didn’t glance up but shook his head while lifting a lean, staying finger.

  Remorse buffeting her, Regine permitted her gaze to brush every dear angle and plane of his face. How many times had she run her fingertips over his angular jaw? Kissed his slightly too-strong chin?

  “No more of your delicious coffee for me, Mrs. Delaney,” he murmured, distractedly. “Sleep will elude me until the wee hours if I indulge.”

  She closed her eyes for a long blink.

  Lord. His voi
ce.

  The mellow timbre had haunted her dreams for years. Her daytime reveries, as well.

  Sometimes, when she was in a half-awake, half-asleep fog, she’d believe James spoke her name. She’d come fully awake, calling his name, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. And when she realized it had only been a dream, overcome with fulminating regret, she’d bury her face in the lavender-scented, satin-covered pillow and let sorrow have its way.

  Dragging in a ragged breath and with her stomach flopping as frantically as a beached trout, she laced her fingers together. And squeezed. Tightly. Outwardly, she appeared serenely composed and unaffected, but inside she was a tumultuous, careening wreck. An apt description of her life for almost a decade now.

  “I’m not Mrs. Delaney, James,” Regine managed, through a throat too taut for speech and cursing to herself for the revealing, tremulous tenor. Consternation scuffed against gladness as she awaited his reaction.

  He went rigid, his jaw, neck, and shoulders noticeably tensing beneath her scrutiny. Not a doubt remained that he hadn’t recognized her voice.

  Gradually, as if bracing himself for an assault or battle, he brought those startling aquamarine orbs fringed with sooty lashes to meet her gaze. He’d always had the most memorable turquoise eyes. Eyes a woman yearned to dive into and explore their mesmerizing, enigmatic depths and mine the treasures within.

  And now that she’d seen glistening tropical oceans, she knew exactly what shade his eyes were—the sea surrounding the Isle of Crete just after dawn. And every time she’d looked upon that glittering water, she’d thought of him. Wished it was him at her side. Him watching her from across the breakfast table or with her as she exclaimed over another marvel of man or nature. Always and forever, James.

  For an instant, unrestrained joy shone in his unflinching gaze. Then, his blistering eyes pierced her with withering scorn before a bland expression masked the emotion with the alacrity and might of a lightning bolt strike. Shutting her out as effectively as if he’d slammed and secured shutters or battened down the hatches of a ship.

  Were his teeth clenched? Aye, indeed. A muscle definitely ticked in his jaw.

  Regine dropped her focus to the hand resting on his thigh. Balled tight. Her treacherous attention shifted ever-so-slightly to the lump his fitted pantaloons couldn’t hide. Latent desire took root in her belly.

  He’d always affected her thus. Whereas once she’d gloried in her attraction to him, now it was a burden.

  “Your Grace.” Harsh. Cold. Unwelcoming.

  Rejection and pain scissored sharp and lethal, shredding her initial exhilaration at seeing him after all of this time. Scooting her gaze to the floor, Regine took a second to marshal her composure and arm her battlements. Definitely not a greeting one would welcome from the man she’d almost married. A man she’d wanted to wed from the depths of her soul, but circumstances had forced her to take a different road.

  If only—

  One could not live one’s life reminiscing over if-onlys and what-ifs. The past was the past, and it was best left behind. Except, she’d never forgotten him. Never purged him from her aching heart or wrenched him from her soul.

  Without waiting for an invitation, and somewhat astonished at her brashness, given he was not at all as happy to see her as she was to see him, she slipped into the chair beside him. She pointedly pretended not to notice the battle-hardened glower he leveled her.

  She could collect Juliet’s gloves another day. And bring her sister with her. They were for Juliet, after all.

  This meeting with James was more important and long—so very long—overdue. A swift, subtle glance around revealed the other patrons had returned their attentions to their companions and refreshments.

  With abrupt, efficient movements, he wordlessly folded the newssheet into a neat rectangle. After laying it aside, he turned those brooding, hooded eyes upon her. He’d grant her no quarter, then.

  Had she honestly expected any different?

  After slipping her reticule off her wrist—the letter within making it a trifle stiff and poking out the top a bit—Regine placed the purse atop the table and offered a ghost of a bittersweet smile as she removed her gloves.

  It truly was good to see him, but also heart-wrenching.

  Being with James felt like coming home, and she realized just how homesick she’d been. Much like a person deprived of the sun for too long, he warmed her, comforted her. She wanted to sit and soak up his presence.

  “You are well?” she asked, searching the striking planes of his face, half-hidden in the shadows. He was the same, but also different. Gone was the lean, jovial youth with sparkling eyes and quick smile. In his place was a somber man, full-grown. And impossibly even more devastatingly handsome.

  Had he married?

  The unbidden thought made Regine want to retch and sucked the previous pleasure from her spirit. But why shouldn’t James have found someone? He, above all others, deserved to be happy after she’d broken his heart. Despite that unforgivable truth, knowing full well what her choice would do to him and how it would appear, she’d accepted that she had no other recourse and had done what she must.

  My heart was broken, too.

  Familiar anguish and guilt lanced her, and she curled her toes in her boots. I had no choice. None. She hadn’t, but that didn’t ease the torment or the regret. Regret, which nearly destroyed her during her first year of marriage to Heartwaite.

  A woman wearing an austere black gown and a neat-as-a-pin apron bustled to their table. “What is your preference today, my lady?”

  “It’s Your Grace, Mrs. Delaney.” James’s voice dripped sarcasm as heavy as clotted cream as he gave a disinterested, flippant wave. “Her Grace, Regine, the Duchess of Heartwaite, to be precise.” Each clipped syllable, a deliberately executed blow. As lethal and painful as an arrow striking her bruised heart.

  Actually, it was dowager duchess now, but James didn’t know that.

  Excitement rounded the proprietress’s acorn-brown eyes to plate-sized, and a thrilled smile commandeering the entire lower half of her face, the plump woman dipped an awkward curtsy. After rising, she folded her hands, gazing at Regine expectantly.

  The heat of a blush licked her face, no doubt turning her cheeks fiery, too. The dratted man. She tamped down the urge to tell James exactly what she thought of his manners. But she didn’t want to quarrel. Not when she hadn’t seen him in so long.

  Besides, she’d vow every avid gaze in the Royale Roast Coffee Shoppe and Café had swung to their table at Mrs. Delaney’s groveling. Regine would rather not have an apt, earwigging audience observe their less than cordial reunion. On James’s part, that was.

  The bothersome man needn’t have shared her title with Mrs. Delaney. She hadn’t a doubt he’d intentionally reminded Regine of the differences in their stations now. Not that she needed her memory refreshed regarding the matter.

  Every day for the prior nearly three thousand days, she’d castigated herself. But what else could she have done? Nothing.

  She supposed it was too much to hope he’d have forgiven her after eight years. Nonetheless, she had hoped he could. Prayed that time had healed him of the wound she’d caused and that he could forgive her and find happiness.

  Whoever said time healed all wounds was a monumental, blathering fool. People might move on, but wounds, just as joyous events, left indelible marks that never, never completely vanished. Could never be wholly vanquished from the soul.

  Her thoughts turned inward.

  Did she deserve James’s forgiveness?

  No. Because, she’d never forgiven herself either.

  Nevertheless, if she had to do it all over again, given the circumstances of eight years ago, she’d have made the same choice. For it hadn’t been just hers and James’s futures at stake.

  Marrying the Duke of Heartwaite, a man nearly fifty years her senior, had been the only means of providing for her ailing mother and three younger sisters after Fa
ther’s sudden death and learning of his mountain of debt and angry, demanding creditors. He’d left his family homeless, destitute, and drowning in the aftermath of his irresponsible choices.

  In truth, she counted herself fortunate the duke, Mama’s third cousin twice-removed, had offered for her. He might’ve set her family up in their own household without requiring her hand in marriage, but George-Arnold, the fifth Duke of Heartwaite, wasn’t quite that benevolent. A vain man, full of self-import, he’d coveted a pretty young wife on his arm.

  Regine had always wondered if part of his motivation for wedding her was to spite his five greedy-guts children, too. Each of his progeny was quite horrid: pompous, opinionated, haughty, and unrepentantly scornful and disdainful of her.

  As agreed, Heartwaite had paid Papa’s debts, established Mama and the girls in a comfortable house, and provided a generous annual allowance for their living expenses. In exchange, at eighteen, Regine had married him, breaking her unofficial betrothal to James.

  Shattering both of their hearts, as well.

  “Trip over love, you can get up. Fall in love and you fall forever. Anyone can catch your eye, but it takes someone special to catch your heart.”

  Her heart contracted painfully behind her ribs as a Shakespeare quotation popped to mind.

  No, indeed, time didn’t heal all wounds.

  And Heartwaite’s five children only added to her pain. Each several years older than Regine, Heartwaite’s three sons and two daughters hadn’t attended the ceremony. And each, bitterly resented her and every pound Heartwaite spent on her with their every spiteful breath.

  Not once had they visited when she and the duke returned to England, though she’d written them that their father lay dying. The moment he’d cast off this mortal realm, before his funeral, in truth, she’d received orders to vacate the ducal estate. She hadn’t even been offered the dower house, as was her right.