My Lady Coward: An Episodic Regency Romance

by Grant, Jaimey

  Maria's racing heart slowed, her fingers twisting in her muslin skirts. He loved her? And yet, he consorted with his mistress, publicly shamed his wife, and made a mockery of their marriage. The ways of Society bedamned! She'd take no more.

  Lady Maria didn't throw open the door as she longed to do. No, she forced herself to nod to the footman, taking a step back so that young man could open the door for her, as befitted a duchess.

  Richard and Felicia stood face-to-face, her hand on his arm. She stepped quickly away, a faint pink climbing her cheeks. But she straightened her spine and gazed at Maria, waiting for her to further humiliate herself, no doubt, with gauche behavior.

  As for the duke, he sighed, sinking back against his desk and wiping a weary hand over his face. His whole being spoke of defeat. The image shook Maria to her core.

  As if to emphasize her disquiet, the baby moved. Maria gasped, her hand coming to rest protectively on her distended belly.

  Richard came alive at the sound. “Maria? Are you unwell? Is it the baby?”

  “I am well. My daughter merely protests so much excitement.” She couldn't help the teasing edge of her tone as she mentioned their unborn child. It was her habit to insist she carried a girl. Her husband insisted she carried his heir. Though Maria acknowledged it was unusual to speak of an unborn child, vulgar even, she took heart in her husband's willingness to tease. If a duke did something, it was unlikely to be thought vulgar, merely eccentric.

  The duke smiled, a genuine grin rife with amusement. The tiny indentation in his left cheek appeared, reminding Maria of how long it had been since she'd seen him smile, really smile. What cares weighed him down, she wondered now, that caused the slump in his broad shoulders and the new lines feathering his brow? Why had she failed to notice the change in her husband? What burden did he carry?

  As quickly as the teasing light entered her eyes, it faded, replaced with wariness. Her eyes darted to the side, meeting those of Lady Felicia.

  Richard's smile disappeared. His eyes still trained on his wife, he said, “Felicia, please excuse us.”

  Maria's heart stuttered, her gaze drawn once again to her husband. Fingers clenching, she wondered if he'd reveal his secrets, finally let her into his elite little world, the world where she was at least equal to his mistress in his affections.

  Felicia nodded and stepped toward the door. She paused next to Richard. “If you worry over revealing secrets not your own, I assure you it is of little import. I, nor David, would ever wish for your unhappiness.”

  Having her said her piece, she nodded to Maria, murmured, “My lady,” and made her exit. A subtle hint of roses lingered in her wake.

  Maria frowned. “Who is David?”

  “Felicia's husband.”

  “But— I thought— Is he not... dead?”

  “Indeed,” Richard murmured. “For many years.” He moved away, his low voice barely carrying to her ears. “By my hand.”

  “What?” Surely she'd misheard.

  His sigh was louder than his words. Maria's eyes bored into his back, willing him to turn, to say it was nothing more than a poor jest. He moved further away, the distance short but for Maria it may as well have been miles.

  Minutes passed. Maria fidgeted, her fingers twisting the life out of her skirt. She didn't know what to do, what to say, how to make her husband speak as she knew he must. His heavy thoughts weighed him down, the secrets he kept on Felicia's behalf, David's behalf.

  Enough was enough. If Richard wouldn't come to her, offer his secrets so she could share the burden, she would go to him.

  Her fingers brushed the rough wool of his coat. He tensed, turning about to meet her concerned gaze. “Tell me, Richard. Tell me what plagues you so. Why do you say David died by your hand?”

  Richard stiffened and pulled away. Maria felt his departure in the deepest part of her soul and mourned the loss.

  “David was my best friend. I'd known him since we were in short coats. We attended Eton and Cambridge together. Then he married Felicia.”

  He stopped, pacing away from her. Maria wondered if he'd continue, wondered if she'd have to prompt him to do so, but he only took a moment to gather his thoughts.

  “It was the stupidest thing, really. He took a mistress and I, idealistic young man that I was at the time, thought it was unfair to Felicia. I challenged him to a duel and he accepted.” He glanced at Maria, a self-deprecating smile tilting his lips. “Ridiculous, isn't it?”

  “A duel?” Maria, reminded of another duel her husband had fought, didn't know what to think. Duels were illegal, yet Richard had engaged in two of which Maria had knowledge. How many more had he felt were necessary to preserve honor, as gentlemen claimed was reason enough to engage in such barbaric behavior?

  “A duel. My first duel. I killed him.” He paused, his gaze flying upward. “I'd never fought a duel before because I was a notoriously bad shot. He chose pistols. I turned and fired. He died. Felicia and I covered over the truth, claiming it was a hunting accident. Being a duke had its advantages. No one questioned my claim.”

  “You challenged him believing you would lose.” The thought filled her with horror, the sensation sinking all the way to her toes. “When you challenged Lord Derringer—”

  He laughed, a deep, surprised sound that jarred her. “Hart was never a threat. He's all bluster. He shot over my head and I winged him, accidentally.”

  “So that's why he left London,” she mused. With the loss of her father just after Richard's duel with the Duke of Derringer, Maria hadn't time to think of what had become of Derringer. Her husband had no response to her conclusion and the last person she wanted to think about was the hateful duke.

  She returned to the subject at hand. “What if David had killed you? What would that have proven?” She took a step, closing a portion of the distance between of them, her skirts rustling in the silence.

  The wrinkles in Richard's brow attested to his confusion at her response. “It was a point of honor. He wronged his wife.”

  “But—”

  “I know it makes little sense to you, Maria, but to a gentleman honor is everything.”

  A smile tipped his lips, one that Maria felt was a trifle patronizing. How would he react if she slapped him the way she suddenly longed to do?

  “But why did honor demand you challenge him? I am given to understand it is common for Society gentlemen to take a mistress, married or no. What made David and Felicia's situation different?”

  She dreaded the answer. Tension settled itself over her shoulders, stiffening her spine until it would surely snap.

  “Felicia loved him, trusted him. And she never believed he would play her false.”

  “And that warranted your intervention?”

  Richard exhaled in a violent breath, throwing his hands into the air. “What do you want me to say, Maria? That I loved her? That I couldn't live without her? That I was jealous of David and wanted her for myself?”

  Heart thumping in her chest, child flipping in agitation, she closed more of the distance between them. Then she asked the one question she didn't want to, the one question whose answer could very well shatter any hopes she harbored about her husband's affections.

  “Do you love her?”

  Richard's tawny gaze snared hers. “Would it matter if I did?”

  He studied her face, nothing of his own emotions showing on his own, and Maria didn't know what answer he wanted to hear. So she said nothing.

  “You believe Felicia is my mistress.”

  “Is she not?” Maria demanded, amazed by her own daring. “Everyone whispers she is and though they try to hide their whispers behind fans and snuff, I am not deaf, nor am I stupid.”

  The emotions that flickered through Richard's eyes were too swift for Maria to identify. But she caught regret and her heart sank.

  Despite that, it was derision that settled on his face. “Society is desirous of a delicious on dit for the gossip mill,” he scoffed. “Truth is
not required.”

  “Indeed,” Maria agreed, “yet most rumor has basis in fact.”

  Richard's eyes widened, boring into hers. “What do you believe, Maria? Do you think I long for her the way I long for you? That I dream of kissing her the way I kiss you? That my every waking thought is taken up with the moment that I can once again hold her in my arms, the way I want to hold you?” He stepped closer until the space separating them was only a few inches. “Do you think I love her?”

  “Perhaps not,” Maria allowed, knowing full well a gentleman didn't have to love his mistress to engage her services.

  Richard chuckled, a tinge of bitterness coloring the sound. “Perhaps not,” he repeated, the dimple in his cheek peeking out. “The truth is, Maria, I do love her.” Maria sucked in a hurt breath. “Much the way I would love a sister, if I had one. Felicia was never my mistress. I have never been unfaithful to you.”

  The air whooshed out of Maria's lungs, a lightheaded sensation making her teeter on her feet. Richard reached for her, no doubt to steady her, but he went one step further and slid his arm around her waist. He brought their bodies together, their unborn child nestled uncomfortably between them.

  “Why did I marry you, Maria?”

  “Money,” she breathed, her heart in her throat.

  He frowned, eyes narrowing. “Why do you think that?”

  “Father told me you'd squandered your inheritance,” she admitted, cheeks heating at the embarrassing subject.

  Her throat caught on the memory of that conversation with her father. He'd not told her to hurt her; indeed, had he known how attached she'd become to the kind young duke who visited them on a daily basis, he'd surely have said nothing at all. And when he revealed the truth, she didn't dare tell him how much she admired the gentleman.

  “Your father told you that?” Richard squeezed her tighter, eliciting a squeak from Maria and an impatient jab from the baby. Her husband pulled away and glanced down. “Was that—?”

  Maria nodded, watching the wonder in her husband's face. He grinned and looked back into her eyes. “He's an active one, I dare say.”

  “Yes, she is,” Maria replied, unable to resist the opportunity to insist she carried a girl.

  They smiled at each other, a wave of peace settling over Maria. This was what she wanted, this understanding, this contentment, this unshakable certainty of love and acceptance.

  Then his smile faded, replaced with sadness, regret.

  “Your father was mistaken, Maria,” Richard murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I didn't need his money, at least, not like he thought I did. I needed you.”

  Maria's breath caught, pure joy and uncertainty coalescing in her heart. “You needed me?”

  “Oh, Maria, my love,” he breathed, “what fears have plagued you this past year?” He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers, telling her as certainly as if he'd spoken that he loved her and her alone. “I didn't marry you for money. I would never marry for money. The title can go hang for all I care.”

  In that moment, there was only one thing Maria could do. And though it was against all the ladylike training she'd received at her mother's knee, she did it anyway, throwing all caution to the winds.

  She reached up, pulled his head down and pressed her lips to his, pure joy blossoming at the contact. With her marriage vows came the acquisition of a title and position in Society. Security.

  With her marriage vows came love.

  The End

  Continue reading for an excerpt from

  Jaimey Grant's Regency novel

  Heartless

  1

  London

  October 1820

  The third Duke of Derringer slammed his fist on the solicitor’s desk. An inkwell, a pen, a tea cup and Mr. Grimsby jumped.

  The black-haired, black-eyed duke gave him a searching look. Did the little man jest? If so, he was less intelligent than Derringer had thought. But Mr. Grimsby looked more terrified than amused so he decided that the bespectacled gentleman was not lying.

  “Indeed?”

  “Just so, your grace. I can only apologize that we did not find this until recently,” he added with a nervous swallow. His large Adam’s apple bobbed and Derringer found himself distracted. The man was not blessed with any amount of good looks, the duke thought. He pushed his thoughts back to his present problem.

  The Duke of Derringer had just been informed that he could not have his inheritance unless he married by a certain date. He’d always had whatever money he wanted, been given free rein with his finances. Then, after the death of the senior member of the solicitor’s office, a clause to the late duke’s will was discovered.

  Now Derringer sat across from this spindly-legged little man awaiting the date of his life sentence.

  “How long do I have?” Derringer snapped.

  The solicitor looked down his long nose at the papers before him, squinted once, sniffed twice, and squinted again before answering. “By your thirtieth birthday, your grace.”

  Before the last word had left the man’s mouth, Derringer was on his feet and leaning over the desk. With one hand braced for leverage, the duke held the other man aloft by his jacket lapels.

  “What did you say?” he demanded in silky tones.

  The man of business gulped. “By the time you’re thirty?” he squeaked.

  Derringer shook the whiny little creature like a terrier shaking a rat. “Do you realize what day this is?” he barked at the frightened little man.

  The lawyer managed to croak, “The twenty-second?”

  “It’s the twenty-second of October, you bloody clunch! My birthday is a sennight from now. Seven days! How the bloody hell do you suppose I can marry in a sennight, you mangy whoreson? It takes that long just to get a special license!”

  The solicitor released a petrified squeak and the duke dropped him in disgust. He paced about the tiny chamber. Seven days. He had seven days to find, woo, and marry some chit just so he could have complete access to his rightful inheritance. He hoped his father was burning in a particularly painful corner of hell for this one.

  And what had possessed the late duke to draft such a codicil when his son was still in leading strings?

  He turned his dark gaze on the cowering little man. “Is there anything else?”

  The solicitor shook his head vigorously. He cowered even lower when the duke approached the desk and leaned toward him. “I will marry before the twenty-ninth, Grimsby, even if I have to ask the first girl I come across to be my duchess.” He stood up straight, still glaring down at the solicitor from his superior height of six-foot-three. “Prepare yourself, Grimsby. I trust you won’t be disappointed in my choice.”

  Derringer left the office of Lehman, Grimsby, and Bimm with a determined stride. He would find a damned female and drag her to the altar if he had to.

  As if his day could possibly get worse, Derringer thought as he entered the inn near Maidstone. He wasn’t even sure why he had decided to return to Derringer Crescent after nearly two years. He hated the drafty castle and preferred to avoid servants who had known him since he was in leading strings. They had a way of knowing things about a body that one would rather not have commonly known.

  Logic insisted that London was the place to find his bride. But he had avoided London for nearly two years as well. The last time he’d graced the capital with his august presence, he’d been shot helping Lord Levi, Earl of Greville. He’d fled the country just as soon as he could stand, leaving Levi to take care of an injured wife by himself—Lady Greville had thrown herself in the path of a bullet to save her husband in the single most brainless act of selfless courage Derringer had ever witnessed.

  Those events and his already dangerous reputation would prevent even the most daring of females from marrying him, however.

  So now he was on his way to Folkestone to take a look at his childhood home—and any young woman who may have not heard that he was the devil’s right hand. He didn’t wa
nt to stay there; the place had too many horrible memories for comfort. But he should at least check in to see if there was anything that required his personal attention. And perhaps he should send his cousin Martin to look after the place, he thought with an inner sigh. He didn’t particularly like the other man but he was willing to give him a position since their grandfather had not seen fit to leave any of his vast wealth to his second son, Martin’s father.

  And how the devil did the wheel of his curricle break? He was fortunate he wasn’t killed in the resulting accident. Thankfully, he’d been traveling at a relatively slow pace due to the poor quality of the roads and the growing dusk—an unusual circumstance since he had a habit of racing along the English countryside at breakneck speeds regardless of weather or road conditions. It was said he had the devil’s favor; hence, his amazing good health after a lifetime of near-death experiences not all due to his own negligence.

  But now, mere hours from home, he was stranded at the Black Bear hostelry late enough that he probably couldn’t get the blacksmith there for a good few hours. Damn it all to hell if he had to stay the night there!

  Derringer slapped his leather driving gloves against his buckskin-clad thigh and surveyed the taproom, taking in the number of men watching him surreptitiously over the rims of mugs. Did they realize how transparent they were in their curiosity?

  A commotion near the door distracted him from his inspection of the locals. He turned to see a very small, very plain, and very young woman in a drab brown cloak and ugly black bonnet arguing with the landlord.

  “We don’t serve yer kind ‘ere, girl, so git,” the man ordered gruffly.

  Her kind? Derringer’s lips twitched. Was the man blind?

  “But you don’t understand,” the girl pleaded, her soft voice rife with sincerity. “I’m not one of those kind. I have a little money, so I can pay, I assure you. And it’s only for one night. I have nowhere else to go.” A note of desperation trembled on her final word.