Page 2
How could he, a poor vicar’s son with scarcely two coins to rub together and in training to become a solicitor, compete with a sodding duke? Moisture blurring his vision, he choked out a single, strangled syllable, “When?”
“Next week.” Her throat working and her hand trembling, she touched a bent knuckle to the corner of one eye. “I’m so sorry, James.”
“Why?” He tenderly grasped her slender arms, peering into her anguished eyes awash with tears. “Why, Regine? I love you. You love me, too.” Didn’t she? Yes, else why would she be this miserable? “Please, I beg you, don’t do this to us.”
Eyes wide and tortured, she silently gazed at him, and the truth slammed into James with the force of an over-loaded grain wagon. A duke could offer her everything he couldn’t: position, power, prestige, and wealth.
Evidently, love was a trifling insignificance compared to those necessities.
James stumbled backward, shaking his head, the pain eviscerating him so excruciating, he almost doubled over. Almost roared aloud against the knives carving and cleaving unmercifully into his heart and soul. And he did what any animal mortally wounded did. Reacted with primal rage and the urge to protect itself.
Curling his upper lip into a sneer, he raked his contemptuous gaze over her. “I’ve been so damned stupid.” A complete and utter idiot. “I believed you were different. That money and position didn’t matter—”
“They don’t, James. Not in the way you think.” She held a delicate palm out to him, beseechingly. “Please let me explain. I owe you that much.” Her voice broke, and when he didn’t take her outstretched hand, she let it drop to her side. “I am sorry,” she murmured again, her face ashen, and her eyes wounded pools.
Sorry? Sorry? He didn’t want her God-damned apology. He wanted her!
Something inside him splintered, fracturing into a million pieces, and where his heart had once been, an unfeeling stone replaced the mangled organ.
He threw his head back and laughed, harsh and cynical. “You don’t owe me anything, Regine.” With that, he turned his back and stalked away, resolutely disregarding her sobs, her vows that she loved him, and her pleas for him to listen to her.
Never again would he be taken in by a beautiful face or pledges of love and promises of forever.
London, England
Late January 1811
Pulling the folds of her woolen-lined, velvet mantle snugger, Regine Maberly, Duchess of Heartwaite, shivered as she picked her way around several inconvenient puddles. Perhaps she ought to have accepted the coachman’s offer of a ride when he’d collected her packages, though the glover’s shop lay but one street over.
Desiring the exercise, she’d opted to walk while completing her errands. But the gunmetal-gray sky sported a canopy of pouting clouds. She feared, much like a petulant child, they were about to make their displeasure known. Only in this case, in the form of an ugly downpour.
Her bonnet’s scarlet ribbons flapped against her neck, both from her brisk pace—her boot heels rhythmically clacking and splashing her soggy progression—as well as the sulky wind’s stubborn resolve to finagle a means inside her cloak.
The wind seemed determined to subject her sensitive nose to the mélange of foul odors, inevitably wafting about the city, too. Coal smoke, the dank aroma of The River Thames, as well as piles of waste and rubbish lining many of the streets all contributed to the fetid stench.
Compared to the Borderlands, where she’d lived these past two years, London’s crisp, damp weather proved much milder. And yet, though she wore a redingote beneath the mantle, she couldn’t entirely prevent the shudder the biting chill caused to ripple the length of her spine.
How she missed the warmer climes of the countries and islands she’d spent the first six years of her marriage visiting and exploring: Spain. Italy. India. Greece. Egypt. Even the Caribbean with its powdery beaches and vibrant rainbows of flowers.
After Heartwaite’s death nearly two years ago—she’d always addressed him by his title at his behest—she’d considered living abroad permanently. She’d left England directly after her marriage and then had taken up residence in the country promptly upon returning. Thus, she’d eschewed an introduction to the haut ton all these years. A small and very welcome blessing, that.
She’d never coveted a title and all the finery, trappings, and expectations that accompanied the position. Oh, she could play the part of peeress to perfection—Heartwaite had insisted upon it—but beneath the silks and lace and jewels, the finely coiffed hair and practiced politesse, she was a simple woman at heart.
Plans to toddle back to the Continent had given her something to aspire to during the lengthy, lonely months of Heartwaite’s decline and the expected mourning period afterward.
Unfortunately, fate—the willful, unrelenting force determined to up-end her life and plans—had interfered and decreed otherwise. Again. Blast Providence. Destiny. Fortune. Chance. Even blast the divine powers.
Flattening her lips into a thin line, she wrestled her frustration into submission. Railing and complaining were futile and served no purpose other than to cause further discontent. Chin up, old girl, she admonished the minuscule rebellious part of her that seldom made itself known anymore.
Resolutely reining in her melancholy musings, she lowered her head against the haranguing wind. The glovers was her last destination this afternoon. Within the hour, she’d be trotting up the steps to her cozy townhouse and enjoying a piping-hot cup of coffee while her sister sipped tea heavily laced with milk and sugar.
The cold wind nipped at Regine’s cheeks, making her all that more eager for a cup of coffee to warm her. She’d acquired the taste for the rich brew during her travels and now preferred coffee to tea.
More proof she no longer belonged in England. Nonetheless, she must endure. For now.
Rather than join her on the outing, Juliet had begged to remain home and create valentines. Which, in truth, was a poorly constructed excuse to avoid venturing into public with her new spectacles.
For Juliet’s sake, until her dearest younger sister made a match, Regine tarried in England. Or, if Juliet didn’t choose to marry, then to travel with her if that was her sister’s preference.
