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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 Father’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.

Her husband must’ve anticipated his children’s animosity and pettiness, because Heartwaite had the foresight to provide her with a substantial annual allowance, a house in Brighton, a coach and team, as well as had named her owner of a cargo ship. All of which, his solicitors had drawn up in a tidy legal document, much to the new duke’s and his siblings’ consternation.

In point of fact, the letter in her reticule was from the current duke, threatening to take legal action against her. Again. Oh, how the pudding soft, jowly George-Curtis, Sixth Duke of Heartwaite, had stormed like a recalcitrant child over the endowment. Swore he’d challenge her inheritance, claiming his father hadn’t been in his right mind when he’d designated the bequeathment.

What a load of fustian blather and codswallop.

Heartwaite’s mind had been as sharp the day he died as the day she’d met him. His body eventually wore out, but his intellect had never gone soft.

“Your Grace?” The proprietress gently urged, bringing Regine back to the present.

Regathering her thoughts, she offered a nascent smile. “Coffee with warm milk, please.” Regine adopted what she hoped was a pleasant, nonchalant mien.

She’d become quite adept at disguising her true feelings. At the beginning of her marriage, it had taken a great deal of practice and self-discipline. Her sisters, mother, and husband had never known how bitterly unhappy she was.

Although, she suspected Juliet might’ve guessed. For all of her youngest sister’s inability to see without her spectacles, the girl perceived much that went unspoken.

Regine wasn’t the sort to make others suffer because she was miserable. She’d chosen to find the good in her life, and Heartwaite had turned out to be a considerate friend. More like a doting uncle than a spouse.

“At once, Your Grace.” Mrs. Delaney bustled off, a broad smile wreathing her lined face.

“Coffee? I’d have thought a proper English duchess would only drink tea.” James wrapped his long fingers around his cup but didn’t bring it to his mouth. Though his nails were neatly trimmed, faint callouses and ink stains marred the fingertips. His words still held a harsh edge, but his features had softened a trifle, his eyes competing with the sea for magnificence.

“I still enjoy a cup of tea, especially India tea.” Regine lifted a shoulder, refusing to feel chagrined for something so trivial or to take to heart his acrimony. She understood his rancor and couldn’t fault him for it. “I acquired a taste for Turkish coffee while abroad.”

“Ah, yes. Touring the Continent, seeing the sights, and all that with your husband.” He made a pretense of searching the coffeeshop and then the damp street through the window. A hawkish eyebrow cocked, he asked, “Where is good ol’ Heartwaite, by the way?”

Wrapped in death’s slumber.

One hand in her lap, the other resting atop the table where she traced the bumpy ridges of the crocheted table cloth, Regine murmured, “He died, almost two years ago.”

Eyebrows lashing together, James had the grace to look repentant. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t a bereaved widow, but she’d come to like and respect her husband. He’d been kind in his way.

Angling her head while fingering her reticule, she studied James. Fine lines etched the corners of his eyes, and his firm, well-formed mouth had a harder cast to it. She’d wager with his keen mind that he made a brilliant man of law. Yes, she’d made the right decision.

Steering her thoughts to other avenues, she asked, “How are your sisters? Your parents?”

At one time, their families had been the greatest of friends.