Duchess of His Heart Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Quote

  Copyright

  Get Your FREE Digital Book!

  Seductive Scoundrels Series

  Other Collette Cameron Books

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  DUCHESS OF HIS HEART

  Seductive Scoundrels, Book Six

  By

  COLLETTE CAMERON

  Blue Rose Romance®

  Portland, Oregon

  Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®

  He should say something. But what?

  I missed you? Every day. Every hour. Every second.

  DUCHESS OF HIS HEART

  Seductive Scoundrels

  Copyright © 2020 Collette Cameron®

  Cover by Kim Killion

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By downloading or purchasing a print copy of this book, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, shared, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of the copyright owner.

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  A Diamond for a Duke

  Only a Duke Would Dare

  A December with a Duke

  What Would a Duke Do?

  Wooed by a Wicked Duke

  Duchess of His Heart

  Coming soon in the series!

  Never Dance with a Duke

  To Lure a Duke’s Lady

  Loved by a Devilish Duke

  Wedding her Christmas Duke

  When a Duke Loves a Lass

  How to Win A Duke’s Heart

  To Love an Irredeemable Duke

  The Honorable Rogues™

  A Kiss for a Rogue

  A Bride for a Rogue

  A Rogue’s Scandalous Wish

  To Capture a Rogue’s Heart

  The Rogue and the Wallflower

  A Rose for a Rogue

  Castle Brides Series

  The Viscount’s Vow

  Highlander’s Hope

  The Earl’s Enticement

  Heart of a Highlander (prequel to Highlander’s Hope)

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses Series

  The Earl and the Spinster

  The Marquis and the Vixen

  The Lord and the Wallflower

  The Buccaneer and the Bluestocking

  The Lieutenant and the Lady

  Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

  Triumph and Treasure

  Virtue and Valor

  Heartbreak and Honor

  Scandal’s Splendor

  Passion and Plunder

  Seductive Surrender

  A Yuletide Highlander

  Wicked Earls’ Club

  Earl of Wainthorpe

  Earl of Scarborough

  Heart of a Scot

  To Love a Highland Laird

  To Redeem a Highland Rogue

  To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

  Coming soon in the series!

  To Woo a Highland Warrior

  To Enchant a Highland Earl

  To Defy a Highland Duke

  To Marry a Highland Marauder

  To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

  Boxed Sets

  Lords in Love

  To Love a Reckless Lord

  When a Lord Loves a Lady

  Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances- The Culpepper Misses Series 1-5

  To my fabulous review team.

  Thank you for taking the time to read and review my books for me!

  Happy Valentine’s Day!

  Colchester, England

  September 1802

  Standing in the apple orchard, a short walking distance from the village of Colchester and All Saint’s Priory—his father’s parish—James Brentwood gazed overhead. Ribbons of sunlight threaded through the thick, verdant foliage heavily laden with crisp, crimson fruit.

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled the familiar scents from his childhood: rich, warm earth, ripe apples, freshly cut hay, and an occasional whiff of honeysuckle drifting by on the capricious fall breeze.

  Nearby, industrious bees hummed as they went about their work, and songbirds trilled while flitting from branch to branch. In the distance, his sister’s chickens cackled, and a horse neighed in the adjacent pasture. He missed the peace and freshness of the English countryside when in London.

  Before letting his mind wander once more, he cast a puzzled glance down the dusty, rutted lane. Regine was several minutes late. Unusual for her. Typically, she was as eager for their clandestine meetings as he, and she often beat him to their rendezvous.

  Regine. Just thinking of his beloved tightened James’s chest as overwhelming emotion tunneled through his veins. God, how he loved her. Since she’d been a toddler and he a young lad, he’d adored the raven-haired beauty with eyes so blue, they put the summer sky to shame.

  If not for her father’s recent and unexpected death, he would’ve asked for her hand in marriage this visit even though two years of his solicitor’s training remained. He’d have to bide his time a jot longer, blast it all.

  Scratching his temple, he grinned with unchecked happiness. Regine had agreed to become his wife over a year ago. They kept the agreement a secret but often spoke of their future residing together in London—him a successful solicitor and she, the mother of his four—no five—children.

  Neither aspired to wealth or position nor coveted possessions. Each only needed the other, and they would be happy and content for the rest of their lives. Or so they’d vowed between passionate kisses and promises of eternal love.

  Tomorrow, he’d return to London, but he’d savor these last few hours with Regine before bidding her farewell—after tasting her sweet
mouth and breathing in her apple and spices fragrance one final time. Finances wouldn’t permit him to return for at least a fortnight, and he craved memories to savor until her lush form was wrapped in his embrace once more.

  At last, he heard muffled footsteps approaching, and he turned, excitement and expectation vying for supremacy. At eighteen, Regine Edenshaw was a vision, even in her somber, black gown. Her unbound silky, ebony hair swayed as she walked, her eyes downcast and neck bent as if deep in thought.

  She was his. His. Or would be as soon as her mourning period ended. James would have to harness his impatience for a few more months before asking Mrs. Edenshaw for her daughter’s hand. Pray God Regine’s mother wouldn’t require them to wait an entire year to wed as mourning protocol dictated.

  Regine stopped a few feet away and reluctantly brought her gaze up to meet his.

  His heart stalled at the intense sorrow and regret pooled in her eyes. Eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

  Her lips parted, but no words came forth.

  “Darling, what is it?” He moved to gather her into his arms, to soothe away whatever had distressed her, but she shook her head and held a palm up to ward him off. Torment ravaged her delicate features.

  Alarm took root, spiraling outward from James’s stomach and sending a chill washing over him. By God, if someone had dared to harm her.

  “Sweetheart?” He brushed a fingertip across her satiny cheek. “What has you so distressed? Tell me.” Somehow, he’d make whatever troubled her right—anything to put a smile on her bowed mouth and erase the sadness shadowing her azure eyes.

  “James…” Shoulders slumping, she clamped her lower lip between her teeth, and her lashes fluttered downward to caress her pale cheeks.

  His trepidation kicked up several notches, and dread engulfed him. The instinct that made him a damn good solicitor fairly shrieked. He wasn’t going to like what she said. Not at all.

  “James,” she murmured again, her voice a mere thread of sound—a soft, spine-tingling entreaty in the now eerily silent orchard. Then she opened her mouth, gulped in a deep breath, and thrust her chin upward as if bracing herself.

  Against what, for God’s sake?

  He swept the area with a swift, apprehensive glance, before settling his attention uneasily upon her once more. Something akin to terror knotted in his throat at the defeat and devastation he detected in her startlingly blue eyes. It stripped the air from his lungs and squeezed his heart in a ruthless, unyielding vise.

  “I…” she drew in a ragged breath. “I am to be married,” she finally said in a rush, dropping her focus to her hands, repeatedly wadding her black skirts.

  What? Married? No. No. You’re mine. Mine! My dearest, most precious love.

  “Pardon?” he whispered stupidly, his lips stiff and voice gravelly with disbelief and pain. “Married?” He shook his head. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. But he had. Her tense posture and waxen pallor revealed the truth.

  “To who?” Or was it whom? What the hell did it matter? His thoughts raced, pell-mell, around his befuddled mind, all ability to reason calmly having flown. You cannot marry another. You cannot! You said you’d be my wife.

  “To the Duke of Heartwaite,” she replied, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

  A bloody duke? He fisted his hands until the nails cut deeply into his palms.

  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 th
e 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.

  Which it very well might be, given the cool reception they’d received in London so far. Few invitations had seen their way to the sisters’ rented Grosvenor Square doorstep since Regine had set up home in London. She suspected curiosity had prompted those half-dozen or so invites. A young, widowed duchess who’d managed to escape le beau monde’s watchful eye was a novelty.