Read Online The Heart of a Scoundrel by Christi Caldwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Christi Caldwell
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man deserved. Edmund didn’t answer to anyone. Cheeky servants. Cloying mistresses. Eager young ladies with a taste for darkness. Powerful peers. He owed nothing to anyone.
Edmund reached the top landing and turned down the corridor, making his way to his office, the vexing Wallace forgotten. He stopped beside his sanctuary and pressed the door handle, stepping inside the ominous room. He closed the door behind him and locked it, welcoming the hum of quiet and the eerie shadows that danced off the plaster walls. This room, once belonging to his father, held many dark memories. He’d learned long ago to embrace those memories. They’d shaped him into the man he’d become, driven all weakness from him, and transformed him into the cold, powerful nobleman who roused terror in the hearts of most. How many years had he spent despising his parents for the pain of his past? Yet, his selfish parents had shaped him. Strengthened him in a way that he could not be hurt. That was the greatest gift they could have ever given, not that useless sentiment people called love.
He strode over to his desk and settled into the familiar folds of his winged back chair—his only addition to the office. This was his. The single piece of dark leather furniture represented his conquering of the old, long-dead marquess’ hold—upon this room, and more, his hold upon Edmund. With deliberate movements, he pulled open the top drawer and removed his leather folio. He flipped open the book and shuffled through pages.
Lord Exeter. Weakness Faro and French mistresses. Debt one thousand pounds.
He flipped to the next.
Lord Donaldson. Weakness diddling his servants. Whist. Debt country cottage in Devonshire.
He skimmed the following names and then stuck his finger in the book to halt the pages turning.
Miss Honoria Fairfax?
He picked up a pen and dipped it into the crystal inkwell and added one more name.
Miss Phoebe Barrett.
Edmund proceeded to mark notes upon the pages of his leather folio and then sat back in his seat. The lady’s weakness was her friends, and that weakness would guide him to Miss Fairfax, the woman he’d ruin and wed. Last night, he’d seen Miss Phoebe Barrett as a vexing interference in his plans for another woman. After he’d taken his leave of her, however, he’d realized the serendipitous meeting with the too-trusting miss. With her regard for Honoria Fairfax, Phoebe would ultimately aid him in his quest for revenge.
His attention should be devoted to the woman he’d make his marchioness, and yet… He drummed his fingertips on the arms of his chair, studying the most recent addition to his folio. Phoebe remained firmly entrenched in his thoughts, for reasons that did not have anything to do with revenge. No, it had to do with her lithe frame and well-rounded buttocks.
With a growl, he forcibly thrust back thoughts of the woman and focused on Honoria Fairfax, whom he’d gathered little about. By her lineage alone, he knew she was surely a title-grasping, scheming miss who’d part her legs and sell her soul for the title of duchess. After all, hadn’t he himself been cut of the same cheap fabric as his sire? He’d little doubt Miss Fairfax was any different than her mother. The muscles of his stomach clenched. Or her aunt.
Edmund drew in a slow, steadying breath, detesting the slight showing of weakness that proved Margaret’s defection still rankled. Ah, Margaret. The lady who’d won his heart and made his twenty-one year old self believe he could know love when his parents had not. The hopefully optimistic, lovesick swain had merely been a two-month interlude from reality. For in the end, she’d chosen another—a duke. A now dead duke. And Edmund had become that which he’d always be—an emotionally deadened, heartless scoundrel who took his pleasures where he would. He trained his eyes on the name of Margaret’s niece. Then eight years later, she returned from her period of mourning and the foolish
Edmund reached the top landing and turned down the corridor, making his way to his office, the vexing Wallace forgotten. He stopped beside his sanctuary and pressed the door handle, stepping inside the ominous room. He closed the door behind him and locked it, welcoming the hum of quiet and the eerie shadows that danced off the plaster walls. This room, once belonging to his father, held many dark memories. He’d learned long ago to embrace those memories. They’d shaped him into the man he’d become, driven all weakness from him, and transformed him into the cold, powerful nobleman who roused terror in the hearts of most. How many years had he spent despising his parents for the pain of his past? Yet, his selfish parents had shaped him. Strengthened him in a way that he could not be hurt. That was the greatest gift they could have ever given, not that useless sentiment people called love.
He strode over to his desk and settled into the familiar folds of his winged back chair—his only addition to the office. This was his. The single piece of dark leather furniture represented his conquering of the old, long-dead marquess’ hold—upon this room, and more, his hold upon Edmund. With deliberate movements, he pulled open the top drawer and removed his leather folio. He flipped open the book and shuffled through pages.
Lord Exeter. Weakness Faro and French mistresses. Debt one thousand pounds.
He flipped to the next.
Lord Donaldson. Weakness diddling his servants. Whist. Debt country cottage in Devonshire.
He skimmed the following names and then stuck his finger in the book to halt the pages turning.
Miss Honoria Fairfax?
He picked up a pen and dipped it into the crystal inkwell and added one more name.
Miss Phoebe Barrett.
Edmund proceeded to mark notes upon the pages of his leather folio and then sat back in his seat. The lady’s weakness was her friends, and that weakness would guide him to Miss Fairfax, the woman he’d ruin and wed. Last night, he’d seen Miss Phoebe Barrett as a vexing interference in his plans for another woman. After he’d taken his leave of her, however, he’d realized the serendipitous meeting with the too-trusting miss. With her regard for Honoria Fairfax, Phoebe would ultimately aid him in his quest for revenge.
His attention should be devoted to the woman he’d make his marchioness, and yet… He drummed his fingertips on the arms of his chair, studying the most recent addition to his folio. Phoebe remained firmly entrenched in his thoughts, for reasons that did not have anything to do with revenge. No, it had to do with her lithe frame and well-rounded buttocks.
With a growl, he forcibly thrust back thoughts of the woman and focused on Honoria Fairfax, whom he’d gathered little about. By her lineage alone, he knew she was surely a title-grasping, scheming miss who’d part her legs and sell her soul for the title of duchess. After all, hadn’t he himself been cut of the same cheap fabric as his sire? He’d little doubt Miss Fairfax was any different than her mother. The muscles of his stomach clenched. Or her aunt.
Edmund drew in a slow, steadying breath, detesting the slight showing of weakness that proved Margaret’s defection still rankled. Ah, Margaret. The lady who’d won his heart and made his twenty-one year old self believe he could know love when his parents had not. The hopefully optimistic, lovesick swain had merely been a two-month interlude from reality. For in the end, she’d chosen another—a duke. A now dead duke. And Edmund had become that which he’d always be—an emotionally deadened, heartless scoundrel who took his pleasures where he would. He trained his eyes on the name of Margaret’s niece. Then eight years later, she returned from her period of mourning and the foolish
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