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  Five Days With a Duke

  By

  Christi Caldwell

  Other Titles by Christi Caldwell

  Heart of a Duke

  In Need of a Duke—Prequel Novella

  For Love of the Duke

  More than a Duke

  The Love of a Rogue

  Loved by a Duke

  To Love a Lord

  The Heart of a Scoundrel

  To Wed His Christmas Lady

  To Trust a Rogue

  The Lure of a Rake

  To Woo a Widow

  To Redeem a Rake

  One Winter with a Baron

  To Enchant a Wicked Duke

  Beguiled by a Baron

  To Tempt a Scoundrel

  The Heart of a Scandal

  In Need of a Knight—Prequel Novella

  Schooling the Duke

  A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart

  A Matchmaker for a Marquess

  His Duchess for a Day

  Five Days With a Duke

  Lords of Honor

  Seduced by a Lady’s Heart

  Captivated by a Lady’s Charm

  Rescued by a Lady’s Love

  Tempted by a Lady’s Smile

  Courting Poppy Tidemore

  Scandalous Seasons

  Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride

  Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

  Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

  Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love

  A Marquess for Christmas

  Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

  Sinful Brides

  The Rogue’s Wager

  The Scoundrel’s Honor

  The Lady’s Guard

  The Heiress’s Deception

  The Wicked Wallflowers

  The Hellion

  The Vixen

  The Governess

  The Bluestocking

  The Spitfire

  The Theodosia Sword

  Only For His Lady

  Only For Her Honor

  Only For Their Love

  Danby

  A Season of Hope

  Winning a Lady’s Heart

  The Brethren

  The Spy Who Seduced Her

  The Lady Who Loved Him

  The Rogue Who Rescued Her

  The Minx Who Met Her Match

  The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel

  Lost Lords of London

  In Bed with the Earl

  Brethren of the Lords

  My Lady of Deception

  Her Duke of Secrets

  Regency Duets

  Rogues Rush In: Tessa Dare and Christi Caldwell

  Yuletide Wishes: Grace Burrowes and Christi Caldwell

  Her Christmas Rogue

  Memoir: Non-Fiction

  Uninterrupted Joy

  FIVE DAYS WITH A DUKE

  Copyright © 2020 by Christi Caldwell

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  For more information about the author:

  www.christicaldwellauthor.com

  [email protected]

  Twitter: @ChristiCaldwell

  Or on Facebook at: Christi Caldwell Author

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Other Titles by Christi Caldwell

  Copyright Page

  A Note from the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Also Coming by Christi Caldwell

  Other Books by Christi Caldwell

  Biography

  A Note from the Author

  Dear Readers,

  I have to admit, there was a lot of sadness when I wrote The End of Five Days With a Duke. I had so much fun writing Constance and Connell’s story. There were many times I found myself laughing aloud as I typed…and also sighing, at their romance. And yet, this book also marks The End of my Heart of a Scandal series. The five girls (Aldora, Rowena, Meredith, Emilia, and Constance) first to find the Heart of a Duke pendant are now all grown-up and each of their stories complete.

  I hope you enjoy the last installment of The Heart of a Scandal series!!

  Happy Reading!

  Hugs,

  Christi

  Prologue

  Summer, 1822

  Ten years ago, almost to the day, the Duke of Renaud had lost absolutely everything.

  He’d inherited a recalcitrant ward and her illegitimate babe, and with the inherited responsibilities, he’d severed his relationship with the only woman he’d ever—or would ever—love.

  He’d been certain there was no greater pain than letting his then-betrothed go, and all to look after the brand-new babe of a distant woman he’d never met.

  He’d wanted the pair of them gone and his betrothed back and just they two in the world.

  Only to find on the almost-anniversary of their arrival in his life, in an ultimate twist of irony, he’d been wrong on every single score.

  Frozen at the floor-to-ceiling windowpane, his hands clasped low behind his back, Connell stared blankly out. Not directly at the party below. But rather, just over the gathering to the ornate watering fountain set within the lone patch of grass upon the graveled drive.

  A trio, rendered specks by the distance of his window to the ground, remained within his line of vision. That small happy group, along with the sea of footmen and maids that formed a neat half circle around them. They could go to hell.

  The whole lot of them.

  Nay, not all of them.

  His gaze went to the small figure, and at his back, his fingers tightened reflexively, surely leaving nail marks he didn’t feel.

  She stood sandwiched between her glowing mother… and a stranger. The man who’d sired Iris, who’d returned, and now would just take her away.

  It didn’t matter to him that it was the other man’s legal right. And even worse, even more selfishly, it didn’t matter that this reunion was what both his ward and her daughter had wished for. For Connell was selfish. For Iris and Hazel, he’d given up his life. He’d given up his former love. He’d reshaped his very existence… only to lose them?

  The safer, familiar anger that had fueled him and sustained him since the other man’s reappearance roared to life.

  The moment Hazel and Iris boarded that carriage and took off down the damned drive, he never wanted to see the pair of them again.

  As if she’d heard that sile nt vow and recognized it for the lie it was, Iris tipped her chubby face up. Her eyes landed on Connell’s spot.

  Her earlier exuberance dipped and dimmed, and the evidence of her sadness had the same effect as a lash upon his heart.

  Releasing his arms, he moved closer to the window and lifted his palms, waving in the unique “hello” Iris had done as a babe and continued on through her almost eleven years.

  Iris’ smile was instantly restored, the one that dimpled her cheek. He could never deny her anything when she turned it on him. In a matched gesture, she wagged her fingers.

  Her father said something, and as quick as if the moment had never been, she dropped her arm and spun to face the tall, too-thin gent. And just like that, Connell, with his hand still up, was forgotten.

  Tears filled his throat, and the control he’d managed this morn snapped. He squeezed his eyes tight and fixed on breathing, because if he gave in to the sorrow of what he’d lost—who he’d lost—he’d never recover.

  He’d thought losing Emilia Aberdeen was a pain he’d never recover from. For in the immediacy of that breakup, it had been impossible to fathom being any more brokenhearted.

  Only to find just how bloody wrong he’d been.

  This moment here and now would be what shattered him completely. Strangling on a sob, Connell sagged and caught the low window frame to keep from crumbling to his knees. Using the hard oak as a crutch, he pulled himself sideways so that his back rested alongside the wall, and his misery was hidden from the happy party below.

  Catching his long hair between his fingers, he tugged the strands, wanting to feel any kind of pain other than the one that ravaged him.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  He’d come to think of those exaggerated, heavy footfalls as his butler, Addlington’s, calling card the past fortnight since Connell’s world had fallen apart. Then would come the rhythmic knock.

  Knock-pause-knock-scratch.

  And lastly—

  “Ahem.”

  What in hell could the servant possibly want? Why wasn’t he outside even now with the happy send-off party, and Iris and her mother, and the bastard of a father—

  “I said, ahe—”

  “I heard you,” he bellowed. “What in the hell do you want?”

  Which the other man apparently took to mean enter.

  At the slight click of the handle, Connell scrambled upright and dashed his hands over his eyes. When Addlington entered, Connell had placed himself as he’d been at the window, in his earlier pose constructed of feigned nonchalance.

  “Shouldn’t you be belowstairs?” he asked tersely the moment the butler’s visage appeared in the immaculate, gleaming crystal panel. Having joined Connell’s staff near the time he’d broken off his betrothal, Addlington had been with the family since Iris had arrived. Countless times, Connell had caught the little girl in the company of the butler. As such, he was not so self-absorbed that he didn’t recognize Addlington would feel keenly the cheerful girl’s departure.

  “Yes. Yes, I should, Your Grace.” Addlington paused. “But then, I thought that you should, as well.”

  “You’re insolent, and I should sack you.”

  “Yes, undoubtedly you should.” The servant paused. “And as I’m already being insolent, if I may also say?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said coolly.

  Addlington went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “If you do not go and make your goodbyes to the little miss, you’ll regret it, Your Grace.”

  The crystal pane acted as a mirror, and staring back from within was the bitter twist of Connell’s lips.

  Regret.

  An apt word to capture much of what Connell carried through life. Regret. There was so damned much of it. So many mistakes made. So many faulty missteps and decisions, ones that had been made with the greatest of intentions.

  But abandoning his spot high above the happy gathering below and watching as Iris and her mother departed, leaving only silence and memories in their wake? Nay, his well-meaning butler was wrong on that score—Connell wouldn’t be one ounce sorry for failing to take part in that celebratory departure. “Your concern is noted,” Connell murmured, resuming his study of the watering fountain below. “If you would close the door behind you?”

  Addlington hesitated. “As you wish, Your Grace.” Taking several flourishing backward steps, the butler reached for the handle.

  “Addlington?” he called.

  The man of like years stopped. “Your Grace?”

  “You should, however, join… ” Connell fought to get the beloved name out… and failed. “The gathering,” he settled for instead.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Connell made as if he’d not heard that expression of gratitude. He didn’t want it. He wasn’t deserving of it. Rather, it was for her—little Iris, who’d always loved Addlington.

  The heavily carved, oak panel stared back in the glass, the only indication that the butler had gone and Connell was again alone.

  For the first time… ever.

  Once upon a lifetime ago, when he’d been a young man out of university, there’d been lovers and mistresses and friends… until he’d fallen in love, and every day had been consumed with Emilia Aberdeen. After the end of their betrothal, there had been only Iris and her flighty, but always smiling mother.

  The driver came forward and drew the pink lacquer door open.

  First, into the carriage went Hazel.

  Iris, however, lingered. Addlington, who must have taken flight for the speed with which he’d made it to the little girl’s side, knelt beside her.

  Iris flung herself into the butler’s arms, staggering the servant.

  It was too much.

  Squeezing his eyes closed, Connell stepped away from the window. He’d not survive this. It would be easier to lop off a limb than lose a girl who was like his own child. More than ten years of raising her, loving her, only to have her father reappear as if none of those years had ever mattered.

  But then, they didn’t.

  Not truly.

  Because she’d always belonged to another. Connell had just never imagined a world in which that man would realize the gift he’d lost, or that he’d return and take with him all of Connell’s existence.

  The distant click of the carriage door closing brought Connell’s eyes flying open. Hurrying back into position, he stared on, motionless, as the conveyance rolled along, rocking and swaying. He stared on until the garish pink vehicle diminished in size and then ultimately faded beyond the horizon, leaving a marked finality in its absence.

  Now, there was no one.

  There’d be no play tea parties, or midnight snacking, or Maypole festivities.

  Yes, there was no one.

  He hardened his jaw.

  And Connell was determined that there would never be anyone, ever again.

  *

  Around that same time, in London

  Lady Constance Brandley wept.

  Nay, more specifically, she blubbered. Great, big, blustery, snorting tears, the sound of them made all the more pronounced and obscene for the barrenness of the rooms filled with nothing but the echoes of her misery.

  It was silly.

  She’d lost so much.

  They were just things.

  That was what she’d told herself each and every time some scrap had been carted off.

  That was what she’d believed with her whole heart. She had a mother and a father, though stuffy, who loved her. They weren’t a caricature of evil parents attempting to marry her off to save their finances.

  And given that her younger brother had been missing for these past several years, it really was an outrageously ridiculous thing for Constance to cry over.

  And yet, mayhap that was why she cried, because it was just a reminder of a far greater loss.

  I don’t care what Mama and Papa say. I think you play beautifully, and well, you never much cared what they said, either way.

  Her brother’s words echoed in her mind. He’d been the younger, underfoot brother, but on that day, he’d defended her… and encouraged her to continue playing.

  “And h-he is gone,” she whispered through her tears into the quiet. Just as her instrument was.

  It had been inevitable that her parents would go and touch the music room—but it had meant so very much to her.

  For when other young ladies—her friends, strangers, everyone her age—had gone off and married and then went on to fill up their nurseries, Constance had felt pangs of yearning for what they had, but at the same time, she’d found a great contentment in the life she did have… in playing.

  As long as a lady had a cello, one didn’t require a man.

  That had been the motto she’d written within the folds of her diary and the one she’d come to believe.

  The cello spoke for her when she had something to say.

  Angrily dashing at her eyes, Constance touched her gaze around the bare, gilded walls. The floral paintings made upon the wallpaper lent an air of pretend opulence that was belied by the faded rectangles where golden-framed mirrors had once hung. That corner where the harp had sat was now empty. The rug at the center of the room, where the pianoforte had taken up a central place, was gone, along with the grand instrument that had occupied a place upon it. Through a new sheen of tears, she looked to the place alongside the row of windows overlooking the stables below. Sunlight cascaded through the dusty glass panels, damnably cheerful, with three rays forming a triumvirate of sunlight that showered upon the place her cello had once rested.

  Her body shook, and she bit her lip hard to keep the tears at bay.

  Only, there was no one here. Her parents were gone for the morn, playing the expert roles they’d mastered of nonimpoverished lord and lady.

  Nor would anyone else dare visit the Brandleys’ music room.

  Though, to be more precise, no one was to be shown to any room but one in the Brandleys’ household—the Blue Parlor.

  With that, Constance gave in to her misery.

  Rolling onto her side, Constance curled her arms around her knees and wept all the harder. The ugly kind of tears that shook her body until her stomach muscles and chest ached from the violent paroxysms, but the pain was welcome.