Prince of Persuasion
Sins and Scoundrels
Book Two
Scarlett Scott
Copyright © 2019 by Scarlett Scott
Kindle Edition
Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books from Dragonblade Publishing
About the Book
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Marquess of Mayhem
About the Author
The gossips say his soul is as black as his cravats. Handsome, enigmatic Duncan Kirkwood is the prince of London’s most exclusive—and wicked—gaming club. He founded his empire upon one goal: gaining vengeance against the man who sired him and abandoned his mother.
To society, Lady Frederica Isling is a quiet, proper duke’s daughter and wallflower. No one suspects she harbors a secret desire to become a renowned novelist. She’ll go to any lengths to conduct research for her manuscript, including infiltrating Kirkwood’s notorious club disguised as her brother.
It doesn’t take long for Duncan to realize the oddly-garbed stranger penning notes at his hazard table is not who she pretends to be. When he discovers her identity holds the key to the revenge he’s been waiting for, he can’t believe his good fortune. But there’s something about Lady Federica that stirs more than his desire for retribution.
Frederica finds herself drawn to the charming Mr. Kirkwood and curious about the darker side of the world she never knew existed. She knows she should stay far away from him and his life of sin, and yet she keeps returning for more.
As Duncan and Frederica become hopelessly entangled in each other’s lives, passion blossoms. With reprisal within his grasp at last, Duncan must make the impossible choice between gaining his revenge and persuading the woman who owns his heart to take the biggest gamble of all.
Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres wedres overshake,
And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!
~The Parlement of Fowls
Geoffrey Chaucer
Chapter One
London, 1812
He noticed the fellow’s arse first.
The fall of the gent’s navy coat—an odd cut, too bulky by half, and did nothing to disguise the firm, high
roundness. Nor the wide swell of the hips. Duncan sipped his illicit whisky—smuggled, forbidden, and perfectly delicious—and allowed his gaze to trail down the mysterious fellow’s buff breeches. These, unlike the ill-fitting coat, proudly displayed two knees and well-turned calves like a second, wicked skin. Slim ankles stole his attention next. So fine and…dainty beneath the stockings.
His prick twitched to life.
Bloody hell. As the owner and proprietor of The Duke’s Bastard, the most fashionable and notorious gambling hell in London, Duncan catered to all manner of vices for his loyal patrons. But though he had engaged in a varied array of libidinous delights and depravities, he had yet to derive a cockstand from another man.
He swallowed another healthy gulp of whisky, relishing the burn. Damn fine swizzle, the latest batch he had been able to procure. Not strong enough to temper his lust, unfortunately, which only increased when the woman seated on his lap moved her bottom in a teasing motion over his growing problem.
“Mr. Kirkwood,” she whispered throatily, her arms locked around his neck. Her mouth was so near, her lips grazed his ear as she spoke. “We could make use of one of your special chambers. Only tell me what you prefer, and I shall do anything you wish.”
Her offer ought to stir him, but the stranger hovering by the hazard tables transfixed him. He had not removed his hat, perhaps because he was so newly arrived. But he held himself at a stiff angle, as though prepared for flight. Who was this interloper with the unusually feminine form, and why the devil did Duncan find himself so strangely drawn to him?
“Would that please you, Mr. Kirkwood?” Tabitha’s hand swept over his burgeoning cock when he failed to answer. Apparently, the fine art of subtlety eluded her. Either his patrons were boors who did not notice such a thing, or she required some stern advice from one of his more seasoned ladies.
Tabitha was new to The Duke’s Bastard, and she had yet to realize no matter how much time she spent teasing him, sidling about, casting him longing glances, and flaunting her lovely body, he would not tup her. He did not bed any of the ladies in his employ, as it muddied the waters.
Duncan preferred his waters clear and calm. He wanted the waters to line his pockets with gold more than he wanted them to satisfy his baser urges. There was a time, a place, and a woman for slaking his needs. But not here. Never within The Duke’s Bastard. And not her.
“Tabitha,” he cautioned, passing his hand along her thigh. Her dress was deuced thin and damp, designed to entice. “You are tasked with entertaining my patrons. Scamper along and perform your duty.”
Her tongue, which had been engaged in licking his throat above his cravat, left his skin. She shifted in his lap, her face blocking his view of the trespasser he found so damned intriguing. Wide, honey-brown eyes met his. There was no denying Tabitha’s loveliness. He had hired her for it.
“I thought you might…you are ready, sir, and I only wished to please you,” she said.
You are not the one responsible for this cursed state. Good Lord. He could not admit to her the true reason for the evidence of his desire she had skillfully detected. He could not even admit it to himself. Though he had to acknowledge a life of excess and sin that only heightened as the years passed, growing increasingly dissolute.
He took pity on her. “I cannot allow myself time for too much idle distraction. Thank you, however, for the offer.”
“Mr. Kirkwood,” she protested, pouting prettily.
He remained unmoved. Irritation cut through him, for she had not removed herself from his lap, and he was the master and commander of The Duke’s Bastard. The hell was his ship, and everyone aboard it followed his orders or risked being tossed, headlong, to the waters below.
“You are dismissed,” he snapped, his hands clamping on her waist and lifting her from him.
There was nowhere for the persistent Tabitha to go save elsewhere, and he suspected he had at last pierced the veil of obliviousness shrouding her. Shaking out her skirts, she offered him a tight smile. “As you prefer, Mr. Kirkwood. Enjoy your evening, sir.”
He did not bother to watch her take her leave of him. His gaze had already returned to the gentleman at the hazard table, who had extracted a small ivory tablet and pencil from his voluminous coat while Tabitha had distracted Duncan. By God. The man had begun scribbling.
A competitor.
Duncan stood from his chair. All inconvenient leanings toward lust died a hasty death. His strides ate up the floor. His senses registered the familiar sounds of the evening: raucous laughter, epithets, and clinking dice. But inside, he was fuming.
With nothing but persistence, intelligence, and hard work, he had built The Duke’s Bastard into a club even royalty begged to enter. Unlike any other club London had to offer, the Bastard was a unique blend of opulence and debauchery.
It boasted the finest French chef at two-thousand pounds per annum, and while it possessed the requisite amount of diversions, the ladies he employed were not lowly street wenches. His physician performed regular examinations to make certain they did not contract or spread the pox. And for the truly depraved, there were special, private chambers catering to a broad array of proclivities. He had seen the need for such a haven, and he had created it.
He alone.
There would be no imitators or usurpers.
Others had infiltrated his ranks before, and he had reacted no less harshly than he would now. When one man reaped great rewards, a hundred others sought to follow in his footsteps by any means, fair or foul. He reached the spy, who was too caught up in his attempts to record everything he saw to notice Duncan until he stopped alongside the miscreant.
Wide, green eyes fringed with impossibly long black lashes blinked at him from behind a pair of spectacles. Shock hit him in the chest, and he could not speak for a moment as his scrambled thoughts struggled to piece themselves back into a semblance of order. The mustache affixed to the man’s upper lip was false.
The spy was a female.
Thank sweet Christ for that.
But whilst relief pulsed through him, it did nothing to abate his rage. Who was she? Whose employ was she in? How had she gained entrance? Why did she have to possess the most delectable bottom he had ever seen?
He gritted his teeth, dispelling that last, errant thought. “You, sir. Come with me, if you please.”
*
Frederica would not have been more alarmed had the devil himself appeared before her. As it was, given his grim flair for dress—all black, from his cravat and breeches to his shirt and waistcoat, as if he were in a state of perpetual mourning—he resembled him well enough. The only lightness on this man was his golden hair and his bright blue eyes that roamed over her face now in a manner she could not like.
Indeed, he left her feeling…restless. Unsettled. Curious.
Who was this tall, angry, beautiful stranger?
She forced herself to speak in as gruff a tone as she could manage. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
When she had first settled upon her madcap plan, she had not imagined she would be seen. She had foolishly thought she would go as unnoticed as the wall coverings or the carpet. After all, these wicked men had so much distraction, all manner of vices. Dice. Drink. Scandalous females in dampened skirts.
She shuddered. Papa would lock her in her chamber if he learned of her disgraceful endeavors. She would be ruined. Unutterably. Ineligible for a proper marriage. She would be scorned and given the cut direct.
However, since her mother and father wished for her to marry the odious Earl of Willingham, such a fate may not prove as repulsive as one might think.
“You,” the man repeated, his tone dark enough to rival his attire as he dredged her from her whirling thoughts. “Come with me.”
She blinked, eyeing him over her spectacles, for she could not see through the dreadful things, and they were merely another effort to distort her appearance. “No.”
He raised a lone, golden brow, observing her as a king migh
t his lowly vassal. “You are trespassing, sir. You are not a member of my club. Indeed, you are fortunate I have not yet brought the law down upon you.”
Not a member of his club?
Her mouth went dry.
Could it be that the man before her was the infamous Duncan Kirkwood himself? But how? He did not resemble the dark-haired, long-nosed, effeminate Earl of Willingham—his rumored half brother—in the slightest. If it was indeed Mr. Kirkwood scowling at her, none of the caricatures she had seen had done him justice. Often, he was depicted as a brute, occasionally as Beelzebub. This man was neither of those. He commanded attention, exuding an air of danger and elegance she had never before seen in another gentleman.
“I am afraid I cannot accompany you,” she said past lips that had gone numb.
“And I am afraid you must.” He caught her elbow then, and began hauling her through the sea of his patrons as though she were a criminal about to be cast into Newgate.
“See here, sir,” she protested in as gruff and commanding a voice as she could muster, resisting his superior strength by dragging her heels and making herself a dead weight. “I am ill. I must return home at once.”
Dreadful excuse, Frederica.
His attention snapped back to her, his expression cut in stone. That unnaturally blue gaze swept over her. “You seem perfectly hale to me.”
She cleared her throat. “I misspoke. My mother is dreadfully ill, not I. I must return home to attend her. She is suffering from the Melancholius Ague, and it will not be long until she succumbs, God have mercy upon her soul. She has no one but a gouty old manservant named Arthur for accompaniment, as our means have been substantially reduced by my love of vice.”
He stared at her, and while the large chamber with its gleaming wood, sumptuous furniture, and breathtaking oil murals was laden with lords, it seemed for a moment as if they were the only two people who existed. “What manner of ague?”
Oh dear, what had she invented? This sort of thing ever landed her in trouble in her novels. On page three, the villain would be Sir Carstairs, and by page thirty, he would be Sir Carmichael.
“The Melancoholius Ague,” she guessed, her mind working to save her hide by fashioning an endless fount of distraction. “The manservant also has but one leg, and he is blind. So, you see, I really ought not to have left them at all. He can scarcely look after dearest Mama, but I cannot control my need for wagering and…sin.”
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