A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Blind, you say?”
“And deaf as well,” she added. “Not entirely, mind you. He can hear high-pitched noises. Kitchen mice, for instance. The squeaking, you understand. My mother’s voice is quite unnaturally low for a female. The manservant cannot make out a word she says, I am afraid. You must see how dire the situation is, and if you please, I must take my leave at once.”
“Indeed.” His gaze roamed over her once more, seeming to settle far too long upon her bosom, which she had painstakingly and painfully bound before donning her brother’s stolen attire. “This…unfortunate creature. What is his name?”
“Who?” She blinked, her cheeks going warm at his scrutiny. He was still staring, the cad, and it made her belly quiver in a strange and unwanted fashion.
“The manservant tending your poor, dear mother, of course.” He flashed her a grin that was neither pleasant nor menacing but somehow predatory instead. “What is the fellow’s name? I feel certain I may know him. He sounds so familiar. There cannot be many in London who share such a tendency toward ill fortune.”
“Oh, no, sir.” She gulped, shaking her head. “You cannot possibly know him. His name is Arnold, but given his delicate health, he does not venture far from my mother’s side.”
Mr. Kirkwood’s lips twitched. They were truly fine lips, she noted in spite of herself, fuller than a man’s ought to be, sculpted as if by a master. Lord Willingham’s lips, in contrast, were thin and wet and cold. The kiss he had pressed upon her during a ride in his phaeton had been as pleasant as she imagined setting her lips to a slimy fish would be. As had been his hard, almost punishing grip.
Surely, two men more disparate in appearance and manner did not exist. Where one was ice, the other was scorching flame.
“There is no invalid mother,” Mr. Kirkwood insisted then. Correctly, drat him. “Nor is there an Arthur or an Arnold, and you will accompany me to my office. Now.”
Bother. Had she confused names again? It was her curse, ever plaguing her.
He did not wait for her response. He simply turned and began hauling her once more.
No. No. No.
She had to do something to halt this madness. Dressing as her brother—after pilfering the trunk-bound wardrobe he had outgrown—and sneaking away from her chamber garbed as a gentleman was scandalous enough. As was blustering her way into The Duke’s Bastard, London’s most infamous and exclusive club, by posing as a lord. But cloistering herself inside a chamber with the wicked establishment’s equally wicked proprietor would be a social death knell.
Something inside her reminded her that perhaps a social death knell would be preferable to becoming the Countess of Willingham.
But then she banished such unworthy thoughts. After all, Duncan Kirkwood shared blood with the earl. Surely they were cut from the same cloth in more ways than not. Moreover, he was a sinner and a blackguard. A rakehell and a cad. He had built his immense fortune upon the misfortune and misguided greed of others. He had destroyed gentlemen, ruined families, and beggared lords. He was not to be trusted.
She had to fight him. Stop him. Frederica was no delicate miss. Indeed, she oft bemoaned her full hips, waist, and bosom. She would never be referred to as willowy. She was not slim. But even she was no match for the superior height and brawn of Mr. Kirkwood. She could not wrest her arm from his grasp. Nor could she stay their forward motion.
There was no means of escape, short of screaming and announcing to the assemblage of rakes and rogues that she was in fact Lady Frederica Isling, daughter to the Duke of Westlake. And as tempting as facilitating her own ruination was, it would also put an end to her aspirations of finishing her novel.
For she could not finish The Silent Baron if she was not able to properly conduct her research. Veracity required firsthand knowledge.
But as Mr. Kirkwood propelled her over the threshold and into his private domain, she could not help but shiver. He released her, slanting a searching look in her direction, and closed the door, muffling the sounds of the den of vice he ruled.
She blinked, wishing she had not chosen to wear the dratted spectacles, for they forced her to peer over them if she wanted to see anything. The writer within her instantly flared with excitement. The chamber was paneled in dark wood, lit by mirrored gilt sconces crowned with lions and acanthus.
Tapers flickered, half spent. A sturdy, elaborately carved desk dominated one end of the chamber. The chair behind it was as large as a throne, depicting Hades and Persephone. The carpets were red, thick, and plush beneath her feet. The entire chamber possessed an unexpected aura of refinement. Until…
A glance at the ceiling made her gasp. Lewd and lascivious murals abounded. Nymphs cavorting. Females kissing each other. Naked breasts and bottoms. A man’s long, erect…
Oh, dear Lord in heaven.
She lowered her gaze, cheeks hot, to find Mr. Kirkwood standing disturbingly near, watching her once more. She wet her lips. His office was the personification of sin. Her heart thudded. When she had dreamt up this mad scheme with Leonora, she had never imagined she would even be noticed at The Duke’s Bastard. She had never imagined she would find herself alone in a chamber rife with licentious illustrations, the club’s notorious, disturbingly handsome owner bearing down on her.
“Have a second look,” Mr. Kirkwood invited, grinning. “The first was far too cursory.”
Her face flamed hotter. He had taken note of her perusal, and her shock entertained him. The man was depraved.
She cleared her throat, forcing her voice to unnaturally low octaves once more, for it was essential she maintain her disguise. “I do not think I shall, sir. Please, what is it you wish of me? I have already tarried here far too long as it is. My ailing mother requires me.”
He had seen through her fictions. But that did not mean she was ready to surrender or admit to subterfuge. If she did not have her deceptions to cling to, she had nothing at all. For then, she was just a disgraced lady standing before the most libidinous gaming hell owner in town, with no defenses, no more excuses, and no hope of escaping this scrape with her reputation intact.
If you wish it to be intact, taunted that awful, unwanted voice.
The truth was murky. And conflicted. Ruination remained a tempting sin she had not yet entirely ruled out.
“For shame, my lord.” Mr. Kirkwood cocked his head and raised his brow. “You cannot still be clinging to your lies, can you?”
“I told you no lies, sir,” she denied, for she did not like to think of her fictions as lies. Rather, they were embellishments. No different than the worlds she created with her quill, ink, and paper, except they had been spoken aloud. They had been spoken to him, and with an aim to save herself from his unwanted scrutiny.
It would seem she had failed abysmally on that score.
“Truly, my lord?” Mr. Kirkwood flashed her a grin that transformed his features from strikingly handsome to breathtaking.
It was an odd thing for a man to be so beautiful, but there was no other way to describe him. Gazing upon the full effect of him now, she could not seem to find her voice. Especially since his hot gaze had once more dipped to her breasts, as though he could see the fullness of them carefully hidden beneath the trappings of civility.
Frederica blinked. Oh dear. What had he asked of her? One gaze into the brilliant depths of his eyes—one perusal of his full, sensual lips—and her mind was as muddled as the pages of an unbound book that had been thrown aloft. Slowly drifting to earth, but no longer in the order it had once been.
No longer the same.
Thoroughly jumbled.
She had to leave. That was the answer to this madness, this impossible conundrum facing her. She spun on her heel, desperate to flee the chamber and run from Duncan Kirkwood, his club, and the improper sensations he elicited in her all at once.
A hand gripped her elbow. Superior strength stayed her and twirled her about. The quick, forceful motions took her by surprise. F
rederica lost her balance and toppled forward.
Into Mr. Kirkwood’s chest.
Her splayed palms connected with his midnight superfine coat, absorbing the firm strength hidden beneath the layers of wool and linen. Her heart thudded. A queer sensation settled between her thighs. Frederica had never touched a gentleman so intimately before, and Mr. Kirkwood—well, he was surely not a gentleman. But he was of the male persuasion. And he was delightfully broad, large, and firm. Beneath her tentative hands, he was warm. He was…
“Are you feverish, my lord?” Mr. Kirkwood’s deep voice, sinfully amused, interrupted her wild musings.
“Perhaps I may have a touch of my mother’s ague.” She swallowed, the precise name she’d given for the illness disappearing from her mind, along with most other coherent thought.
Her hands, meanwhile, required no independent guidance. She was intrigued, and she could not help herself from indulging. She could not deny herself the details she sought.
This, too, was the reason why she had taken the great risk of infiltrating his club—for research purposes. How could she write The Silent Baron with any degree of accuracy if she possessed no knowledge well from which to draw?
She could have guessed a man’s form was firmer than her own, for instance. But she could not have known how defined and hard his muscled torso felt beneath her questing fingers. She could not have experienced the steady beat of his heart, or inhaled his delicious masculine scent of lemon, musk, and amber. She could not have noticed the tiny flecks of green in his blue eyes, or the faint brackets alongside his full lips that suggested an inclination to smile and laugh often. She would not have noted the glint of candlelight in his golden locks, which were longer than fashion and tousled.
Her liberties were unprecedented and egregious, as was being alone with him in his office, nary a chaperon to be found. In his inner sanctum at the midst of a den of iniquity. Her hands, however, had a mind of their own, traveling beneath his cutaway to his waistcoat.
What was she thinking, mauling Duncan Kirkwood’s chest? How shocking. The trouble of it was, now she had begun, she could not seem to stop. Surely it was her curiosity propelling her. Surely it was not that she…enjoyed the illicit pleasure of stroking a strange gentleman’s chest. Specifically, of stroking the chest belonging to one of London’s most notorious men.
Nay.
He touched her forehead. Pressed the backs of his fingers to her skin for a brief moment, and the contact resonated in her core. “You do not feel feverish to me,” Mr. Kirkwood said then, interrupting the heavy silence that had fallen between them. “Do you, my lord, perchance possess a fondness for testing the quality of a man’s waistcoat with your hands?”
She swallowed again. Caught. How had she forgotten she was masquerading as a gentleman? She snatched her hands away from him at last, flushing. The sensation of his lean abdomen seemed imprinted upon her palms.
“No.” She blinked. “Er, yes.”
His lips quirked into a smile she could only describe as swoon-inducing. “Which is it, my lord? Yes or no?”
Neither. Frederica calculated the odds of successfully fleeing the chamber once more. Perhaps if she distracted him first, or if she was somehow able to douse the flames of the wall sconces, she could detain him long enough to make good her retreat. Or better yet, perhaps she could convince him she was ill.
“Forgive me my familiarity,” she said, taking care to keep her voice as gruff as possible. “I seem to have lost my balance. No doubt I have contracted the ague as well. For my dear mother, it began with her falling into things—just the furniture at first, mind you. Chairs. A Louis Quatorze table. Then one day, she fell atop the Duchess of Blackwater during an at home, and it was the beginning of the end. The duchess gave my mother the cut direct after that occasion. Indeed, I fear it will not be long now before death claims me as well. I ought not to be near you, sir, lest the ague be catching.”
If Mr. Kirkwood did not allow her to leave after this embellishment, she knew not what would sway him.
His gaze seemed to burn into her. “This duchess…was she a friend of your mother’s?”
“The Duchess of Greywater,” she clarified, nodding. “Yes, of course. She and my mother were dear friends. No longer, I am afraid, and it is just as well, truly, for my mother could have infected her with the ague otherwise. I really ought to be on my way, sir. Not only does my mother require me, but I could make you ill. I would never wish for the ague to settle its curse upon you.”
“Greywater or Blackwater?” he snapped.
Frederica did not follow him for a moment. Perhaps because she had been rather preoccupied by watching his mouth. His lips were so firm and supple, the loveliest shade she had ever seen on a gentleman, dusky pink, full and so well-defined. Too pretty, almost, for a man’s mouth. The effect was startling and breathtaking all at once.
“I am afraid I do not understand, sir.”
And she didn’t. It was as if he spoke in riddles.
“The duchess your supposed mama fell atop,” he elaborated, his jaw hardening and his tone deepening, resonating with anger. “Upon first reference, you called her the Duchess of Blackwater. Thereafter, you referred to her as the Duchess of Greywater. The same woman cannot be both, can she?”
Oh, how dreadful this is. The longer she remained, the more of herself she gave away. Mr. Kirkwood seemed taller in that moment. More menacing. Perhaps it was his steadfast devotion to colorlessness—his entire wardrobe was midnight black, even his cravat, and she noted for the first time the ring he wore, emblazoned with a skull.
She had never seen another man as compelling in his singular appearance—or as frightening. “I misspoke,” she forced herself to say. “Do forgive me the error. It is the Duchess of Blackwater, of course.”
Frederica could only hope he was not knowledgeable enough to recognize her blatant falsehood, for there was no extant Duchess of Blackwater. How could her simple foray into The Duke’s Bastard have gone so miserably astray? When she and her friend and fellow wallflower Lady Leonora Forsythe had first settled upon the notion of infiltrating the gaming hell in disguise, neither of them had bargained for the madness unfolding now.
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
Too smoothly.
His expression shifted, taking on a predatory harshness. He moved forward, crowding her with his tall, broad body. She forgot to breathe.
“Tell me something, will you not?” he asked before she could garner a response.
She had retreated half a dozen paces, and with the last, her back met plaster. Her shoulder grazed a painting, sending it listing to the left. Her heart thumped. Her palms were sweaty. Misgiving blossomed inside her like a triumphant summer rose.
“What is it you wish to know, sir?” she asked as his eyes burned into hers. There was nowhere else for her to go, and pinned beneath his gaze, there was nowhere else she wished to be, anyhow.
“Your name.”
How dull. She could not stave off the wave of disappointment crashing down upon her. Ninny! She scolded herself. What did you think? That he would ask for your hand in marriage when you are posing as a gentleman?
There was the reminder she needed.
She straightened her shoulders, her gaze never wavering from his. “I am the Marquess of Blanden.”
“Blanden?” he repeated the name she had given him—her brother’s courtesy title, of course—his countenance shifting once more. Turning pensive. “Your father is the Duke of Westlake?”
She did not flinch, for her response to this question, at least, was true. “Yes, he is.”
“Bloody sodding hell,” he said lowly, his eyes scouring her.
It was decidedly not the response she had anticipated.
Chapter Two
Her name was Lady Frederica Isling.
And he wanted to devour her.
She was not a gentleman, thank Christ. Nor was she the Marquess of Blanden—also thank Christ, for the Marquess o
f Blanden was as interesting as a twig. Though she certainly did resemble him, from her raven-wing hair peeping beneath her hat to her wide green cat’s eyes. Nay, unless Duncan was wrong, she was Blanden’s sister.
It was his business to know every facet of the lives of the quality. He knew their sires, their friends, their sisters, and their mistresses, knew their debts and their properties and gambling habits. Knew their bedchamber preferences, knew which men were drunkards and which never drank a drop. He almost knew to a man how many times a day they pissed.
Which was why he knew the Marquess of Blanden possessed one near spinster sister his sire was attempting to marry off. Which, in turn, meant her appearance in his club, dressed as a gentleman, in direct opposition to all decency and propriety, was providential.
Lady Frederica was everything he required. The final ingredient necessary for vengeance upon the Duke of Amberly, a man who shared his blood but not his name. His plot could unfold according to plan thanks to the inquisitive and brash nature of one small, determined female.
And here she stood, defiant yet wary, giving herself away. She smelled of violets. Her hips were full and delicious. How he had ever mistaken her for a man—even for a moment—baffled Duncan as he looked at her now. Little wonder he had been attracted to her arse first. She was curved in all the proper places, and just thinking about her was enough to make him go rigid. He longed to pleasure her until she lost herself and her starch both.
But he could not devour her, for she was an innocent, and he was a bad man. A man she ought not to know. A man who had uses for her she could not possibly fathom.
He reined himself in. Forced himself to meet her bright, inquisitive gaze. He could gain what he wanted without debauching her. Without ruining her. She worried her lush lower lip with her teeth, biting it for just a moment as her wide eyes scanned the chamber, seemingly for a means of escape. She was a dichotomy of purity and sin—pale, creamy skin, delicious femininity, light and darkness, her hair black as a starless, midnight sky. As he studied her, all his good intentions fled, as insubstantial as unsown seeds blown away and scattered in the wind.
Prince of Persuasion Page 2
