Duncan Kirkwood kissed me. I kissed him back. He tastes like cocoa, and his hair is softer than a fine silk. His shoulders are every bit as hard as they appear. His hands on my breasts…
No.
She had to stay the wildness he had created within her. She watched as Mr. Kirkwood smoothed his coat and stalked toward the door, jerking it open without sparing her a backward glance. His words echoed in her mind, joining the tumult. Forbidden fruit always tastes best.
Was that what she presented to him? A challenge? The unobtainable? Perhaps he kissed every female of his acquaintance with such fiery dedication. After all, the man did employ harlots. He did have viewing slots dedicated for the pleasure of patrons who preferred to observe the depravities unfolding within his den of vice. He had created the perfect dwelling of sin at The Duke’s Bastard—gambling, drinking, and worse. What sort of man was he?
Precisely who was the man she had just asked for a kiss? The man who had left her shaken and confused, questioning herself and everything she knew to be true? Right from wrong, honor versus ruin, freedom or safety, recklessness and care.
The interior of Mr. Kirkwood’s office backlit the gentleman at the door, bathing his face in shadows. Frederica did her best to feign disinterest and act the part of a gentleman as she felt the fellow’s gaze settle upon her for the briefest of moments before discreetly flicking away.
“Didn’t realize you were otherwise engaged, sir,” the man murmured. “My apologies.”
Mr. Kirkwood flicked a glance at her over his shoulder, his brow furrowed, before turning back to his staff member. “His lordship is new to the viewing hall. I was merely providing him an introductory lesson in the art of pleasure.”
Dear Lord, the manner in which the word pleasure rolled off his tongue, smoother than fresh cream, made her flush and wish for more such lessons at the same time. She ought to be appalled at herself, and part of her was.
But the other part of her—the part of her that longed for freedom and the pursuit of her own dreams—reveled in every second of what had occurred this evening. That part of her wanted more. And more. And then some more afterward.
“What the hell do you require, Hazlitt?” Mr. Kirkwood bit out, an edge of irritation blunting his tone.
He did not appreciate the disruption.
Good, then. Neither did she.
“Forgive me, sir. I would not ordinarily seek you out, but I am afraid there is a delicate matter underway. Lord Greaves has returned Monsieur Levoisier’s dinner on no less than three occasions, claiming it is unworthy. Tonight, Monsieur lost his patience and he is, er, offering Lord Greaves his opinion. His distinct and unfettered opinion.”
“I will attend the matter.” Mr. Kirkwood sighed, passing a hand through the thick golden strands atop his head. He cast her a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “Remain where you are, enjoying the view, if you please, my lord. I shall return forthwith.”
Naturally, since he did not wish her to accompany him, there was nothing she wanted to do more. How fascinating—the chef of a gentleman’s club verbally assaulting one of the patrons. As discomfited as she still felt after Mr. Kirkwood had kissed her, her mind was ever spinning stories.
Here was an opportunity to witness a club’s workings firsthand—its patrons, its staff, a conflict. Frederica could not ask for more. If she was not able to remain cloistered away in the hall, exchanging kisses with Mr. Kirkwood, she would happily accept the second-best fate in the name of her novel.
She cleared her throat. “I find I am famished, Mr. Kirkwood. I shall accompany you and have my supper whilst we are about it. Killing two birds with the proverbial stone, as it were?”
He glanced back at her, his expression startled for the briefest of instants before his mask of control once more settled into place. “Please, my lord. I insist you remain here until I return.”
He insisted, did he?
All the more reason for her to ignore him. She flattened a hand to her midsection and rocked back on her heels as she had seen her father do on numerous occasions. “I fear I find myself ravenous, Mr. Kirkwood. I require sustenance before aught else. Do you care to lead the way?”
Mr. Kirkwood’s gaze narrowed upon her. “Be that as it may, my lord, I am afraid I must suggest you remain here whilst I arrange a tray to be sent to you. That way, you can assuage any hunger you are currently suffering from.”
Any hunger you are currently suffering from.
Had he intended the secret meaning to his words? Her gaze studied him, melding with his for a brief moment. It was a moment where their connection became so visceral and undeniable, she could not catch her breath.
But she had to. Inhale. Exhale. Calm thyself.
“No tray will be necessary.” She sent him her sweetest smile, swinging her gaze to the befuddled manservant who awaited Mr. Kirkwood’s response at the threshold separating the office from the den of iniquity. “I shall dine alongside everyone else.”
“That would not be—”
“Mr. Kirkwood, I am afraid—”
“I wish to gamble,” she announced, seizing upon the idea. With an audience, she was certain she could manage to convince Mr. Kirkwood to join her in any endeavor. “If you will not feed me, then perhaps you will lead me to the hazard table?”
“No.” His answer was clipped. Dripping with an air of finality.
She raised a brow, both inwardly and outwardly. “I do beg your pardon. No?”
“No,” he confirmed darkly before seeming to recall their audience. “That is to say, perhaps I shall escort you there if I’ve the time. Remain here and I will return.”
How clever he must think himself. But she would not be denied this opportunity.
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “My use for this hall is decidedly at an end.”
He pinned her with a glare. “Is that so, my lord?”
“Yes, it is,” she challenged right back. “Mr. Kirkwood.”
“Sir?” the servant intervened, his expression as anxious as his tone. “I am afraid Monsieur may create a stir if he is allowed to continue unchecked.”
Another foul epithet emerged from Mr. Kirkwood. He bowed his head. Looked from his manservant to Frederica, and then back. “Very well. Lead the way, Hazlitt. My lord, do as you wish until I can rejoin you.”
Do as you wish.
“Yes.” She beamed at him, a new sense of excitement bubbling up within her. “I shall.”
He muttered something beneath his breath as they retreated from the hall, and she swore it sounded like that is what I fear.
Naturally, she ignored it. She would make the most of her time within the walls of his club. After all, her writing was her first and only love. There was not room for scornful owners of gentleman’s clubs. No room at all.
Chapter Seven
The minx was going to borrow trouble, and he knew it. His mind should have been concerned with the possibility his chef was on the cusp of alienating an earl with deep pockets and a penchant for gambling poorly. Ordinarily, he would be calculating how much he earned from Lord Greaves’ gambling losses and endless hunger for quim in a year and measuring it against Monsieur Levoisier’s wages per annum, calculating how much of an attraction the proclaimed French was for his patronage, estimating the cost of procuring another, equally refined chef to keep his patrons well fed and sated. Balancing cost and reward, weighing the outcomes.
His mind adored facts. Ledgers gave him an odd sense of peace—numbers were familiar and comforting, and watching them add and grow without subtracting had long ago become a favored pastime. To a lad who had grown up picking pockets for coin and spending many a night with an empty belly, those growing figures represented the unattainable—stability. Happiness.
Raised voices reached him as he approached the dining room, and he winced, reminding himself he had matters of far greater import requiring his attention. Lady Frederica Isling could remain where he had damn well told her to remain, or he would bar her from further ent
rance to his club. Indeed, he ought to bar her altogether after her foolish request and his equally witless acceptance of the gauntlet she’d thrown.
Why had he kissed her? When could he do it again?
Beelzebub’s banyan.
“The soup bloody well requires salt.” The agitated proclamation of Lord Greaves echoed through the dining hall as Duncan crossed the threshold.
Monsieur’s face was flushed, his lip curled. The man was as volatile as he was gifted, but Duncan employed him for his culinary brilliance and not for his Gallic temper. He strode forward, Hazlitt at his heels, intent upon dousing this rather unwanted, ill-timed fire.
He had to thrust all thoughts of one midnight-haired lady from his mind.
“The soup is parfait, my lord,” Levoisier spat. “Adding salt is inconcevable. The great masters, do you think they added more paint to their canvas, ruining it with too much pigment? Non. They knew perfection. Alors, you must admit too much of une bonne chose destroys that which is déjà—”
“Monsieur Levoisier,” Duncan greeted in a calm interruption. He knew from experience that the more the chef reverted to his native tongue, the angrier he had become. The worse his outrage. The more astringent his venom. “I have a special request for you that must be addressed, if you please.”
The chef blinked owlishly, distracted from his rage. “Monsieur Kirkwood.” He bowed. “Good evening, sir.”
Duncan bowed in turn to Lord Greaves, whose jaw was on edge. The earl was a young fop with the sort of classical features that made ladies swoon. He knew so because several of his lady consorts—bored society wives, all—had remarked upon his rakish allure. To Duncan, the fellow was a purse with hair that needed trimming and an ego that needed clubbing.
But the businessman in him would never attend to said clubbing. “My lord, please accept my sincere apologies for any deficiency in your soup course. If you think it requires salt, I am certain Monsieur Levoisier shall be more than happy to remedy the oversight.”
The chef made a choking sound.
“The soup is bland,” said the earl in a dismissive, cutting tone. His nostrils flared.
“Indeed, my lord,” Duncan soothed. “Monsieur shall add salt as you recommend and return a fresh bowl to you forthwith.”
“It is not mere soup,” argued the chef, his ears going scarlet. “It is bisque of crayfish à l’ancienne. It needs no salt to the discerning palate.”
Duncan gritted his teeth. “A correction will be made, my lord.”
The earl raised a supercilious brow. “Excellent, Mr. Kirkwood. I knew I could rely upon your sound sense of reason in this matter.”
The chef began to speak.
“A special request,” Duncan reminded Levoisier. “From an esteemed guest to the establishment.”
The Frenchman’s eyes rounded, and Duncan knew he supposed he was referring to Prinny, and while the Prince Regent had honored The Duke’s Bastard with his royal presence on numerous occasions, this was decidedly not one of them. Duncan felt not a speck of compunction at deliberately misleading the chef, however.
The cost of the fellow’s pride was not worth the loss to Duncan’s coffers should the Earl of Greaves choose to eschew his club after a rift with an overzealous French chef. He turned to address his man. “Hazlitt, you will see to the correction of his lordship’s soup course, I trust?”
“Of course, Mr. Kirkwood.” Hazlitt swept forward, retrieving the earl’s bowl of soup and placing it upon a salver.
Hazlitt was more than capable of soothing ruffled feathers. As Duncan’s right hand man, the unwanted task often fell to him, and he always handled it with aplomb. Like Duncan, Hazlitt had been born into the stews. He had come from nothing, and had fashioned himself into something. He was loyal, trustworthy, and capable.
With another bow to the earl and a pointed look at his chef that brooked no opposition, Duncan excused himself and his employee. When they exited the dining hall, Duncan turned to the Frenchman.
“I require a supper in my private office,” he announced, even though he knew it was folly. “For two. Your finest effort would be appreciated.”
Lavoisier nodded. “For you and your esteemed guest, sir?”
Esteemed guest.
He supposed one could call her that.
Or problem.
Minx.
Mayhem.
His downfall.
Yes, any of those would do.
But best to settle upon the former rather than any of the latter for the moment. He inclined his head. “Indeed, Monsieur. Add a pinch of salt to the earl’s bowl and then send your finest to me within the hour. I shall be waiting.”
*
“What do you prefer, my lord?”
Frederica blinked at the lovely, flaxen-haired woman before her and did her best to subdue her inherent jerk when her companion’s small, dainty hand landed upon Frederica’s thigh. “Ahem.” She pretended to clear her throat, her mind whirling, searching for diversion tactics. “I do enjoy reading. What do you prefer, miss…”
Her companion giggled, natural color appearing in her round cheeks, heightening the pigment she had already applied there with her own hand. “You may call me Tabitha, if it pleases you, my lord. I was not speaking of something as decidedly boring as reading. I rather had something else in mind.”
She frowned at Tabitha, wishing she was not so willowy of form and fair of hair. So lovely. This woman worked for Mr. Kirkwood. In his club. She did…unsavory, unspeakable things. A twinge of something she refused to call envy cut through her.
Frederica belatedly realized Tabitha was looking at her expectantly, running a tongue along one lower lip that seemed unnaturally red. She frowned. Was the woman hungry? Perhaps she had been inquiring after the sort of fare Frederica desired to eat.
She blinked, remembering to keep her voice suitably gruff. “I do like young rabbits, though I suppose that isn’t the thing.”
Tabitha’s lips parted. “Young rabbits, my lord? How tender must they be?”
Foolish question from a tiresome woman. Frederica was growing weary of her company as it distracted her from her opportunity for unfettered observation. Why would she not simply go away?
She frowned. “Does anyone truly like meat that is old, tough, and dry?”
Surely that subtle chastisement would deter the woman from additional questions.
But Tabitha leaned closer, her scent tickling Frederica’s nose, her golden curls, partially unbound and brushing against Frederica’s shoulder. “What else do you like, my lord? Perhaps I can accommodate you. I may not be young, but I am not yet old.”
Did she intend to cook Frederica a meal? This made no sense. Frederica had only just witnessed Mr. Kirkwood’s man urging him to soothe the chef’s irritation. Tabitha did not resemble a cook at all. “Oysters are tolerable as well if in patties à la Française.”
“How wicked of you, my lord.” Tabitha tittered, draping herself on the arm of Frederica’s chair.
Good heavens, what was wicked about such a commonplace dish? Why did the creature insist upon crowding her so? She cast a glance about the sumptuous chamber, searching for a glimpse of a tall, blond gentleman before she realized what she was about.
Her frown deepened. “Wicked?”
Did Tabitha lack intelligence? Frederica felt unaccountably itchy in her brother’s pilfered shirt and coat. For a moment, she longed for the comfort of her chamber, her books, her quill and ink and papers, the writing desk she loved. But then she forced herself to recall this was one of her final opportunities to investigate Mr. Kirkwood’s club.
After this evening, she had only two visits remaining. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the disappointment surging through her at the realization.
“Very wicked.” Tabitha’s warm breath and warmer lips grazed Frederica’s ear, startling her.
She swallowed. This was rather untenable. The other woman’s hand landed on her thigh, stroking over her borrowed breeches. Stiffening
, she thrust the hand away in haste, ignoring her companion’s disapproval. Blast. Despite her best intentions, she’d managed to find herself in a situation.
She had wandered from Mr. Kirkwood’s office in the wake of his abrupt departure, partially to irritate him and partially to answer her own curiosity. After all, she had research to conduct. He had closeted her away inside his office and hidden corridor, and she had yet to further experience the bustling atmosphere of the club. She required more time on the floor, mingling, overhearing snippets of conversation, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells.
Her innocuous observations of the gentlemen gathered to indulge their vices had been going precisely according to plan. No one had even paid her any heed. Until she had been pulled aside by Tabitha, that was, who seemed intent upon the mauling of Frederica’s person. Was this what gentlemen preferred, to be boldly pawed at by tittering females garbed in dampened dresses with their bosoms on garish display? Little wonder Frederica was still unmarried.
Her brows snapped together and she fixed Tabitha with a fierce, disapproving frown. “I do think I find myself famished, Tabitha.”
But her words seemed to have the opposite effect of her intent, for Tabitha’s errant hand returned, nearly grazing the apex of Frederica’s thighs in search of Lord knew not what. Frederica bolted from the chair, in her haste, knocking into Tabitha, who nearly tumbled to the floor. Alarmed and sensing she was well out of her depths—fearing discovery or worse, more overtures from the persistent female—Frederica spun on her heel, prepared to bolt.
And promptly slammed into a male chest.
Hands steadied her. The familiar scent of musk and its accompanying notes enveloped her. She looked up into the eyes of Mr. Duncan Kirkwood. Her hands settled on his biceps, and not without noting how firm and strong they were. How they flexed and tightened beneath her touch. That brilliant gaze of his glittered with a combination of promise, menace, and something else…
Remembrance.
She could not help but look at his finely molded lips then, recalling how they had felt against hers—firm, hot, coaxing, and knowing, gentle yet devouring all at once. Her ears went hot at the reminder of his bold kisses, her response.
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