Her lips compressed, and she was silent for a beat before giving a jerky nod. “Very well. I promise.”
Thank Christ.
A tiny measure of the disquiet inside him abated. “Excellent. Now come with me, if you please.”
That particular battle won, he stalked away from her, knowing she would follow. Trusting it the same way he trusted each new breath would rise and fall, filling his lungs, giving him life. The same way she did. He could not deny it. All the darkness in him had vanished the moment his eyes had lit upon her form. She was there after all, and though he fully intended to reprimand her for not arriving safely using his appointed carriage, he could not deny the delight—the sense of rightness—bubbling forth within him.
Through the din of drunken revelers they went. He did not stop until he burst inside his office, throwing the door wide and stalking inside. When he spun on his heel, she was there as he knew she would be, her countenance hesitant. Her eyes searching his. She closed the door behind her.
Wise lady.
He stalked toward her, unable to resist. Bloody hell, but he was in a frenzy. He did not stop until she was within reach, though he did not touch her. “Where were you?”
Duncan did not intend for his question to reverberate like a demand, but it did, snapping and humming in the air around them. He waited for her answer. For her excuse, certain nothing would be sufficient.
“My brother escorted me to a ball,” she said solemnly. “At the behest of the man who wishes to make me his wife, it would seem. I had no choice but to attend.”
The need to commit violence rose inside him, stark and strong and undeniable. His hands clenched into fists at his side. The reminder that she was not his, and that she would one day soon become another man’s, killed him. It hit him in a vulnerable part of himself he had not even been aware existed. He closed his eyes, counting inwardly to ten, willing his anger and resentment to abate.
To twenty when it did not.
Then to thirty after that.
Fifty.
One hundred.
Fuck.
“Did he touch you?” he growled.
It was not what he intended to say. Not what he meant to ask. Indeed, even if the bastard had touched her, it was none of Duncan’s business. He could do nothing, say nothing about it. Of course she would wed another man, and it was well beyond his control.
What would she do?
Marry Duncan Kirkwood, the bastard son of a duke, gaming hell owner, man who had never given a bloody damn about the rules by which she had lived her life? Laughable, for he did not wish to marry anyone.
Did he?
The notion did not disturb him nearly as much as it ought. Indeed, it had rather a different effect entirely when he joined marriage and Lady Frederica in the same sentence. When he thought of making her his. Forever. Was it the idea of possession that thrilled him, or was it binding himself to Lady Frederica?
“No,” she said softly. “He did not touch me. Not as before. There was not opportunity, and I made certain he did not take one. We danced. He fetched me lemonade.”
Her words did nothing to ameliorate the warring emotions inside him. He did not want any other man to touch her. Ever. And she had indicated the suitor had forced unwanted attentions upon her previously. That thought set his teeth on edge.
He wanted her to be his.
Alone.
It was a hell of a development. One he did not know precisely what he could do with just yet. One he could not act upon. Not now, and likely not ever. For to do so would be nothing less than sheer folly. Would it not? Of course it would. She was the means by which he could at long last watch the bastard who had sired him pay for all his sins.
Every last one. Especially the sins against Duncan’s mother. He would exact extra penance for those when the time came.
The breath he had not realized he had been holding hissed from him. “This is your last evening here at my club.” He said it because he needed to hear it. Needed to acknowledge it. Perhaps in so doing, he could convince himself never seeing her again was best for him. Best for the both of them.
“Yes, it will be the last,” she agreed quietly. “My father returns tomorrow, and I expect my betrothal will be announced soon. I must thank you for your kindness in allowing my trespass here at your establishment.”
Her affirmation somehow set him on edge even more than he already had been. He did not want it to be the last, damn it all to hell. Nor did he like the detached manner in which she spoke, as if they had never kissed. As if he had never tasted her.
“Kindness,” he repeated, his lip curling, thinking of what he must do, how he would betray her to gain what he wanted. “I am not a kind man, Lady Frederica. I would think you wise enough to recognize greed when you see it.”
Show her the floor, urged a voice inside him. Allow her to roam for the evening and complete her research. She is the key to everything you have ever wanted. See her father upon his return and gain your revenge at last.
He knew he ought to heed the voice, but what if she was the key to everything he had ever wanted in more ways than just one? What if he could have his vengeance and her both? The question was too dangerous to entertain, too fraught with implications he did not dare to examine.
She stared at him with her fathomless gaze, seeing him in a way no other before her ever had. “I do not think you are greedy at all, Duncan. Nor do I think you unkind.”
She would change her mind if she knew he was using her to gain what he wanted. If she knew she was his pawn. If she ever learned the truth, she would hate him. Her every memory of his touch and his kiss—the passion he had awakened within her—would burn and fade into ash.
But he did not want to think of that now, because she was wrong about him. He was greedy when it came to her. She had called him Duncan, and she was staring at him as if she longed for him every bit as much as he did her. It was an ache in his loins, a fire in his veins, like the waters of a river flowing, leading him inevitably forward.
“If I was kind, I would not do this.” He closed the distance between them, framed her lovely, pale face in his hands, and lowered his mouth to hers.
She opened for him with a sweet sigh, her lips moving against his in a wild, untutored hunger that only made him want her more. His mind could only comprehend small, violent bursts as a rush of pure need washed over him. Violets. Warmth. The tart bite of the lemonade she had consumed earlier. His tongue against hers. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, wishing he could consume her.
The kiss deepened. They were moving backward as one, his hands still on her hot, smooth skin, their mouths never parting. Toward his desk. Tongues dueling. Breaths intermingling. Desperation lit like a flame. Shame burned him. This was wrong. He was wrong for her, and he knew it. Kissing her was wrong. Wanting her was wrong.
But he couldn’t stop because she was the sun, the moon, and all the glittering stars in the blanket of the night sky at once. Fierce, brilliant, glorious. No other woman before her could compare, and he knew instinctively no woman after her would either.
Her fingers were in his hair. Her delectable arse met with the edge of his desk, and it was the night before all over again. Unlike last night’s frenzied lovemaking, however, tonight he wanted to savor. If it was indeed his last night with her, he would not act with haste.
He kissed her. And kissed her. Their lips melded perfectly. Kissed until his lips bruised hers. Licked into her mouth like he was delving inside her perfect, untouched cunny with his cock.
Everything in him screamed to take her, then and there. To sink home inside her, and allow their bodies to make the decision for them. But he could not. He tore his mouth from hers, knowing he would end it here this evening. Knowing he must, for both their sakes.
He stared down at her, breathing harshly, absurdly pleased by the contrast of her masculine hat, bound hair, and gentleman’s dress to her full, kiss-swollen lips, dazed eyes, and feminine beauty. “Tell me
I am benevolent and without avarice now, my lady.”
She stared at him, silence deepening between them, as she slid her gloved hands from his hair, caressing his face, cupping his jaw. “You are a good man, Duncan Kirkwood. This I know.”
Her faith in him made his chest swell. But she was wrong. He shook his head. “I am not.”
She would learn soon enough who he truly was. A man without compunction. A man who cared for no one else. A man whose goodness had died the day he had seen his mother’s lifeless corpse on the floor when he was but a lad. A man who had seen and endured far too much of the world to ever be worthy of her wide-eyed worship.
“We shall disagree, then,” she said softly.
Damnation. Here she was, his Persephone. And he wanted to keep her, in his dark underworld, at his side. Forever. Something inside him broke open. Jagged shards rained. He was awash in her. In the way she saw him. In the man he saw reflected in her eyes.
But it was not meant to be.
“We shall disagree,” he repeated, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her lips before releasing her and disentangling himself from her touch. “This is your last visit here. Tell me, my lady, what aspect of the club would you like to research for your novel?”
Her gaze followed him as he put some distance between them, glittering. “I want to see the scarlet chamber.”
Beelzebub’s ballocks.
Chapter Ten
In silence, Duncan led her to the chamber where such shocking depravities had occurred the first night she had visited his club. It was not in use for the moment, meaning she could wander through its sumptuous appointments, taking notes as she wished whilst Duncan looked on.
Bereft of its lewd occupants, the space seemed somehow less wicked. Indeed, it was almost as proper as any drawing room, with the exception of the dark crimson wall coverings, immense bed, and shocking pictures depicting nude men and women cavorting. One caught her attention for its ribald subject matter, a woman on her knees before a man, his member in her mouth.
Gasping, she glanced back to find Duncan watching her. His brilliant gaze upon her felt like a caress. In his eyes, she saw the same need that had not stopped burning inside her from the moment he had first set his lips to hers. Each moment she spent in his presence, each kiss, each touch, stoked the fire until it could not be banked.
She was an inferno.
Just yesterday, he had laid his tongue upon her. He had licked her most intimate flesh, had brought her to throbbing release with nothing more than his mouth. The picture and the memory of him pleasuring her made a steady ache throb to life between her thighs. Would it be the same for him if she took him in her mouth?
She wanted to ask, but she dared not give voice to the forbidden words. Cheeks stinging, she turned away from him at last, walking about the chamber and taking notes she knew she would never use later. The research she was currently conducting was not for The Silent Baron, for she could never relate such scandalous details and hope for publication.
No, indeed. This research was for her.
She noted an assortment of riding crops and whips laid out on a table, varying in length and thickness. Puzzled, she turned back to Duncan once more, only to find he had followed her and stood near enough for her to close the distance between them with a single step. His jaw was rigid, his large body radiating tension.
“What is the purpose of these?” she asked.
He shook his head in slow denial, his gaze continuing to burn hotly into hers. “Such detail should not be included in your novel, my lady. It would be beyond the pale.”
It was a fine time for him to draw a line between the depravities he would teach her about and those he would not, and she was having none of it. “Tell me.”
“Some prefer pain with their pleasure.” Though his tone was soft and low—gentle, almost—it possessed an undercurrent of darkness.
Pain with their pleasure. Shock flared as understanding dawned. The men and women who made use of the pleasure chambers at The Duke’s Bastard reveled in all manner of debaucheries, and apparently taking riding crops and whips to each other was yet one more.
She swallowed against a surge of something inside her, part revulsion, part curiosity. “Do you?”
He did not respond immediately, holding her in the potent thrall of his stare. “I enjoy giving pleasure,” he said at last. “Like gambling, it is something I excel at.”
Yes, he did, and she could attest to that. His words were neither a denial nor an admission, however, and they sent a shiver through her. She wondered how many other women he had pleasured. Did he kiss them all the way he kissed her, as if he was ravenous for her taste on his lips? The heat inside her suddenly cooled. She turned away, putting some distance between them once more.
“I see, Mr. Kirkwood,” she managed to say, gratified when her tone did not waver or reveal even a hint of her distress.
How foolish of her to think, even for a moment, that what they shared was special. For her to think he may have some tender feelings for her just because her heart seemed to swell two times its normal size whenever she thought of him. An icy tendril of despair crept up inside her as she thought of the longing she felt for him.
It was their last evening together.
The final hours in each other’s presence.
If only that hard truth did not make her want to weep.
She continued her exploration of the chamber, but the thrill of discovering that which should forever remain a secret from her had abated. In its place was a morose combination of jealousy and futility.
“My lady.”
His voice was near. Too near. She spun about, clenching her pencil and notebook. “Mr. Kirkwood?” She raised a questioning brow, aware of the awkward formality that had fallen between them.
She wished she had never asked to come to this chamber, for now that she was within, she felt as if she had opened Pandora’s box. I will never see him again, she thought, and I have ruined our final kisses. If only she had fled on that memory, something to which she could cling.
“I have never made use of this chamber, my lady,” he told her quietly.
Her heavy heart lightened instantly at the revelation. But she was embarrassed he had sensed her question. She had no claim on him. She had not yet known him for a full sennight, and this was to be the end of their association. “It is not my concern whether or not you have, sir.”
“I tell you freely.” Still watching her intently, he brushed her chin with his fingers. Just a glancing touch, and yet she felt it everywhere. “This chamber is for the entertainment of my patrons.”
Relief slid through her. The thought of him with Tabitha or some other beautiful goddess in this chamber had been enough to make her ill. “Have I seen the worst or is there more?”
“There is more.” His jaw clenched. “Though I feel confident you have already seen more than enough. What is the meaning of this research, my lady? I do not believe you can use it in The Silent Baron.”
She allowed her eyes to linger upon the finely hewn features of his face, the blade of a nose, full lips, the dimple in his chin. He was so beautiful, like a god among mortals, dressed all in black and come to rule the land of the living with his call to sin. She would gladly heed his call if she were free to. In that moment, she cursed the fate that would have her married to Duncan Kirkwood’s brother instead of him.
“Curiosity,” she answered honestly. “When my freedom has been taken from me, and when I must become a proper wife, I want something to remember. Some small promise of daring and passion and yes, even sin. I find myself fascinated by your world, Mr. Kirkwood.”
And fascinated by you, she added inwardly, for it would be far too much of a confession. Her pride would not allow it.
“You astound me.” He plucked her hat from her head suddenly, finding the pins in her hair and setting them free one by one. “And confound me.”
She knew she should stay him. Each thud of a hairpin on the rug was
akin to a bell that, once rung, could not be undone. Her thick dark hair began to fall in heavy waves to her shoulders. His hands moved in reverent strokes, smoothing it around her face.
No one had ever touched her with such delicate care before. Her lady’s maid was deft in her ministrations but jerky, with a tendency to pull at the roots of Frederica’s hair as she ran the comb through it. It seemed at once odd and breathtaking to be touched with such tenderness, and by the infamous Duncan Kirkwood.
“You are ruining my disguise,” she protested without heat, for she could not summon even a drop of outrage. She wanted his touch. Welcomed it. Longed for it.
“Your hair is too glorious to be bound and hidden beneath that monstrosity of a hat.” More pins fell to the floor until none were left, and still, he stared as if memorizing the sight of her, his hands stroking slowly over her locks. “Damnation, you are the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”
His flattery made her cheeks go hot and started a queer fluttering in her belly. “Flattery,” she dismissed softly.
“Nay.” He stilled, staring down at her with the gravest expression she had ever seen him sport. “Truth.”
She fell into his brilliant gaze, headlong. Wishing this was not goodbye. Wishing she could see him one more time. Did it truly have to be? “May I come again tomorrow?”
“I am afraid not.” His expression turned rueful, but his denial smarted nonetheless. “I am holding a masque tomorrow, and I shall be distracted by my duties as host. The guests will be unsuitable company for you, and these affairs tend to get rather…ribald.”
“Oh,” was all she could manage to say, hurt bubbling up at the reminder he was not her suitor, and prolonging their interactions would only prove fruitless and reckless should she continue on this path.
When she would have extricated herself from him, he held firm, forcing her to remain. His eyes glittered. “I will not be the man who ruins you, Lady Frederica. We are dancing perilously close to your fall from grace, and I will not be the one who forces you over the edge.”
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