Prince of Persuasion

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Thank you, my lady,” he said, his voice a low, beloved rumble. “You entrusted me with the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.”

  She closed her eyes against the fresh sting of tears. No matter what happened after they left this chamber, they would always have this stolen time together. They would always have the remembrance of the night when she had been Frederica and he had been Duncan, and together, they had been perfect.

  “It is yours. I am…a part of me shall always be yours, Duncan,” she returned when she was certain she could speak without a tremor in her voice to give her away.

  “Do you promise?” There was something in his voice—a hardness, the gritty texture of desperation.

  “Of course.”

  She would have said more, but for the sudden, abrupt rapping on the door. She jumped, jarred from the intensity of the moment to cruel reality. Somehow, she had allowed herself to become so overwhelmed by their idyll that she had not expected the outside world to intrude so soon. But she supposed she ought not to be so surprised, for his club was akin to a living, breathing beast. It needed constant tending.

  He stiffened, his arms tightening around her, almost protectively.

  “Kirkwood!”

  The voice burst through their insulated world, disturbing the last, fleeting moments of their time together. But it wasn’t the interruption itself that made Frederica’s heart thump with painful intensity in her breast. Rather, it was recognition.

  She knew that voice.

  Her brother’s voice.

  “Kirkwood, you lowly miscreant, I demand you open this door at once.”

  Duncan’s hold on her tightened. Behind her, his body too stiffened. “Damn it to hell,” he muttered.

  Though her entire purpose in attending the masque this evening and in slipping away to Duncan’s private chamber with him, allowing him to take her to bed, had been nothing but intentional—a decision she had made the moment she had first laid eyes on those curst lilies from Willingham—shock still claimed her. She had not expected anyone to discover her actions. Indeed, she had relied upon the fact that she alone would hold all the answers when it came to the extent of her downfall. Her plan had been to confront her father with the suggestion she was ruined, to reveal to him the various occasions upon which she had infiltrated The Duke’s Bastard.

  She had been hoping he might see reason at that point. That he would agree she had been compromised beyond all reason, and that she must necessarily withdraw from the marriage mart. She would not be forced to marry the earl, and she would decide where her lift would next take her.

  But she understood, as her brother began pummeling the door separating herself and Duncan from the outside world, that her creative mind had perhaps taken liberties. That there would be no graceful means by which she could either extricate or redeem herself from this mess.

  Perhaps there was a small chance he did not know she was within…

  “What have you done with her, you cravenly bastard? I will break down this door if I must.” Her brother’s angry snarl, almost unrecognizable for the angry vehemence of his tone, dismissed that false hope instantly.

  Somehow, Benedict knew she was there. He was deliberately avoiding calling her by name in an effort to salvage what remained of her reputation.

  Duncan kissed her cheek once more. “I am sorry, angel. So very sorry.”

  Then his arms slid away from her, his strength and solidity leaving. She was bereft. Alone. Impossibly cold. She turned to face him, hugging her middle, watching warily as he strode to the door. Why had he apologized?

  *

  Why the hell had Hazlitt set the Marquess of Blanden upon him so soon?

  Duncan reached the door to the sound of her brother’s irate pounding and escalating threats. He had not yet been ready to say his farewell to her. To let her go. And now, he had no choice.

  He must.

  With the sinking weight of sick dread in his gut, he unlatched the door. Blanden stood in the hall, fist raised for another round of furious knocking. He hardened his expression, banishing all emotion, all thoughts, save one: his mother’s broken body. He could do this for her. He owed her this.

  “Ah,” he drawled. “The real Blanden has arrived at last.”

  “There is no other,” the marquess snapped, rudely attempting to shove Duncan out of the doorway.

  He held firm. He was taller, broader, stronger, and a hell of a lot more determined than his lordship. “I do beg your pardon, my lord, for there has indeed been another Marquess of Blanden here at my club nearly every evening for the last sennight. Though he claimed to be you, I saw through his ruse instantly.”

  “Are you mad or soused, Kirkwood?” Blanden demanded, his tone sizzling with rancor. “I fail to follow your lunatic ravings.”

  “Neither, more’s the pity.” He sneered, looking over the marquess’s shoulder to where Hazlitt stood sentry.

  His man of business’s countenance was grim and disapproving. Duncan gave him a nod, indicating he could leave his post. The marquess, in addition to being boring as a stick, was as weak as a stripling. Duncan would mercilessly crush him in any match of fisticuffs. Hazlitt gave him a meaningful look before bowing and silently departing.

  “I demand entrance to this chamber at once,” the marquess was ordering.

  “Benedict, you must calm yourself.” The quiet, husky voice—the voice that had not long ago wept his name with pleasure—interrupted the impasse. She drew alongside him, pressing a hand to his coat sleeve, her gaze on his part beseeching, part questioning.

  Her eyes slayed him. She was so damned beautiful, a black-haired angel he could not keep. He was not a man given to sentiment, but in that moment, something inside him, a fragile piece of himself he had not realized yet existed, broke into ten thousand tiny, splintered fragments.

  He wanted to reassure her. To tell her all could be explained. But he could not lie. Could not bear to hurt her any more than he already would.

  “Explain what you are doing here, my lady,” growled Blanden, attempting once more to launch himself into the chamber.

  Duncan deflected him with ease, his eyes only for Frederica. “Your faith in me was your downfall, my lady,” he warned softly.

  “Duncan.” She gripped him harder, tears swimming in the brilliant depths of her gaze, as if she were drowning in the sea and he was the last bit of flotsam to which she could cling. “What is the meaning of this?”

  He shook his head. He was not her flotsam. He was not her anything, except for the first man who had known her. Gritting his teeth against the knowledge he was her first but another would be her last, he tamped down the bile and forced himself to speak.

  “I arranged for his lordship to be informed of your whereabouts. He has come, I would gather, to take you home where you belong.” Coldly, Duncan turned back to the marquess. “Is that not accurate, Blanden?”

  “What the devil is she doing here with you?” His lordship once more threw himself at Duncan with a violent savagery that took him by surprise. “If you have harmed my sister, I will challenge you to pistols at dawn.”

  “Ah.” He forced his lips to stretch into a wolfish grin, one that was unrepentant. One that said more than his word possibly could. “I did not hurt her. Did I, m’lady?”

  He turned back to Frederica, who looked stricken. The expression on her face was akin to a booted foot to the gut. “Of course you did not hurt me. Not yet.”

  She was intelligent, his angel. It was one of the many traits he admired about her. Her boldness, her unassailable curiosity, her determination, her fearlessness. Her mind. He had read the manuscript page she had left behind in his office, a treasure he could not bear to forfeit. Her talent was undeniable.

  She knew now what was about to unfold. He could read the devastated acceptance in her eyes. In her voice.

  “Not yet,” he agreed softly, regret slithering through him like a deadly serpent. He turned back to the marquess, whose complexion had
gone mottled and red in his outrage. “You may enter now, my lord, but only if you promise to behave. I will not have upset or violence in my club.”

  Blanden’s lip curled. “Your club will be a smoking wasteland of ash and greed by the time I am finished with you, Kirkwood.”

  “You will eat those words, Blanden,” he promised with deadly menace, stepping away from the threshold and away from Frederica, too, as if she was not everything he craved, everything he wanted and needed. As if she was not necessary to him.

  Blanden stormed into the chamber, slamming the door at his back, stalking toward Duncan. Duncan recognized himself in the marquess in that moment: bitter, angry, needing to draw blood.

  “Benedict, please.” Frederica rushed forward, grabbing her brother’s arm and staying him when he would have been foolish enough to continue forward, intent upon delivering a blow, Duncan had no doubt. “I beg you, do not make this untenable situation any more difficult than it already is.”

  He hated himself for the hitch in her voice, almost undetectable. Caused by him.

  “You will accomplish nothing with fists, Blanden.” He adopted a cool air he little felt, making himself recall what he truly wanted, more than anything. What he had almost lost sight of, so caught up in her. It was not Frederica’s soft skin or supple lips or the perfect way her body gripped and welcomed his. It was not anything he felt for her. Not stolen kisses or him on his knees, worshipping her as she deserved. It was none of those things.

  It was avenging his mother.

  The way she had looked that awful day returned to him: bruises on her neck, the broken, awkward splaying of her limbs. He would always wonder how painful her end had been. How many times had she been hurt before the last time? His mother had suffered to give him the best life she could afford, and how was he repaying her? By losing his head over the means by which he could at long last procure vengeance?

  Nay. He could not grow weak now. Not with the promise of revenge in clear, beguiling sight.

  “I will accomplish splitting open your smug face.” Frederica’s brother shook her off and stalked forward, nostrils flared, dark eyes almost obsidian. He resembled nothing so much as a bull on the rampage. “That will be enough.”

  Lord Blanden did not seem the sort who would pull a blade or a pistol from his coat, but one could never be too certain. Duncan had once been shot by a man old enough to be his grandfather whilst at the green baize. He still bore the scar and the memory that anyone—regardless of how harmless he or she may seem—was a danger to him.

  Either way, he was not afraid of the marquess and dodged the young lord with ease. “I do not recommend causing harm to my person in any fashion, my lord, as you will not like the consequences. As it is, I already have enough damning information to destroy your sister. I would hate to have to not only reveal everything I know but to beat you to within an inch of your life as well.”

  The marquess roared, but Duncan’s words did have a staying effect upon him. As did Frederica, who rushed forward once more, placing a calming hand upon her brother’s arm. Mere minutes ago, Duncan had been the recipient of that calming touch, and she had stood by his side. Here was a visceral, brutal reminder of the changing of allegiance between them. In this war, he stood on one side, and she would necessarily stand on the other.

  “I beg of you, Benedict, stop this madness,” she said with quiet persistence. “I alone am at fault for what has transpired here, and I will not have you suffering for my sins.”

  “Do you not wish to know who the pretender is, my lord?” he forced himself to ask. “Are you not curious about the identity of the other Lord Blanden, the one who has been present here at my club, alone with me? The Lord Blanden I have personally escorted to the scarlet chamber?”

  Frederica’s gaze swung back to Duncan, and he could not help but note the lone tear that had trickled down her cheek. The cheek he had kissed not long ago. “He is speaking of me, Benedict. I…I found some of your old coats, breeches, and shoes. I disguised myself as a gentleman and pretended to be you so I could gain entrance here.”

  “Damn it, Frederica!” Blanden’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing in the chamber. “Why would you do such a witless thing?”

  “I was conducting research for The Silent Baron.” Her voice sounded small. Laden with regret.

  Duncan hated himself more than he ever had.

  “Father forbid you from writing that claptrap, Frederica.”

  The marquess’s pronouncement, issued in such a snide, dismissive tone, had Duncan starting forward rethinking his intentions to avoid bloodying the whelp’s nose. “You will apologize to the lady, or I will take great delight in splitting open your face.”

  Blanden’s eyes shot back to Duncan. “You dare to threaten me after you issue threats of ruining my sister and had her cloistered here in your chamber against her will? You have gall, Kirkwood. Do you truly think you can ruin the daughter to the Duke of Westlake without repercussions? One word from me, and every last one of your patrons would desert your black hide. Have no fear of that.”

  Duncan was not frightened of the blustering of one arrogant lord. He took another step forward, challenging Blanden. He grinned. “On the contrary, my lord. One word from you, and everyone will know your sister has lost her innocence to me. Is that what you truly wish?”

  Frederica rushed between them, her skirts rustling. The scent of violets assailed him. Hell, he could even taste her. She had been so responsive, all silken heat, all for him. He could have her a hundred thousand times and it would never be enough. But Lady Frederica Isling and his inconvenient, irrefutable attraction to her was not what this moment was about.

  Rather, this moment was about vengeance.

  It was about at long last delivering the death knell to the man whose indifference and cruelty had left Duncan and his mother to the miserable fate awaiting them, nary a backward glance. That was the thing about power and wealth, those who possessed it easily forgot how temporary it was, how quickly they could lose it. One card game. One poor investment. One night of wagers.

  He had seen men gain and lose fortunes in hours.

  No one knew better than Duncan just how much could be lost in the span of hours, minutes, seconds. Everything. Everything could be lost. He had lost his mother in much the same manner. Sent off for a bun, a pat on the head before he left. Returned to a corpse. Less than half-an-hour between his mother, rosy-cheeked with life and his mother, cold and dead on the floor.

  “Please, Duncan, do not do whatever it is you are intent upon doing,” Frederica implored. Her gaze searched his.

  Duncan ground his jaw. “He has yet to offer you his apology.”

  “You cannot order me about, Kirkwood,” the marquess spat.

  He opened and closed his fists, testing his knuckles. A great deal of time had passed since he had last engaged in boxing, but he would gladly do so again if it meant getting the apology Frederica deserved. “You will apologize for dismissing Lady Frederica’s novel, or I will bloody your nose.”

  “Do not dare to tell me how to speak, you gutter-born mongrel.” The marquess snapped back, fearless.

  The stupid sod ought to have known he had arrived at a duel where he would be outgunned and overpowered, left bleeding in the dirt. And yet, he continued on. Ignoring Frederica’s wild eyes and flailing hands, he grabbed Blanden’s cravat, giving it a threatening yank, uncaring she stood between them, a wide-eyed human wall attempting to keep her brother and her lover from decimating each other.

  He made certain the marquess was meeting his gaze. “Apologize to your sister, my lord. As it is, I have precious little patience for you, given you are nothing more than a means to a desired end. Test me once more, and I cannot promise you will leave here with all your teeth.”

  “Duncan, please!” Lady Frederica’s soft admonishment roused him from the bloodlust that had begun consuming him. For a moment, he had been thrown back to the days where he had fought and bled for his survival
. When it had been an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. “Do not hurt him, I beg you.”

  What could he do in the face of her gentle pleading on her brother’s behalf? She knew he would decimate the marquess just as well as he did. Grinding his jaw, Duncan took a step in retreat, putting some space between himself, Frederica, and Lord Blanden. He had to calm himself, focus on the old prize he sought rather than the new, forbidden one he longed for.

  “As you wish, my lady,” he conceded. But his eyes remained trained upon her brother. This was not over.

  “What do you want, Kirkwood?” Blanden snarled. “You’re the greediest bastard in all London, and everyone knows it. What is it you are after? More coin for your purse?”

  Ah, here it was. The moment of truth.

  He looked back at Frederica’s pale face, taking in her pinched lips, betrayed eyes, and undeniable beauty. One last time, to remember her. How could he forget? And then, he flicked his gaze back to her brother before the urge to grovel at her feet and forego all chances of revenge overcame him.

  “Your father has something I want very much,” he said. “Being a magnanimous man, I am willing to trade him for it—he gives me all the Duke of Amberley’s vowels, and in return, I will keep silent about all the nights I spent alone with Lady Frederica, thoroughly debauching her whilst you and the duke and duchess were blissfully unaware.” He paused, self-loathing threatening to consume him, before he forced himself to say one last, devastating thing. “I will also promise never to reveal to anyone that I took her innocence this evening in this chamber.”

  He did not want to look at Frederica after the final word. But how could he not? Silent tears of betrayal ran down her cheeks. Her gaze was riveted upon him. Shocked. Accusatory. Hurt. He told himself he was doing what he must. Men like him had nothing to offer the sheltered daughter of a duke. And what her father held in his possession was priceless. She had gotten what she wished—her night of passion—and he would gain the Duke of Amberley on his knees.