He caught her in his arms, guiding her legs around his waist, and walked them several paces until her back met a wall. Deftly, he used his strength to pin her there, off the floor, pressed between plaster and his hard body. His mouth slanted over hers, at once gentle and possessive. Knowing and ruthless. Wicked and wonderful.
She was on fire, coming back to life. Everything she had felt the night he had made love to her returned, only this time stronger. More forceful. This time, she understood what the sensations meant. She knew what friction and pressure and Duncan would grant her.
And she wanted it.
She wanted to come undone for him. Because of him.
For so long, she had dreamt of him, had lain awake in her bed, miserable and isolated, thinking of him. Imagining him and his knowing hands and lips and tongue. She had touched herself, had worked her flesh in the same manner as he had, and she had experienced small tremors of satisfaction. But nothing she had dared try thus far compared to Duncan’s body against hers, his mouth voracious on hers, his tongue, his fingers, his…
He thrust against her, the hard line of his cock glancing over the sensitive bud he knew how to pleasure so well. She moaned into his mouth, ravenous for him. She wanted more. Wanted everything. Her hands were in his hair, on his broad shoulders, down the solid plane of his back, finding his bottom. His was well-shaped, perfect handfuls, tight and firm. He angled himself against her more fully, driving against her in steady, rhythmic thrusts that mimicked lovemaking. Each pass of his cloth-covered cock over her bare flesh stoked the fires rising within her.
Her mind ceased to function. Instead, she was taken over by the sensory; Duncan’s masculine scent in her nose, his taste in her mouth, the burgeoning shape of him pressing into her most sensitive flesh. He drove against her, his mouth taking hers as his body once more led her to the oblivion of full and complete bliss.
She was desperate for him, needing more, raking her nails all over his body, offering herself to him as if he had never walked away from her. Because she belonged to him, just as he belonged to her. Because she needed more. She needed something she had not even imagined, something she had not fathomed, a mere hour before.
She needed contact. Friction. More of him. Starving. She was so starved for this man. For his flesh, for the sweet weight of his body atop hers, for his large hands, his mouth. His tongue. Good heavens, his tongue, long and willful and persuasive.
He settled himself more firmly between her thighs with ease, setting his lips to her throat. His pulsing cock was seated against her cunny. A sharp stab of need pulsed through her. She wanted him inside her, and her body knew it before her mind did, her hips arching in desperation, seeking to accept that which had yet to be offered. Except, even in that motion, she found minor comfort.
And so she did it again, dragging herself over his hard cock, longing for it to be buried inside her. Now that she had experienced such wild fulfillment, she had no wish to settle for anything less. But this…he jerked his hips into her, thrusting…oh, this, too, could make her lose control.
“I promised I would not ruin you,” he muttered against her mouth. “That I would not dishonor you. I want you so damn much, Frederica Isling. More than you will ever know.”
She was close, so close, to reaching her pinnacle thanks to the full swell of his manhood and need humming through her wet, aching flesh. “You have already ruined me,” she said, kissing him once more with an abandon she would worry about regretting later.
He tore his mouth from hers on a groan. “If I don’t touch you right now, I’ll go mad.”
“Yes,” she agreed. Right now, her body demanded the pleasure only he could give her. She needed his touch, too. “Touch me, Duncan.”
His fingers found her, parting her folds, deftly flicking over the swollen bud. He lovingly stroked her, giving her what she needed, until she was straining against him, breathless, the knot inside her tightening. “That’s it, angel. Come for me.”
She could stand no more. The furious rush was upon her, sudden and hard. Her body seized, rocked by dozens of delicious tremors. He stayed with her, increasing his pace and pressure, milking the last of her response until she was drained and limp, sagging against him, her face pressed to his throat above his cravat. She could not speak, so she held tight to him, breathing him in, feeling the heavy thudding of his heart against her.
After a time, he released her slowly to the floor, gently righting her skirts. He kissed her slowly, sweetly, and then he broke away, staring down at her with an intensity that shook her. “I will take care of you from this moment forward, angel. I promise you.”
And perhaps she was a fool, because she wanted to believe him.
*
For the second time in as many months, Duncan awaited a duke. But this time, he had summoned Amberley to him. And the duke had come. Finally, after a lifetime of being turned away and ignored. Of being treated akin to a pile of horse dung in the street, he had not only received a reply—terse though it may have been—but he had been graced with the duke’s presence.
He was struck for a moment as the duke stepped over the threshold of his office by the absurdity of it, that he should have had to go to such lengths to obtain an audience with the man who had sired him. That he now held locked in his desk the papers containing the duke’s future. He nodded to Hazlett, who bowed silently and left the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Just that easily, Duncan and the duke were alone.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a nonchalance he did not feel, bowing.
Amberley shuffled forward with the aid of a walking stick, his large frame hunched over as if each step he took pained him. But though his body had been broken by age and a dissolute life, his eyes—the same as Duncan’s—were clear.
As was the sharpness of his hatred, sparkling in the depths like a knife. “Kirkwood. What is the meaning of this?”
Duncan ignored the ill-mannered demand, strolling to the sideboard and fetching himself two fingers of whisky. “Would you care for some Scottish whisky, Amberley? It is the finest illegal swill money can buy.”
The duke, well-known for his endless thirst for both liquor and cunny, licked his lips, hesitating. “Yes.”
He wondered how much the admission had cost the old bastard. Whatever it was, it was not enough. Nothing would be. Taking everything from the Duke of Amberley would not right the wrongs that had been done to Duncan’s mother. He poured some whisky for his unlikely guest, grinding his jaw to keep the temptation to spit into it at bay.
In silence, he handed the duke his glass. “Seat yourself, if you please, Your Grace.”
The duke’s hand gripped the head of his walking stick as if it were a claw, his arm trembling. “I do not intend to remain long.”
“You will remain as long as I require you to remain,” he said softly, but with enough dark determination for the hardness within him to show.
“Why have you lured me here with the promise of your aid in getting my vowels returned to me?” he bit out.
“Because I alone can assist you with such a feat.” Duncan took a sip of his whisky, savoring its familiar burn. Not as hedonistic as chocolate, but it would suffice. “I am in possession of all your I.O.U.s, Your Grace. A tidy fortune, too.”
“Westlake,” the duke growled with such virulence he broke into a cough. The fit had him doubling over, his whisky sloshing over his hand. “He would never betray me by selling them to you.”
“Ah, but I’m afraid he did.” Duncan walked calmly to his desk, unlocking the drawer and box where he kept all things of value in the club. He produced the neat stack of vowels in question. A staggering sum, all told, not just a tidy fortune as he had indicated. And it was all his for the taking.
But he had found the one thing in life worth more to him than his club, the money he amassed, the power he wielded, and the revenge he could inflict upon the man he would forever blame for his mother’s death. And it was the woman he loved. Fo
r her, he would surrender anything. Everything.
“Would you beggar me now, Kirkwood?” the man who had fathered him demanded.
Duncan considered him, amazed at love’s capacity to heal. He did not feel the angry sting of rancor in his chest when he looked upon the duke now. If anything, he pitied the man. He had squandered his fortune and his health, turned his back on a woman and child who were his responsibility, and his only legitimate offspring liked to force himself upon the powerless.
“Tell me something. Did you rape my mother, or is ravishment a crime only your son the earl aspires to?”
“How dare you malign Lord Willingham?” the duke spat. “Your mother was a whore who spread her legs for half of London. You could have been anyone’s son.”
Duncan stalked toward him. “You will apologize for insulting my mother.”
“I don’t care if you call in all my debts, you insolent puppy,” the duke blustered. “I’ll not apologize for speaking truth. Nor will I claim you as mine. I have one son only. If you think I shall change my mind and acknowledge you, you are deadly wrong. I will lose everything I have first.”
He smiled without mirth. He had dreamt of this meeting, and he had always known how it would proceed. A man who had turned away a begging child would not become a saint as he aged.
“I want you to know one thing, Amberley.” He moved closer, crowding the old man with his larger, more muscled frame. “My mother was a good woman, forced by the ways of the world to earn her bread at the mercy of men like you. She died the same way, some fancy cove’s hands around her throat, squeezing the life from her. Her death is on your soul, and you will answer for it, one way or another.”
“Is that what this is about?” the duke’s lip curled into a sneer. “What would you have me do, Kirkwood? Kiss her tombstone to make amends? The world had one less whore on the day she died, and that is the truth. If she had lived, she would have made more like you—vile, greedy, insolent curs attempting to raise themselves from the gutter by any means. Name your price for my vowels, and you shall have it.”
“My price has just increased, I am afraid.” He tossed back the contents of his whisky and stalked away before he did something foolish, like slamming his fist into the duke’s face. “First, I demand an apology for the manner in which you spoke of my mother just now. Second, I demand Lord Willingham cry off his betrothal to Lady Frederica Isling.”
There was another price, but he would extract that directly from Willingham himself. With pleasure.
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “What else?”
“I want Willingham to cry off the betrothal today. Within the next hour.” The sooner the goddamn better. Every minute Frederica was promised to Willingham was like a blade in his gut. Waiting to make his move until Cris’s ball had nearly killed him, but he had known it was the best way to reach her. And he would gladly wait an eternity for the chance to call her his. “Carry out these requirements, and I will return all your vowels to you, unencumbered. Your debts will be canceled, and you will be saved from ruin.”
Amberley raised his glass to his lips at last, gulping the contents with practiced ease. “And if I do not?”
“I will call in all your debts immediately, of course. You will be beggared.” He smiled again, and this time it was with true elation, the unparalleled jauntiness of knowing he had bested his foe. “It may also interest you to know that I have recently acquired a press. One of my ladies here intends to write her memoirs, with a special section dedicated to the cruelty of one Lord W., and a great deal of details, all of which would prove quite shocking and damning to gentle society. I will be more than happy to publish this volume and see it distributed heavily throughout London.”
He had bought the press, it was true, but he had bought it for Frederica. A little bluffing never did a gambler wrong, however.
The duke paled.
It was all the proof Duncan needed that the elder man was aware of his other son’s proclivities. His gut tightened. To think Frederica would have been gifted to such a monster…it made him want to rage and rend.
“Will I need to take such drastic measures, Your Grace?” he prodded, for he needed his answer. And he needed it now. He had to have the promise Frederica would be freed. That she would be his.
“No,” spat the duke, flinging his empty glass to the carpet. It landed with a hollow thud but did not break. “I shall do as you demand, and I shall also see to it that Willingham does as well. But first, I will have your written acknowledgment of the exchange.”
Duncan strode to his desk and put his quill to foolscap, scratching out the agreement and signing his name with a flourish. Before it had even dried, he offered it to Amberley. “Yours, Your Grace.”
The duke took it in his gnarled fingers, but Duncan held firm. “Oh, dear me. There is one more stipulation I neglected to mention.” This one was for his own benefit, purely and simply. For his mother’s, too. “I require you to sink to your knees and kiss my shoes.”
“Never!” came the outraged bellow, almost instantly.
Duncan was not surprised. The desire to see the duke so humbled before him was strong. He made a motion as if to tear the paper. “Very well, Your Grace. If you wish—”
“No, damn you,” the duke bit out, cutting him off. “I will do it.”
Duncan nodded. “You may proceed.”
And as he watched, the Duke of Amberley lowered to his knees and kissed the tip of first his left, then his right shoe. That was for you, Mother. Unmoved, he watched as Amberley rose once more, slowly, grimacing, obviously in pain. His heart was unmoved, so, too, his pity.
Lady Frederica, however, is for me. All for me.
He relinquished the foolscap to the duke.
“Within the hour,” he repeated coolly as the man who had sired him—the man who would never acknowledge him—retreated from his office. Time had changed them both, and circumstances had been reversed. But in that moment, the only joy he could cling to was the realization that Frederica would soon be free.
Chapter Eighteen
The Earl of Willingham handed Frederica into his curricle, seating himself beside her. The day had dawned cool and gray, a slight mist descending with occasional persistence. Not the sort of weather for a drive, it was true.
She settled her skirts into place, wishing herself anywhere but where she was. What a grim, unwanted situation. Had it been only yesterday that she had been back in Duncan’s arms, his mouth on hers, his body pinning her to the wall, his fingers working their magic upon her, bringing her to shuddering submission?
His words returned to her as she watched Willingham slide into his seat, taking up the reins.
I will take care of you from this moment forward, angel. I promise you.
I have a plan. Do you trust me?
She had. Lord help her, she had trusted Duncan Kirkwood once again without having one reason for doing so. But his promises seemed dreadfully far away by the light of day, with her unwanted betrothed at her side.
How could she free herself from this untenable mess? Moreover, how could he?
“You are looking well rested, my lady,” the earl said, an undercurrent she could not quite define sharpening his tone.
“Thank you,” she said.
In truth, she had scarcely slept, tossing and turning amidst thoughts of Duncan. His reappearance in her life had been unexpected. Incredible, wonderful, all she had wished for, but frightening just the same. He owned her heart, but he had betrayed her and turned his back on her before. What would stop him from doing so again?
“My lady?” the earl prompted, his tone piercing her musing with his vehemence. It was a jolt to her senses. Unwanted. Jarring.
“Forgive me, I was woolgathering.”
Anger creased his expression as he took up the reins and set them into motion. “From this moment forward, you will listen to me when I speak, my lady. As your husband, I demand both your attention and your obedience, along with your loyalty.”<
br />
She inhaled slowly. Her obedience. Marrying this man was insupportable. “I am not a child, my lord. You need not speak to me as if I am one.”
I will take care of you from this moment forward, angel.
She thought of Duncan’s words once more. But where was he? And why was she once again suffering the attentions of the earl? They were running out of time. In less than a fortnight, she would become the Countess of Willingham.
“Women are simple-minded as children,” he said coldly. “And when you are disobedient, you will be punished like one. Is there anything you wish to tell me, Lady Frederica?”
A cold tendril of fear unleashed itself within her. “What are you implying, my lord?”
“That I saw my betrothed in the company of another man at the Whitley ball last night.” His tone vibrated with anger. “Oddly enough, that same scurrilous mongrel has demanded I break our betrothal. You would not know anything of such distressing matters, would you?”
Dawning realization turned the fear to horror. They were not heading in the direction of the park. She had been too distracted by her thoughts to notice. Where did he intend to take her?
She had to be brazen to convince him to abandon whatever evil he had plotted. “I know nothing of anything you have just said, my lord,” she lied with a calm she did not feel. “If you wish to break our betrothal yourself, you need only say as much. It is not necessary to suggest someone has forced you to do it.”
“Do not lie,” he barked, slanting her a look so rife with fury it bordered on maniacal.
There was the face of the man who enjoyed inflicting pain. Who found pleasure in violence. Her mouth went dry, but she forced herself to continue their conversation. Perhaps if she could distract him…strike him over the head and take the reins…scream…leap from the curricle before they reached their destination…
“I-I am not lying, my lord,” she said. “Please, I beg of you, return me to my home. I am feeling unwell.”
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