“You will be begging soon, Lady Frederica,” he warned, his voice dark and menacing, sending a chill straight through her. “On your knees.”
Desperation made her act, attempting to scramble from her seat. Before she could manage to open the curricle door, however, a hand fisted in her hair, hauling her back in a tight hold so painful her hair felt as if it were being ripped from the root.
“You cannot escape,” he growled. “I saw the two of you leave the same chamber separately. Did you truly think no one would notice your absence? That no one would question where you had gone?”
He must have followed her at a discreet distance, hiding out of view. She had been so shaken in the aftermath of Duncan’s fierce passion that she would not have noticed the sun had it suddenly dropped at her feet.
“I was repairing a stain on my gown with the help of the Duchess of Whitley,” she insisted.
“Liar,” he charged, yanking on her hair. “You were allowing him to put his dirty, swindling peasant hands upon you, and I will make you pay for it. You belong to me. I will take great pleasure in knowing I have taken what he wants. I will so ill use you that he will never be capable of even looking upon you afterwards. You will be so thoroughly ruined your father will have no choice but to sanction our nuptials, and then you will spend the rest of your days regretting the night you played the whore for a worthless bastard like Kirkwood.”
“No,” she cried out, held captive by her hair as they drove down an alleyway, slipping into a part of town that was unfamiliar to her. “Please, my lord. You must release me. You cannot abuse the daughter of the Duke of Westlake and think to escape punishment.”
“Your father is so desperate to be rid of your unwanted burden that he all but begged me to marry you. When I tell him what I have done to you, he will have no choice but to ensure our wedding continues as planned.” His lips grazed her ear. “I will put a babe in you today, my lady.”
His tongue on her ear made her want to retch. She jerked away, but his grip on her hair would not relent, and the force of her attempt at escape sent a hot rush of tears to her eyes. “Do not do this, Lord Willingham,” she begged. “Release me or I shall scream.”
He continued to navigate the curricle one-handedly, releasing a bitter chuckle. “Do not try anything clever, my lady. I have a pistol in my pocket, and I am not afraid to use it upon you if I must. Moreover, we are fast heading into a place where no one would care if I bent you over and ravaged you on this bench.”
She forced back her fear. “I will fight you.”
He released her hair, shoving her back into her seat with abrupt force that sent her toppling. “I hope you do. In the end, I will only enjoy it more and use you harder.”
She choked down bile at his vicious words. Somehow, by some means, she had to escape him. It was the only choice she had.
*
With Hazlitt and two other guards at his side, Duncan stormed through the reeking halls of the grim East End tavern where Willingham had taken Frederica. If any harm befell her, Duncan was not just going to thrash Willingham to a bloody carcass; he was going to damn well kill him.
Thank Christ his instincts had made him have one of his men stand guard over her after he had issued the warnings to Amberley. He had not trusted the earl’s reaction to the news Amberley would bring him, and something inside Duncan, some niggling understanding, had protested urgently that selfish, vainglorious bastards like Willingham did not simply relinquish what they wanted and walk away.
Men who took by force did not like to be bested.
As he reached the chamber where they had been told Frederica had been taken—Duncan had far more coin to grease the palms of the tavern keeper than Willingham did, and in the end, greed won—a scream tore through the air. The scream belonged to Frederica.
Every thought fled, and he was mindless. A weapon. He threw himself into the door, shoulder first, determined to get to her. To tear Willingham apart with his bare hands if he must. On the second attempt, the door splintered open, and he crashed into the chamber with a warrior’s cry, his pistol raised.
The earl had been grappling with Frederica, but upon Duncan’s forced entry, he spun, holding her against him in a tight grip, pointing a pistol to her temple. Her dress had been torn to the waist, revealing her shift. Her hair was in wild disarray, her eyes wide and fearful, sobs making her chest rise and fall in jerky motions, tears on her cheeks.
“Release Lady Frederica,” he ordered Willingham with a bravado he little felt, given the gun pressing into Frederica’s skull and the finger of a demented scoundrel upon the trigger.
“Take one step closer, and I will end her,” the earl warned, his tone one of deadly intent.
“If any harm comes to her, this day will be your last,” Duncan warned. He had a pistol in his hand, and three armed men at his side—including Hazlett, who was a madman when the situation warranted it—and he was not going to allow the soft-palmed lecher before him to hurt Frederica.
Lords did not strike him with awe as they once had, before he had been wise and world-weary enough to know better.
Men of honor, men who upheld their words and promises, who were honest, loyal, and steadfast in their actions and promises, those men impressed him. Men like Willingham? They were not men at all.
He just needed time. Distraction.
“You are too late, brother,” Willingham taunted. “I already had her.”
The earl’s claim hit him like a blow. He stiffened, absorbing the shock, the denial. For a moment, his gaze searched Frederica’s frantically. My God, had he been too late?
He stepped forward, spurred by the need to protect Frederica and the need to decimate Willingham. “If you have hurt her, I will kill you myself. Slowly.”
Holding Duncan’s gaze, the earl grabbed a fistful of Frederica’s shift and tore, revealing her breasts. And then he palmed one roughly, squeezing until she cried out in pain and her creamy skin reddened with the force of his violence. “She likes it rough. I’ve heard you like to watch, Kirkwood. Perhaps I ought to fuck her again in front of you. Will that be evidence enough that she is damaged goods? My seed is already inside her, but I will show you once more if it would convince you to leave what is mine alone.”
Frederica’s eyes were closed, her nostrils flared. The sight of her being hurt before him was pure torture. Bloodlust rose within him, pure and true, and he vowed the earl would pay for this. He made to take another step forward, but Hazlitt halted him with a hand on his arm and a meaningful look. There was a reason Hazlitt was his right hand.
“She is not yours,” he told Willingham flatly. “You cannot fathom her father would willingly give her hand to you after you have abducted her and abused her. Your game is at an end. Release her now, and we will allow you to walk away with impunity.”
“She is mine, and I will do what I want to her.” To emphasize his proclamation, the earl roughly twisted Frederica’s nipple, pinching it, pulling it.
Frederica’s eyes shot open, luminous and shockingly green, the greenest he had ever seen them. “I love you, Duncan,” she said.
“And I love you.” The words left him of necessity, without thought, without restraint. He loved her more than he had even imagined possible, and he regretted deeply telling her for the first time whilst she was being held captive by a lunatic.
And then he realized, in the next horrifying instant, that she meant to sacrifice herself.
Everything unfolded in a mad jumble. With a roar, he leapt forward. Frederica jammed her elbow into Willingham’s midsection. Pistols fired. His. Another’s. Plaster rained. A scream rent the air. A hoarse cry echoed. Duncan fell to his knees. A body dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. Blood rushed over the dirty floorboards, filling in the gaps between planks with their dark red abundance.
Chapter Nineteen
One month later
Husband.
It was a new word for Frederica.
A beloved word. She w
anted to say it over and over. Aloud. In her mind. She wanted to write it on foolscap a hundred times and then simply stare at it, absorbing the breathtaking beauty contained in seven simple letters.
“Will there be anything else this evening, my lady?” asked her new lady’s maid after giving a final stroke of her brush through Frederica’s unbound locks.
She looked at her reflection in the glass, scarcely recognizing herself. A cloud of dark hair rained down her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and vibrant, her skin pale in contrast to the robe she had chosen with her husband in mind. It was midnight-black silk, soft and wicked, just as he was.
“Mrs. Kirkwood, if you please,” she said with a smile. “And no thank you, Verity. That will be all.”
“Of course, Mrs. Kirkwood.” Verity curtseyed, and then hastily took her leave.
“Husband,” Frederica repeated to herself, her smile deepening.
At long last, Duncan was hers, and she was his. The wound on her arm, caused by the Earl of Willingham’s pistol, had almost entirely healed. Thankfully, in the melee which had ensued following her elbow to his midsection, his pistol had been sufficiently dislodged so that it had fired into the ceiling, merely glancing off the tender flesh of her upper arm in the process.
Two bullets—one belonging to Duncan and one belonging to Mr. Hazlitt—had found their mark in the earl. A shudder passed through her as she thought of that horrible day and all its terror and pain. In the end, the earl had found his absolution, dying on the floor of the tavern where he had spirited her, choking on his own life source. Penance, Duncan had told her calmly that day, and he had been right. He can never hurt another woman again now.
It was her only solace that day, along with knowing he could have hurt her far worse than he had. He had manhandled her, groped her, and torn her gown, and she thanked the Lord every day that Willingham had not forced himself upon her as he had intended. He had run out of time, thanks to Duncan’s swift arrival.
Not long afterward, she had learned the full truth from Duncan, that he had given up his revenge to wed her. Even after Willingham’s death, he had still returned the vowels to Amberley. I do not need revenge any longer, he had told her. You are all I need.
In the month following the tumult at the tavern, Duncan had convinced her father to allow them to marry. The scandal of Willingham’s death had created quite an outcry, and though Duncan had made every effort to keep her name from the scandal sheets, she remained the betrothed of a man who had died in salacious fashion, shot to death—as the story went—by his lover’s husband. Creating a new diversion—the love match between the gaming hell owner and the duke’s wallflower daughter—had proved a boon.
Suddenly, Frederica had found herself in the scandal sheets, depicted as a tiny maiden slung over the shoulder of an enormous beast of a man who carried dice in one hand and a bag of coins in the other. She did her best to ignore the intentionally hurtful caricatures. Some people relished being mean spirited and unkind, and ignoring them was the most effective ammunition against such miscreants.
If ever there was a time to push such trifles from her mind, it was tonight.
Her wedding night.
She awaited Duncan in her new bedchamber, an immense and luxuriously appointed room he had decorated with her in mind. From the elegant Aubusson to the exquisitely carved bookshelves and matching writing desk—complete with a plentiful supply of writing implements and foolscap—the chamber had taken her breath from the moment she had first crossed the threshold. Mother had given her hundreds of baubles and trinkets, but never had she received a gift that was so perfect for her. A knock sounded at the door adjoining her chamber to his.
Except for the man himself. He was the most perfect gift of all. The only one she would ever need for the rest of her days.
She smiled. “Enter.”
And there he stood, her husband. Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, notorious gaming hell owner, unrepentant sinner with a surprisingly gentle heart, and a thoroughly beautiful man. He, too, wore black, a banyan belted at the waist, and she drank in the sight of him, tall and lean and strong and hers.
Only hers.
Their eyes met from across the chamber, and a grin curved his lips, so wide his dimples appeared in a rare show. He made a full, elegant bow that should have seemed silly given his bare calves and feet peeping from beneath his robe. But Duncan could do anything, and with his singular, debonair grace, he never failed to make heat blossom inside her.
“My lady,” he said, still grinning as he ended his bow and strode over the handsome Aubusson to where she stood.
“Mrs. Kirkwood,” she corrected for the second time that evening, smiling back at him.
“Mrs. Kirkwood.” His large hands splayed on her waist, drawing her against him.
“I like the sound of that, Mr. Kirkwood.” Their betrothal—in spite of all the wagging of tongues it had produced—had been exceedingly proper. Her father had insisted upon it, and her mother had spent many a frustrating hour as an impediment to their time alone, detailing the spoils of her shopping expeditions in unwanted detail. Frederica had not even been alone with Duncan until today.
Twining her arms around his neck was a privilege she had been denied for far too long, and she did it now, her soft curves seeking out the unforgiving, masculine planes of his body. He radiated heat, his delicious scent of musk, amber, and lemon sending a trill of want to settle between her thighs.
“As do I, my angel.” Reverently, he settled his lips over hers.
He kissed her sweetly, coaxing her mouth open, his tongue dipping inside. He tasted of chocolate, sweet and bitter and exotic. And of Duncan, of everything her heart yearned for. His hand roamed from her waist to cup her face, and he withdrew, looking down at her, devouring her with his brilliant gaze.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
Her lips tingled with his kiss, and she wanted more. “For what?”
He kissed the tip of her nose, his eyes never straying from hers. “For trusting in me when I did not deserve it. For marrying me when I am not worthy of you. I know this is not the life you ever envisioned for yourself, that I am not who you would have chosen, given different circumstances. But I will do everything within my power to make you happy, Frederica. From this day until my last, and even beyond if I can help it.”
She traced her fingers over the slash of his cheekbone, the divot in his chin. “This is precisely the life I have always wanted, and you are the only man I would ever choose. I love you, Duncan, with all my heart, with everything that is in me.”
“That day in my office, you told me you wanted to wed a paragon, and Christ knows I am far more sinner than I could ever be saint.”
He had remembered. It was a day she would never forget. Thinking of it still made her cheeks go hot and a pulsing ache throb between her thighs. “I told you I wanted someone who is caring, who is kind. Someone who will not frown upon my writing. A man who will champion me rather than attempt to silence and stifle me. A man who is bold and adventurous of spirit. That is what I said that day, and the man I described is you, my love. It has always been you.”
His expression turned fierce. “I love you so damned much, Mrs. Kirkwood.” His thumb swiped gently over her lower lip. “But you have some of it wrong, I am afraid. I am not kind. Nor am I particularly adventurous, though I shall gratefully rectify that as long as you are willing to help me and a bed is nearby.”
“You are wicked, too. I do think I neglected to mention that trait, also quite dear to me.” She ran her fingers through his thick, golden hair, allowing the silken strand to sift gently back to his scalp. “But you are kind indeed, and I have always known it. Mr. Hazlitt told me about the foundling house you built, and of all the funds you have given to women and children in need.”
His jaw tensed, a flush rising on his high cheek bones. “Hazlitt bloody well should have held his tongue.”
“I am grateful he told me.” She kissed him, a quick though fervent peck. How c
ould he see himself as anything but the good, honorable man he was? “It makes me love you more. You may dress in black, but your heart is pure as snow.”
“I do not know about that.” His lips met hers again. “My heart wants to do some wicked and depraved things to you tonight.”
Anticipation coiled within her. “Then perhaps you should, husband.”
“With pleasure.” Before she realized what he was about, he scooped her into his arms and turned, carrying her toward his chamber. “Tonight, I want you in my bed, where you belong.”
She buried her face against the strong cords of his throat, pressing a kiss there, where the throb of his pulse reminded her of how vital, alive, and necessary he was. How beloved. “I love you.”
He set her gently on her feet alongside his bed, and then his mouth was upon hers, fierce and hungry. Their hands traveled over each other’s bodies, tugging open knots, discarding silk, until there remained no more impediments between them. And then he lifted her onto his bed.
She had a moment to feast on the glorious sight of him naked—his long legs and thick thighs, broad shoulders and sculpted chest, the lean plane of his abdomen, and the long, beautiful jut of his cock—before he joined her, settling between her thighs. “You are mine, angel,” he said, dropping a kiss on her knee. “Here.” Higher, trailing delectable nibbles over her thigh. “Here.” Over her belly, worshiping one puckered nipple and then the other. “Here, too.” Back down her body he traveled, setting her aflame as he went. He kissed her mound. “Especially here.”
Words fled her as he suckled the hidden bud, drawing a taut burst of exquisite pleasure through her. His finger slid through her folds, probing gently at her entrance as he sucked and laved and nipped, working her into a frenzy. More. She needed more. Him inside her.
She twisted her hips off the bed, and he gave her what she wanted, his finger sliding wetly to the hilt. But it was not enough. He seemed to sense her building need, adding a second finger, gently using his teeth. Her core contracted instantly, a series of breathtaking spasms rocking through her as she spent.
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