Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  He looked first, needing to be certain what she was about to see was suitably shocking. Within the scarlet chamber, two of his ladies had a naked Viscount of Eversley tied to the bed. One was dripping hot candle wax upon his chest and the other was on her knees betwixt his spread thighs, running her tongue over the head of his erect cock.

  Pity his lordship’s prick was on the smaller side. It would have been much more shocking for Lady Frederica to spy a Priapus rather than a Lilliputian. But some things simply could not be helped.

  Duncan stepped away from the viewing slot and gestured for her to take his place. “Here you are, my lord.”

  The scent of violets taunted him, perfuming the air. He slid the viewing slot closed and drew a chair forward. Some who made use of the viewing corridor preferred to be seated so they could discreetly pleasure themselves as they watched.

  “Take a seat if you please, my lord,” he invited.

  Lady Frederica frowned up at him, but she did as he asked, gingerly seating her bottom on the edge of the chair, as if it was fashioned of live hearth coals rather than the finest upholstery, stuffing, and wood. He opened the slot before her, unable to resist drawing nearer to her.

  Lust hummed through him, and it had nothing to do with the voluptuary scene unfolding on the other side of the wall and everything to do with the lady he was about to shock. Perhaps even horrify, though he hoped his inquisitorial minx would at least know a modicum of prurient interest. The moment crackled with intimacy, almost the way the air did in the midst of a lightning storm. Anticipation made his cock twitch. The mere notion of opening her eyes to the sins of the flesh aroused him in a way it ought not.

  “What am I going to see, sir?” she asked, frowning at him as if she did not trust him.

  Wise girl.

  “An education.” He reached out, plucking her spectacles from the bridge of her nose. “You may thank me later, my lord.”

  “Sir,” she protested. “I cannot see without them.”

  “Try,” he said, tucking the spectacles inside his coat. He had no intention of returning them to her, as he was reasonably certain she did not even require the damned things to see. They were now his spoils, along with everything else that would come of her ill-fated trip to his territory. “Press your eye to the hole, my lord, and tell me what you see. If you require the spectacles, I shall return them.”

  A fabrication, of course. But she had laid the foundation for deception, and he was merely playing this game of chance by the rules she had established. He watched with grim satisfaction as she tentatively leaned forward and placed her eye to the small viewing hole.

  He waited for a gasp.

  Waited for her outrage.

  And was met only with her silence and stillness.

  Duncan hesitated another minute more, trying to dismiss the fresh surge of desire her rapt attention for the depravity in the scarlet chamber sent through him. Was she watching because she was intrigued? Because—Lord help him—the salacious scene unfolding struck a chord of desire within her? Or was it because she had been telling the truth about the spectacles and without them, she could not distinguish a cock from a chair leg? He rather hoped it was one of the formers instead of the latter. The thought of her enjoying the wickedness unfolding before her made him impossibly hard.

  That simply would not do.

  He cleared his throat. Attempted to clear his mind. Failed abysmally, for the only question on his lips was a wicked one. “My lord, what do you see?”

  “I see a man cavorting with two women of loose morals,” she announced frostily, but still she did not move. “Good heavens, that is Viscount Eversley. He courted me…er, my sister last season.”

  His entertainment soured at the notion of Eversley flirting with and attempting to woo Lady Frederica. Eversley was a fop, and he gambled far too deep for his pockets. Duncan liked the man even less now he knew Eversley had been sniffing after the paradox before him. At least there was a season between them now, which meant either Lady Frederica had been wily enough to reject Eversley’s suit or Eversley had searched for a larger dowry and a less distinguishing mind elsewhere.

  Either way, he had not expected her to recognize Eversley, and the fact she had presented a quandary.

  “Naturally, you are aware anything you witness within these walls must remain here,” he was quick to remind her. The positions of far too many wealthy, important lords would be in jeopardy if their peccadilloes were ever to be made public.

  Secrecy, discretion, and a healthy respect for each other were core tenets of his club. Along with debauchery, sin, and overindulgence, of course. But if even one gentleman’s privacy was violated, Duncan’s entire castle could crumple and fall about his feet. If the men who spent and won their fortunes in his establishment did not trust him, they would no longer frequent it. If they no longer frequented it, he would be left with a hulking, expensive St. James’s Street building, a ridiculously costly French chef, hundreds of bottles of illicit whisky, the money he had amassed over the years, and not much else.

  But it would appear she was not in the least inclined toward bandying gossip about, not for the moment.

  “Good…oh dear, he is…oh my, she is…that is…heavens. I did not think it possible,” she was saying to herself, her eye pressed to the viewing slot. “This is most irregular, I feel certain, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  Yet, she did not look away. She held herself still, as if riveted to the wicked sights before her.

  It was the first time she had called him by his name, and he liked the sound of it on her tongue, delivered in her husky rasp. “Please do call me Duncan,” he invited, for he longed to hear that name on her lips above all else. He wished for a drink in that moment. A whisky. A brandy. A port. By God, anything.

  She gasped, the sound undeniably feminine. “Why is she sitting upon his face? How can he breathe? Mr. Kirkwood, you must put an end to this madness at once. I do believe that young woman is attempting to murder Lord Eversley. And whilst I never liked the fellow, I cannot countenance his demise as I watch on.”

  He almost swallowed his own tongue. She tore her attention from the viewing window at last, her stricken gaze meeting his. And he was in a hell of a state. His initial reason for bringing her here—vengeance, pure and ugly—was all but forgotten. His instincts were at war. Part of him wanted to ravish her here and now—as long as she was willing, of course, and spent at least half a dozen times—and part of him wanted to laugh.

  Hilariously.

  Uproariously.

  And so he did, giving in to the weakness he knew would be less dangerous to the path he had chosen for himself so many years ago. He laughed. Because she was so innocent and had no inkling of what she had just seen. He wondered if she’d even realized she’d been viewing two women and one man fornicate.

  “Precious, my lord,” he said, extracting a handkerchief from his coat and using it to dab his eyes when at last he’d caught his breath. “Your innocence is precious.”

  “You are not concerned in the slightest for the wellbeing of your patrons?” she asked, her voice high.

  He slid the viewing window closed, not wanting their dialogue to carry to the occupants of the scarlet chamber and interrupt their enjoyment of each other. “The Viscount is perfectly well, Blanden. Of that you can rest assured.”

  “How can I?” Indignant, she rose from her chair, forgetting herself. Forgetting her ruse entirely. “It seems to me that woman was trying to do him harm. He was making all manner of horrid sounds of alarm.”

  Dear God. He bit his cheek, wondering how he could respond. Wondering how his plan to shock the innocent Lady Frederica Isling and use her misguided adventure against her father could have gone so awry. He counted to ten inwardly. Then fifteen before he could be assured he would not laugh again.

  “My lord,” he said, doing a poor job of keeping his humor at bay, “I thought you would have understood the purpose of this corridor and the private chambers here at The Duke
’s Bastard. Indeed, I was certain it was why you had requested access to them. But perhaps you had not realized, in your innocence, the nature of the rooms and the activities within them.”

  “I…” she faltered, her full lips parting as she struggled to find her words. How he longed to kiss her, then and there. To press her to the wall and fuse their mouths together.

  But it was not meant to be.

  She was not meant to be.

  He knew this.

  “These chambers are used for pleasure,” he forced himself to explain. “Club members can choose a lady who appeals to them—or two or three—and bring the lady or ladies to their choice of private chambers for lovemaking.”

  Her face went pale. “My God,” she spat, her expression a humorous commingling of horror, disgust, and something else he could not quite define. “You truly are depraved, sir. Do you abuse the privacy of all your members in such an egregious fashion?”

  Of course she would think him guilty of spying upon his patrons. He clenched his jaw. “All who are watched are aware of the viewing slots. Indeed, they prefer it. They can choose which member watches, or they can decide to leave it unknown. Not knowing who is watching heightens the pleasure for some. Some members do not dabble in the sin of being watched. Thus, not every chamber possesses viewing windows.”

  She stared at him as if he had announced he was Hades himself, and he was about to spirit her away into the underworld. “Lord Eversley is not in danger?”

  Irritation pricked him. He disliked her protective inclinations toward the dark-haired lord. He was the antithesis of everything Duncan was, cock included. There was no need to be envious on that particular score. “No, the viscount is not in danger. He is being pleasured by two paramours at once. The sounds you referenced? Not alarm but pleasure, my lord. These rooms and viewing windows are dedicated to desire. Nothing more, and nothing less. Witnessing your shock, I can only suggest you leave this club and never return.”

  She stared at him for a beat, before her full lips pursed into a moue of displeasure. “No.”

  His brows snapped together. What in the hell? Surely he had misheard. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “I wish to return,” she said.

  He should stop her. Put an end to this. Here was his chance. He could inform her he was not fooled by her ruse and she treaded dangerously close to ruin. But she was daring, and she was lovely, her unusual eyes sparkling with intelligence, and he was a man who could appreciate bravery above all else. He was also a man who could afford to indulge his whims.

  Even when he knew he should not.

  He flashed her a grin, feeling like a fox who had entered a house of plump hens with no one to stop him from feasting. “When?”

  Chapter Three

  “I do beg your pardon, Freddy! You simply cannot be planning to return to that den of iniquity. To do so would be the height of ruin.”

  Yes, it would. But she was not about to allow caution to curtail her quest for knowledge. Frederica chanced a surreptitious glance about the brightly lit Riverford House morning saloon to ascertain their lady’s maids were suitably distracted and beyond earshot before answering her best friend, Lady Leonora Forsythe. Fortunately, their mothers were otherwise occupied—Leonora’s mother was abed in typical fashion, and Frederica’s was on Bond Street, also in typical fashion.

  She had paid a call to Leonora, as planned, following her foray into the villainous world of The Duke’s Bastard the previous evening. She’d just finished her full account, neglecting to mention how attractive Mr. Duncan Kirkwood was, for her attraction to the unsuitable man was a moot point.

  “Of course I am returning,” she confirmed, keeping her voice low. “I must take advantage of the opportunity available to me whilst it remains. With my father gone to the country and Mother preoccupied as usual, I have unprecedented freedom of motion.”

  That much was true, for her father’s rare absence and her mother’s obsession with shopping meant Frederica was left alone most evenings. Westlake House was blessedly easy to escape from, and she had returned without anyone—neither servant nor her mother—having an inkling she’d been gone. But the convenience and occasion were not her sole motivating factors, it was true.

  Duncan Kirkwood made her body perform strange, disturbing feats. His wickedness intrigued her. His darkness lured her. His masculine beauty took her breath. He made her wish for stolen kisses, sin, and freedom.

  None of which she had ever experienced.

  None of which she was likely to experience.

  All of which she wanted to.

  “It is dangerous, Freddy,” Leonora warned her unnecessarily. “Was not one visit enough?”

  No.

  Something she had not even known existed—some improper need deep within her—would not accept one visit to The Duke’s Bastard. One exchange with its enigmatic, black-clad owner. One opportunity to witness the secret side of life she had always suspected existed without knowing for certain.

  She had seen it.

  Yesterday. Surreal as it seemed now as she was dressed in a demure gown, paying calls as a proper lady should, a scant handful of hours ago, she had dressed as a gentleman, hired a hack, and known the terrifying, utterly freeing experience of attending a club, matching wits with Duncan Kirkwood, and witnessing the most depraved acts she could have imagined possible. She ought to be thankful she had not been discovered, that she had gone quietly and safely home with her innocence and her reputation intact.

  Instead, she wanted more.

  She wanted to know everything, to see Mr. Kirkwood again, to bask in his compelling presence.

  “I need to conduct more research,” she told her friend at length, but the words lacked conviction even to her own ears.

  “You cannot do it,” Leonora declared. Her white-blonde hair had, as was its wont, worked free of her coiffure to send a few stray tendrils of curls framing her lovely, heart-shaped face.

  She was kindhearted, intelligent, and soft spoken. A childhood injury to her ankle had left her bearing the cruel sobriquet Limping Leonora. Yet, she bore all with a singular grace and unparalleled sense of humor, always finding the laughter and lightness in every situation. No better friend, nobler spirit, or lovelier woman existed.

  But that did not mean Frederica was going to allow her to dictate what she ought to do in this instance. Even if her friend was right.

  “I must do it, Leonora,” she told her softly. “I want The Silent Baron to be as accurate as possible. It has to resonate with readers. How can I accomplish such a feat if I do not complete my research because I am too cautious to do so?”

  Again, a partial truth, her conscience nettled her. She did want her novel to be accurate. Because the baron lost his fortune in a gaming hell much like The Duke’s Bastard, it would behoove her to return and conduct additional research. She had just barely scratched the surface.

  But her motivations were not entirely pure, and she knew it. She wanted to see Duncan Kirkwood once more. He frightened her. He intrigued her. He inspired all manner of feelings inside her. Some of them were quite wicked indeed.

  Leonora’s gaze was shrewd upon hers, unflinching. “What more could you require for accuracy? You have successfully infiltrated a gentleman’s club, and without discovery. You now know how the inside of one looks, sounds, and smells. Gads, I imagine it smells truly terrible. Does it?”

  “Not terrible at all,” she said, smiling.

  And then she realized she was recalling his scent. Duncan Kirkwood’s. Yes, indeed, he had smelled delightful. But she could not recall what the club itself smelled like, and that realization was rather vexing.

  “At least,” she continued, correcting herself, “not the chamber I occupied. I was not long in the public rooms, and that is yet another reason why I ought to return and take additional notes.”

  “You were not long in the public rooms?” Leonora’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you then, Freddy?”

  Frede
rica swallowed. Oh, dear. She had withheld a lengthy portion of the history of her visit. Intentionally. But her friend’s clever gaze was probing hers, seeking more information now she had been teased with a glimmer. Blast her loose tongue.

  “Just in the public rooms for a bit, and then I lost my courage and fled to a waiting hack,” she lied.

  But Leonora knew her. And she knew Frederica was an abysmal liar. “Where did you go?” she demanded.

  “His office,” Frederica admitted at last, once more checking on the preoccupation and distance of their ladies’ maids. “He took me to his office.”

  Her friend’s eyes went wide. “Good heavens, Frederica. He did not…did he…”

  “No,” she hastened to reassure her. Though she privately wished he had taken liberties. Any liberties he wished. All the liberties he wished. “He was a gentleman. He did not recognize me, and he initially suspected I was not a member of the club. But when I told him I was the Marquess of Blanden, he relented.”

  Alas, not entirely true.

  But she could only imagine her friend’s reaction if she confessed he had led her to a secret corridor and encouraged her to view the sinful, lustful copulation occurring within the walls of his establishment.

  She had seen Eversley without a stitch of clothing, cavorting with two similarly unclothed females. Because he wished to be watched. She had witnessed his rigid…member. His maleness. And that woman had seated herself… Frederica flushed to think of what she had seen now, and her instinctive reaction to it. Part horror, part curiosity. Not for the dreadful viscount or the Cyprians with whom he romped, but rather for the notion such raw surrender to baser urges existed.

  Shameful, she knew, but she could admit it to herself if no one else.

  “I’m relieved no harm befell you, but my God, Freddy, even you must admit you cannot continue in this mad fashion. All it requires is one person to discover what you’re about. One servant catching you up at dawn. Do not ruin yourself, my dear friend. How can a novel be worth that?”