She had one more evening.
Perhaps she would not see him again before returning to the despicable monotony of her life as Lady Frederica Isling. The acknowledgment and the accompanying pang it sent through her fell into the recesses of her mind for a moment when her eyes unintentionally landed upon a packet of correspondence. The missive on top of the stack bore her father’s name.
What business could Mr. Kirkwood have with her father? Her fingers hovered over it, the wicked urge to snatch it up and break the seal dashed abruptly when the door to his office swung open.
There he was, clad in black as always, his brow knitted into a frown that did nothing to diminish his beautiful features as he stalked into the chamber and carelessly flicked the door shut once more at his back. She stood, sending some of her frantically written manuscript pages flying to the plush carpet like sad little birds too soon fallen from the nest.
“Oh, bother,” she muttered, hastening to scoop them up lest he offer to help and attempt to read her words. Lest he see himself in the debonair, rakish gaming hell owner.
“Lady Frederica.”
Her name drawled in his deep rich voice made her skin pebble into gooseflesh and an answering surge of yearning blossom in her core. She did not look up at him, ignoring his greeting as she attempted to concentrate upon the recovery of all her pages. Blast it, why had she not thought to number the pages of her scene? Now they would be a hopeless jumble until she spent time collecting them back into their proper order.
Gleaming black shoes, in the height of fashion, approached her, stopping alongside a sheaf of paper that was beyond her reach. She surged forward, crawling on hands and knees, but he was too quick, and his long fingers descended, closing on the sheet.
“No,” she cried out, scrambling to her feet and making an unladylike lunge toward him in an effort to recover her stolen manuscript page. “That is private material, Mr. Kirkwood.”
It was certainly not ready for anyone else’s eyes, having only been written. Moreover, with her rotten fortune, she was sure the page he held captive would also be the one bearing his description. She could hear her words, almost aloud.
He was a handsome man with a devilish air and a careless demeanor that hid a sharp, cunning mind. He bore an intelligence that belied his crude beginnings, a persuasive manner that could not fail to enamor all in his charmed presence…
Her ears went hot once more as he held the paper aloft and out of her reach, his frown deepening as his eyes settled upon the page. “What is this, my lady? You have been making free use of my ink and paper? This foolscap is quite dear, I will have you know.”
“I shall recompense you.” She made another ineffectual swipe through the air, rising on her toes to no avail.
He was taller, his arms longer, his reach well beyond hers in more ways than merely one. “In what manner?”
Her cheeks burned, too, her gaze flitting to his. Was he ungentlemanly enough to refer to the stolen kisses of yesterday? The kisses that were scorched into her memory forever? Did he dare suggest she pay for the pages she had used by kissing him again?
“If it is kisses you wish, perhaps you ought to request them from another,” she bit out, horrified she could not recall the undignified outburst once it had been released. Why, she sounded horridly jealous. Which of course, she was not.
“Kisses.” He lowered the paper, hiding it behind his back as he pinned her with his intense gaze. “An intriguing means of remuneration. I confess, it was not what I had in mind. But why should anyone other than you pay for the paper you have ruined without my leave?”
She pursed her lips, considering her response. “The paper is not ruined. I was passing the time by writing The Silent Baron.”
He quirked a brow, not appearing any further inclined to relinquish the page to her. “Ah. I might have known. Tell me, why the devil is the unfortunate fellow silent?”
“He loses the ability to speak,” she grudgingly offered, hating revealing her plot aloud so simply, for it did not sound nearly as majestic as her mind rendered it. “His country seat burns down, and he rushes inside to save the woman he loves. He fails, though he escapes with his own life. After, the baron is never the same.”
“How grim, Lady Frederica.” His countenance remained unsmiling, his gaze assessing as ever. The missing page of her manuscript was still being held for ransom behind his back.
“Life is grim,” she countered, for it was the bitter truth. Though she had been born to a world of privilege, it was not the world she would have chosen for herself. She had never truly felt as if she belonged. Societal constraints and expectations made her itch. The thought of marrying Lord Willingham made her ill. “The baron must do penance for his sins in one fashion or another, and the injuries he receives in the flames steal his capacity for speech.”
“And what would a cosseted duke’s daughter know of the grimness of life?” he asked, a mocking undercurrent to his delicious voice she did not like.
How she resented him for that question, for the assumption that wealth and rank necessarily brought happiness along with them. “Being forced into matrimony is rather grim, would you not agree, Mr. Kirkwood?”
“Forced?” His eyes seemed to burn into hers, so unnaturally light and bright.
She could not look away. “Forced, Mr. Kirkwood. Just as I said.”
He curled his upper lip in obvious disgust. “To the unwanted suitor you previously mentioned?”
He had remembered. True, the revelation had not been made many days prior, but it struck her that her reference to her would-be betrothed had remained imprinted upon his memory.
She grimaced. “Yes.”
“This suitor,” he began, saying the word as if it tasted sour on his tongue, “has he ill-treated you?”
Though his tone was calm, she detected an undercurrent of barely leashed savagery. She thought of Lord Willingham’s deft maneuvering on their drive so he could find a part of the park with enough privacy that he could force his suit. His hands had gripped her with a painful violence, his forced kiss as unwanted as his touch and courtship both.
For a brief, wild moment, she wondered what Mr. Kirkwood would say if she revealed the identity of her suitor. Lord Willingham had certainly never spoken of Mr. Kirkwood, and nor had the gaming hell owner ever mentioned his lineage, though the name of his club said it eloquently enough. She still could not reconcile the two men sharing blood.
“He has kissed me when I did not wish it,” she admitted softly.
Something indefinable flashed in his eyes. “Does your father not care for your opinion in the matter?”
She thought of her father’s ultimatum before he had left for the country. “He wishes to see me settled as soon as possible. I am afraid his choice for me is not my own, and having grown impatient, I must say no. He does not particularly care.”
“And who is your choice, my lady?” he asked, his voice as strained as his expression.
What an odd dialogue to be having with the wicked Mr. Duncan Kirkwood. If she did not know better, she would almost swear the man cared for her. But, of course, she knew better. She knew he only cared for his own gain, his own pleasure.
She considered his question for a beat. “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.”
For some ludicrous reason, the man she pictured inside her mind resembled Mr. Kirkwood in much the same manner the character in The Silent Baron did. Oh, dear. This would never do.
“Does this paragon have a name?” He stiffened, his entire body going rigid, a hardness that had not been previously present underscoring his words. “You need but tell me, and I can vouch for his integrity or lack thereof.”
Frederica shook her head swiftly. “He does not bear a name. There is no one.”
A slow, beautiful smile lifted his lips. “Good.”
She did not understand. “You are pleased a worthwhile husband does not exist?”
He shook his head, stepping forward, crowding her with his large, warm body. She retreated a step, uncertain of his intentions, every part of her screaming to remain where she was and raise her face to beg for more of his kisses. But then she recalled why he had been absent for so much of the evening. She remembered a beautiful, golden-haired woman named Tabitha, who had been the cause of his defection.
“I am pleased you do not have a suitor you are enamored of, Lady Frederica.”
His revelation was not what she had expected. It stripped her down, cut to the marrow. The question that had been eating her alive could be contained and ignored no longer. She set it free. “Where were you this evening, Mr. Kirkwood?”
His lips flattened, nostrils flaring, but the intensity of his gaze could have scorched her, set her aflame. “I was settling one of my ladies. She and a patron had an unfortunate clash. If you are looking for shame or an apology, you may continue your search elsewhere, my lady. I run a den of vice. The Duke’s Bastard is not a church, though men may come here to worship at the altar.”
“At the altar of sin,” she finished for him, her blood growing cold. One of my ladies. This reminder, like his absence, struck her in a way nothing else could. How easy it could be to forget their disparate circumstances. But she must not confuse her interest in him, his club, and the life he led for anything more.
“Sin indeed.” He stalked forward, sending her backward once more.
One step, two, three, four, until there was nowhere left to flee. The sharp edge of his wooden desk bit into her tender flesh. Her hands found the polished surface.
He planted his hands on the desk alongside hers, bringing the missing page within her reach at last as he pinned it to the surface. But all thoughts of repossessing it fled when he lowered his head until their gazes clashed at the same level. Heat and danger smoldered from him. He had never been more glorious.
“It is the reason for every patron’s attendance at my club, Lady Frederica. Sin. Depravity. Wickedness. Unless you have failed to realize it, you are so far from your sheltered world of balls and soirees and evening musicales. No one here gives a damn about propriety or dancing the minuet or sipping orgeat. The men here have assembled for one reason and one reason alone. It is how I have earned my bread all these years.”
The bitter sting of jealously was eating her alive from the inside out. “Did you kiss her as you kissed me?”
He stared at her, darkness rolling off him in waves. It was almost a tangible thing between them, the part of him he held at bay. “Who?”
“Tabitha,” she whispered, hating the name, hating the woman, her angelic face and her dampened skirts and her hands that seemed intent upon stroking a man’s… Good sweet God, she fervently hoped the woman had not…that Mr. Kirkwood had not… He did not seem to be the sort of man who sampled the wares of those beneath him, but it was true that many such men existed. “Did you kiss her?”
Please say you did not.
Please.
Please.
What a shocking demand to make of him. Did she have no shame? And why did she care so much whether or not he had dallied with the beautiful Tabitha? Why did the wait for his response seem to take a century? Why should the notion of Duncan Kirkwood kissing another woman make her feel ill?
His gaze glittered with emotion. “Nothing I did this evening is any of your concern, my lady. You are temporary. Fleeting. Like a candle’s flame. After tomorrow, you will be gone, never to return, and you shall have to find another unfortunate soul to torture.”
His words made her feel as if the floor had opened up beneath her.
But she persisted. His body, strong and lean and hard against hers, injected her with a rare fearlessness. “Did you kiss her?”
“No,” he bit out. And then in the next instant, his hands were cupping her face, insistent and yet gentle, so large and capable of inflicting hurt but nevertheless so tender. “You are the only woman I want to kiss.”
His words should not have thrilled her, and yet they did. Something warm and delicious shot straight to her core, reverberating in waves throughout her entire being. He had not kissed Tabitha, but he wanted to kiss her. Frederica Isling, wallflower and oddity. Female who felt more at home in gentleman’s garb, sneaking her way into clubs, spending most of her time on penning stories until her fingers were stained with ink and her vision went bleary.
Duncan Kirkwood had seen her—the true Lady Frederica Isling—in a way no other man had before him. In a way, she knew instinctively, no other man would after. She fell into his fathomless gaze. Lost herself in the intensity of the moment and the thrill of his regard boring into her.
The only words that made sense rose within her, begging to be spoken aloud. Foolish words. Words she may later regret. But she was beyond the point of caring. She set the pages she’d collected aside, somewhere strewn atop Mr. Kirkwood’s desk. And then she linked her arms around his neck, turning her face up toward his, her eyes dipping to his lips, so full and sensual, so kissable.
Hers.
That mouth was hers.
For tonight, even if it was now and then never again. She did not care. She would gladly pay any price for this one chance to sin with him.
“Then kiss me, Mr. Kirkwood.”
*
With pleasure.
He could not be certain if he spoke the words or if he thought them. All he was certain of was that he was going to seize her offering. Duncan tarried not a moment more. The instant the invitation had been issued from her gorgeous lips, he had gone mindless.
Every intention he’d had to keep a respectable distance between them vanished, replaced by his mouth on hers. Kissing her was a horrid idea. Altogether wrong. He endangered his opportunity for vengeance with each reckless moment of abandon, and yet he could not help but to want more.
Her lips parted for his questing tongue. She sighed into his mouth. Lady Frederica Isling tasted sweet and dangerous all at once, a thousand times more delicious than the forbidden fruit that was responsible for man being banished from the Garden of Eden. The Bible verses came to him now as he kissed her with all the driving need inside him. Voraciously. Ferociously.
For dust you are and to dust you will return.
He would gladly be the dust for this woman. She was a confusing clash of innocence and an inclination to sin, of womanly curves and male attire, of nonsensical stories and soul-jarring clarity. She was temptation incarnate, it was undeniable.
His hands were on her, moving from the desk to slide beneath her coat. His palms found her arse, and it was high and full, soft yet firm. He squeezed gently, catching her lower lip between his teeth and giving her a gentle bite. She made a startled exhalation that ended on a breathy sound of need he felt in his ballocks.
He forgot she was an innocent. The daughter of a duke. The means by which he could achieve the one goal driving him since his youth. He lifted her, setting her atop his desk, not giving a proper damn what papers she sat upon. They were either covered in her flowery script or marked by his rigid scrawl, and he did not care if they blotted out every word in the English language with their lovemaking as long as he could keep her here and ravish her to his liking.
And ravish her, he would. As far as he could go whilst leaving her innocence intact. She never should have told him to kiss her. Never should have bloody well invaded his territory from the first, pretending to be her brother, dressing as a man, inventing preposterous stories that only made him want her more. Because now he could not stop.
He inhaled violets and dragged his lips down her throat. The cravat had to go. Duncan kept one hand on her waist, her heat and curves tantalizing him even through the twin layers of her waistcoat and shirt. With his left hand, he plucked open the knot on her neck cloth—not even a passable Mathematical—and tossed it to the floor, leaving the smooth skin of her throat open for his exploration.
“Oh,” she whispered, her hands landing upon his shoulders, her fingers digging into his flesh when he licked the place where her pulse gave her away. “You should not have untied that knot. I need to reuse the dratted thing.”
“You ought not to return here,” he felt compelled to warn against her skin, even as he licked her again. She tasted different here, flowery with a slight tinge of salt. The best damn thing he had ever tasted, including any miracle Lavoisier had ever managed to whip together. “Can you not see, Lady Frederica? Coming here the first time was a mistake. Returning? Sheer folly.”
She gasped when the hand on her waist traveled slowly along her curves until he found the buttons of her waistcoat and undid each one. But she said nothing. Offered nary a hint of protest. Her fingers dug into his muscles, spurring him onward, it seemed. Heat rushed through him, the desire rising as fast and furious as a flood, sweeping away all else. Nothing remained—no caution, no conscience, no honor—nothing but the way she responded to him. Nothing but her delicious femininity awaiting his discovery.
But he wanted to pace himself. Wanted to go slowly for both their sakes. The pleasure between them could not be rushed. He kissed her ear, finding the soft lobe and taking it between his teeth before bringing his lips to the finely formed shell above it. “You stole my paper and ink, my lady, and you heaved my books to the floor.”
Yes, he had noticed the small evidence of her destruction. When he had first entered his office, he had been torn between irritation at her thorough purloining of his private office—sitting in his bloody chair, using his pen and ink and paper, tossing about his books—and immense satisfaction at the realization she was jealous of the time he had spent with Tabitha.
“Your man of business told me I was to make use of your office,” she protested on a throaty sigh when he ran his tongue along the dip behind her ear.
Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection Page 33
