Leonora stared at her, mouth agape, her fan stilling in its frenzied motion. “It is worse than I feared, then.”
“The club is not as bad as you may think.” Frederica frowned, growing rather irritated with her friend for all her naysaying. Did she not understand Frederica wanted to dream? She had lived more excitement in the last few days than she had experienced in the entirety of her days on earth.
“I do not speak of the club,” her friend said lowly, through gritted teeth. Her gaze flitted over Frederica’s shoulder for a moment. “I speak of you, Freddy. You have feelings for him.”
“Of course I do not,” she denied hastily, shocked Leonora would even suggest such a ludicrous possibility. She had known him for mere days. That was not time enough to…a sudden ache in her breast told her she was wrong. She should know better than anyone the heart did not care about time, distance, funds, titles, or any of the other trappings of society.
“Hush now, here comes Lord Willingham,” Leonora murmured, lifting her eyebrows meaningfully.
Bother. “Have I time enough to feign a need to attend the lady’s withdrawing room?”
One could always dream.
Leonora gave a small shake of her head.
Frederica stiffened just as the earl appeared before them, offering a bow.
“My Lady Frederica, Lady Leonora,” he greeted in that signature manner he possessed, as if he were paying them the utmost compliment by his mere presence.
His purple coat and emerald breeches were an affront to the senses, in keeping with his usual attire. His thinning brown hair was untamed, the ends reaching skyward as if pleading for the intervention of a higher power. His cravat nearly touched his chin. It had been precisely six days since she had last laid eyes upon this preening rooster of a man, and his appearance before her now was far too soon.
She curtseyed. “My lord.”
“Would you care to take a turn about the room, my lady? We shall fetch some lemonade if you prefer.” He turned to Leonora, condescending. “Pity you cannot accompany us, my lady. Shall we bring a glass back for you as well?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” said her friend, not showing a hint of insult at Willingham’s thinly veiled reference to her limp.
Frederica narrowly resisted the urge to stomp on his instep in retribution. Instead, she allowed the earl to guide her on a meandering journey around the outskirts of the festivities.
“That was most unkind,” she snapped when they were beyond Leonora’s earshot.
He leaned toward her, and the scent of his cologne—cloying and spicy—tickled her nose. “Forgive me, but I have been in a dreadful state these last few days, missing you, my dear. I was most disappointed when you were not at home after I called to take you for a drive two days ago.”
With her father absent and her mother a flimsy guardian easily distracted by the beacons of Bond and Oxford Streets, Frederica had taken advantage of the opportunity to refuse Willingham’s overtures. She feared a ride with him would only mean more unwanted kisses from which there was no escape, and so she avoided him instead.
“I do believe the turtle soup I ate at the Farthingale supper was spoilt,” she lied blithely. “I fear I was far too ill for a jaunt.”
“Of course, my dear lady,” he said, but there was an ill-disguised note of disgust in his tone. “I am indebted to Blanden for bringing you to this ball at my request.”
Blast her brother. That explained his sudden desire to be in attendance this evening. Et tu, Brute?
“Yes,” she drawled, taking great effort to keep her irritation from her expression and voice, “it was lovely of him to intervene.”
Frederica’s gaze roamed over the earl’s face, searching for signs of resemblance to Duncan, and found none save the dimple marking the tip of his chin. How could one brother turn her body to flame whilst the other made her stomach curdle? Duncan was taller, broader, stronger. His was a lean, powerful grace cloaked in elegance and dipped in darkness. Lord Willingham was, by comparison, a court jester.
“I am hoping, my lady, to speak to your father when he returns from Oxfordshire,” Lord Willingham said then, stopping to retrieve a watery lemonade for Frederica, one for himself, and another for Leonora.
He wanted to speak with her father. As soon as he returned.
Why, that would be in just two days.
Two days until her freedom ended. How could it be? She tried to envision a life in which she was married to the earl. In which she was Lady Willingham. In which he could press his cool, flat lips to hers and do to her as he wished. Her gaze dipped to his mouth, which was unsmiling and glinting with saliva. Why were they always so wet?
Frederica took a lengthy sip of the lemonade, finding it far too tart. Nothing but bitterness, much like the emotions blossoming inside her. She felt as if she was going to be ill. Her stomach clenched, bile rising in her throat.
“My lady? Would it please you?” he pressed.
No, it would not please her. She thought of his hands on her, how tight his grip had been, the purple half-moons left behind by his fingers. His words. You will learn to enjoy it, my dear. I will make certain of it. More threat than promise, she feared.
She swallowed another sip of lemonade, wishing it was Duncan’s fiery whisky. Wishing she was there, at the Duke’s Bastard, trading wits and kisses. Wishing, for once in her life, she could be free.
But she was Lady Frederica Isling, daughter to the Duke of Westlake, soon to be married to the Earl of Willingham, and she could never be free. She forced a smile to her lips, stared into his flat brown eyes, wishing they were blue. “Nothing would please me more.”
*
She had not come.
Duncan sat in his chair, gulping a whisky, rage burning through him like the fires of hell. But the whisky did not numb him. Nor did it do a damned thing to mitigate the fury scorching him alive. Around him, his club bustled, business as usual. The dice dropped. Cards shuffled. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of voices barely seeped into his awareness. All he could think was that she was not there.
It was to have been their final evening. The last time he would ever see her. He had attempted to resign himself to that unwanted reality ever since he had watched her delicious arse flounce out of his office the night before. Without success. And now, she was the only one in his thoughts. Plaguing him. Calling to him. Taunting him.
His name on her lips had been pure poetry. He could still hear it now, the throatiness of her voice. Duncan. And Christ if it didn’t make him hard, right then and there in the midst of all his patrons on a bustling evening, with not a woman in sight except for the one haunting his mind.
Bloody, blazing Beelzebub.
The carriage he sent for her at the arranged time had returned empty. His driver offered no explanation. His lordship had failed to appear, reported Marmot to Hazlitt. The conveyance had lingered for three-quarters-of-an-hour. Finally, needing to take a piss, Marmot had returned to the club.
Can’t take a piss on the street in Mayfair, wot?
Hazlitt had guffawed as he related the last, expecting Duncan to laugh as well. On another day, in another time and place, had the empty carriage not been missing one Lady Frederica Isling—the woman he had brought to a deliriously lovely spend the night before—he may have been amused. As it was, he could still taste her on his tongue, could still smell the sweet, musky perfume of her slick flesh.
To say Duncan was in a foul mood would be an understatement. He was furious. Outraged. In the blackest humor of his life.
He could not remain in his office, for sitting at his desk reminded him of the sight of her upon it, legs spread, sex pink and glorious and ready for his tongue. He could not stalk the hidden hall with viewing slots, for her ghost was there as well. It was where he had first kissed her.
Even in the main gaming hall, she was there. It was where he had laid eyes upon her. And though it had been mere days before, she had already become an inextricabl
e part of his world.
He was not sure how it happened. Christ knew he had not wanted to allow her to affect him, had not wanted to soften toward her. He, who had prided himself upon having no softness in his life. She was the means for his revenge, the retribution he had been seeking for twenty years as hatred and bitterness had eaten away at him.
Why?
The question, unbidden, surged. He could not tamp it down, no matter how hard he tried. Why did it have to be her? Why was the one woman who set him aflame also the one he needed to gain what he wanted, his worthless sire begging him on hand and knee?
He drained the remnants of his glass, about to signal for another, when his gaze lit upon a familiar figure. An arse, to be specific. Curved and full and high, ill obscured by the coat tails. Luscious calves beneath white stockings, trim ankles. No spectacles perched on her delicate nose because she had left her second pair in his office the day before, and those, too, he had scavenged alongside a forgotten manuscript page like a vulture, two more objects in a growing collection he would use against her. His prick went even more rigid, springing against the fall of his breeches. His body knew before his mind—it was elemental. Inevitable. Unavoidable.
There. She. Was.
And she had come without the benefit of the safety his enclosed carriage and driver would have provided her. He shot to his feet, his empty glass and need for another whisky abandoned. His body and his mind collided. Mine said something deep inside him. Mine. Each footfall that brought him closer to her rang with finality. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Until she was close enough to touch. He wanted his arm sliding around her waist, her soft curves nestling into his hardness. Wanted to draw her against him, stake his claim, but at the last moment, he recalled she was dressed as a man.
Instead, he drew alongside her and lowered his lips to her ear, in such proximity his lower lip brushed over the delicate whorl. “Are you looking for someone, my lord?”
She stilled. Swallowed. “Yes, in fact, I am. The owner of this establishment.” She sent him a flirtatious glance that landed in his cock and ricocheted throughout his body. “Do you know him?”
He ground his jaw, lust for her rising so strongly within him he could scarcely maintain his focus. “Aye. Promise me something first?”
Her expression turned wary. “What promise would you have from me?”
“If you ever take it into your foolish head to traipse about London alone again, come to me first. You need but to send a servant. I will make certain my staff is aware Lord Blanden and Lady Frederica both have the use of any carriage they wish, on any day, at any time.” The notion of her gadding about in hired hacks made his skin break out in a cold sweat. Even if he would never see her again after this night, he would have the solace of knowing she was safe.
Her brows rose. “That is a generous offer indeed. One I cannot accept.”
Duncan was not in the mood for opposition. “You can and you shall. Promise me, or forfeit your final day of research, and I will send you home at once.”
Her lips compressed, and she was silent for a beat before giving a jerky nod. “Very well. I promise.”
Thank Christ.
A tiny measure of the disquiet inside him abated. “Excellent. Now come with me, if you please.”
That particular battle won, he stalked away from her, knowing she would follow. Trusting it the same way he trusted each new breath would rise and fall, filling his lungs, giving him life. The same way she did. He could not deny it. All the darkness in him had vanished the moment his eyes had lit upon her form. She was there after all, and though he fully intended to reprimand her for not arriving safely using his appointed carriage, he could not deny the delight—the sense of rightness—bubbling forth within him.
Through the din of drunken revelers they went. He did not stop until he burst inside his office, throwing the door wide and stalking inside. When he spun on his heel, she was there as he knew she would be, her countenance hesitant. Her eyes searching his. She closed the door behind her.
Wise lady.
He stalked toward her, unable to resist. Bloody hell, but he was in a frenzy. He did not stop until she was within reach, though he did not touch her. “Where were you?”
Duncan did not intend for his question to reverberate like a demand, but it did, snapping and humming in the air around them. He waited for her answer. For her excuse, certain nothing would be sufficient.
“My brother escorted me to a ball,” she said solemnly. “At the behest of the man who wishes to make me his wife, it would seem. I had no choice but to attend.”
The need to commit violence rose inside him, stark and strong and undeniable. His hands clenched into fists at his side. The reminder that she was not his, and that she would one day soon become another man’s, killed him. It hit him in a vulnerable part of himself he had not even been aware existed. He closed his eyes, counting inwardly to ten, willing his anger and resentment to abate.
To twenty when it did not.
Then to thirty after that.
Fifty.
One hundred.
Fuck.
“Did he touch you?” he growled.
It was not what he intended to say. Not what he meant to ask. Indeed, even if the bastard had touched her, it was none of Duncan’s business. He could do nothing, say nothing about it. Of course she would wed another man, and it was well beyond his control.
What would she do?
Marry Duncan Kirkwood, the bastard son of a duke, gaming hell owner, man who had never given a bloody damn about the rules by which she had lived her life? Laughable, for he did not wish to marry anyone.
Did he?
The notion did not disturb him nearly as much as it ought. Indeed, it had rather a different effect entirely when he joined marriage and Lady Frederica in the same sentence. When he thought of making her his. Forever. Was it the idea of possession that thrilled him, or was it binding himself to Lady Frederica?
“No,” she said softly. “He did not touch me. Not as before. There was not opportunity, and I made certain he did not take one. We danced. He fetched me lemonade.”
Her words did nothing to ameliorate the warring emotions inside him. He did not want any other man to touch her. Ever. And she had indicated the suitor had forced unwanted attentions upon her previously. That thought set his teeth on edge.
He wanted her to be his.
Alone.
It was a hell of a development. One he did not know precisely what he could do with just yet. One he could not act upon. Not now, and likely not ever. For to do so would be nothing less than sheer folly. Would it not? Of course it would. She was the means by which he could at long last watch the bastard who had sired him pay for all his sins.
Every last one. Especially the sins against Duncan’s mother. He would exact extra penance for those when the time came.
The breath he had not realized he had been holding hissed from him. “This is your last evening here at my club.” He said it because he needed to hear it. Needed to acknowledge it. Perhaps in so doing, he could convince himself never seeing her again was best for him. Best for the both of them.
“Yes, it will be the last,” she agreed quietly. “My father returns tomorrow, and I expect my betrothal will be announced soon. I must thank you for your kindness in allowing my trespass here at your establishment.”
Her affirmation somehow set him on edge even more than he already had been. He did not want it to be the last, damn it all to hell. Nor did he like the detached manner in which she spoke, as if they had never kissed. As if he had never tasted her.
“Kindness,” he repeated, his lip curling, thinking of what he must do, how he would betray her to gain what he wanted. “I am not a kind man, Lady Frederica. I would think you wise enough to recognize greed when you see it.”
Show her the floor, urged a voice inside him. Allow her to roam for the evening and complete her research. She is the key to everything you have ever wanted. See her fat
her upon his return and gain your revenge at last.
He knew he ought to heed the voice, but what if she was the key to everything he had ever wanted in more ways than just one? What if he could have his vengeance and her both? The question was too dangerous to entertain, too fraught with implications he did not dare to examine.
She stared at him with her fathomless gaze, seeing him in a way no other before her ever had. “I do not think you are greedy at all, Duncan. Nor do I think you unkind.”
She would change her mind if she knew he was using her to gain what he wanted. If she knew she was his pawn. If she ever learned the truth, she would hate him. Her every memory of his touch and his kiss—the passion he had awakened within her—would burn and fade into ash.
But he did not want to think of that now, because she was wrong about him. He was greedy when it came to her. She had called him Duncan, and she was staring at him as if she longed for him every bit as much as he did her. It was an ache in his loins, a fire in his veins, like the waters of a river flowing, leading him inevitably forward.
“If I was kind, I would not do this.” He closed the distance between them, framed her lovely, pale face in his hands, and lowered his mouth to hers.
She opened for him with a sweet sigh, her lips moving against his in a wild, untutored hunger that only made him want her more. His mind could only comprehend small, violent bursts as a rush of pure need washed over him. Violets. Warmth. The tart bite of the lemonade she had consumed earlier. His tongue against hers. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, wishing he could consume her.
The kiss deepened. They were moving backward as one, his hands still on her hot, smooth skin, their mouths never parting. Toward his desk. Tongues dueling. Breaths intermingling. Desperation lit like a flame. Shame burned him. This was wrong. He was wrong for her, and he knew it. Kissing her was wrong. Wanting her was wrong.
Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection Page 35
