Something about her words and the luminous sheen in her eyes caused a lump to settle in his throat. A strange sensation unfurled within him, one entirely foreign. He swallowed. Took a step away from her, rolled his shoulders, which seemed suddenly constricted by his perfectly cut coat.
“Three additional visits and the use of my carriage,” he snapped, resenting her for the effect she had upon him. For the weakness she somehow created in him, a softening he had not suspected himself capable of possessing any longer. “That is my final offer, Lady Frederica. Accept it or leave it.”
She was silent, her expression contemplative, for far longer than he deemed necessary. But then at last she smiled, and damn her if that smile didn’t take his breath.
“I shall accept, Mr. Kirkwood.”
Why, in the name of all that was holy, did he find the pink mark on her upper lip so bloody adorable? And why did her triumphant tone make longing roll through him?
This was, quite possibly, the worst decision he had ever made in his life.
*
What had she been thinking? Frederica could not help but wonder the next evening when the unmarked brougham awaiting her opened to reveal another occupant already inside.
A black-clad, impossibly debonair occupant with a smoldering blue gaze and lips she ought not to have imagined kissing the night before when she had been alone in her bed. Lips she could not help staring at now as a flush spread over her cheeks.
Frederica gaped, pressing one hand to her fluttering heart and using the other to tug down her hat in an effort to shade her face. “Mr. Kirkwood!”
In her shock, she forgot the necessity of lowering her voice lest anyone overhear her and question the feminine tone of the gentleman she pretended to be. Blast. She cast a furtive glance around her to make certain she had continued to go undetected. This was, without doubt, the riskiest decision she had ever made in her life.
Nothing seemed more dangerous than entering a confined space with Duncan Kirkwood.
“My lord.” He quirked a brow, an edge of impatience creeping into his tone. “Are you going to get into the bloody brougham, or do you intend to stand on the street? You are already twenty minutes tardy.”
She had not been able to arrive at the appointed time since her mother had returned early from her daily shopping expedition. Mother had even dined with her, being surprisingly solicitous rather than dashing away to add her spoils to her ever-growing collection. Her latest obsession was fans. At last count, she had one hundred and seventy-three of them. Most of them had never been used.
“I was unable to escape without notice,” Frederica explained warily, not wishing to delve too deeply into her mother’s eccentricities. “Forgive me, sir.”
“Damnation, I am regretting my uncharacteristic munificence for at least the hundredth time today,” he snapped, irritation as evident in his tone as it was in his bearing.
Oh, dear. She had a decision to make. She could either step up inside the carriage with the depraved owner of a gaming club—a man who did not blush or flinch at watching his patrons engaged in that amorous occupation which ought to be reserved for husband and wife alone—or she could turn and flee, forgetting she had ever made such a ruinous decision. She truly didn’t have a choice, did she? The Silent Baron needed this research.
Moreover, whispered an insidious voice inside her, when will you ever again get the chance to ride in an enclosed carriage, utterly alone with Mr. Duncan Kirkwood?
She ignored the voice and her sense of self-preservation both, and mounted the steps. In two breaths, she was within, and there was nowhere to sit but alongside him. She swallowed as she settled herself as near to the window of the conveyance as possible. But he was so large, and his thigh, well-muscled and thick beneath his perfectly tailored breeches, nearly touched her.
His driver shut the door, leaving them in privacy.
“Nothing to say for yourself this evening, my lady?” Mr. Kirkwood asked.
His query jolted her gaze from her inappropriate examination of his thigh and the fit of his breeches to his face. She frowned at him, wishing his delicious scent did not permeate the air. Wishing he was not in such devastating proximity to her. Wishing she had more ability to resist his undeniable allure.
She cleared her throat. “Forgive me for my tardiness, sir. My mother delayed me by spending more time with me this evening than I anticipated. I was forced to wait until the appropriate moment to slip away from Westlake House unnoticed.”
His mouth remained tightened. “I am of half a mind to deduct one of your three visits as punishment. My time is too valuable to be wasted.”
What must it be like to be in complete control of his future? To be the master of his own fate? How glorious it must be to be Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, the man on all London’s tongue, splashed across every gossip page, wealthier than most lords, feared and respected by his patrons and employees alike.
“I am sure your time is of great value, Mr. Kirkwood.” She frowned at him. “I was not aware you would be awaiting me.”
He raised a brow. “You imagined I would leave you unchaperoned? What manner of gentleman do you think me?”
She looked away from him, down at the idle hands in her lap, but then could not resist watching him once more. “You hardly qualify as a chaperone, Mr. Kirkwood. This arrangement is most scandalous. Why, your limb is nearly coming into contact with mine, and the entire carriage smells of amber, musk, and lemon. It is a very agreeable scent, I must admit, but could you not find something more subtle?”
His lips quirked once. Twice. “You find my scent agreeable, Lady Frederica?”
Oh, drat. Why had she mentioned it? Her mind was overtaxed. Burdened by her nightly deceptions and the risk of being caught, surely. “Overbearing is a more apt description, Mr. Kirkwood.”
“Ah.” His lips twitched again, this time developing into a full smirk. “I see.”
“No,” she huffed, “you do not. It was not intended as a compliment, but rather as a reproach. You ought not to be so vulgar, is what I meant to say. Everything about you, from your manner of dress, to your cologne, is intended to attract attention.”
“Do I attract attention?” He stroked his wide jaw with a thumb. His gloves, too, were a deep, true midnight black. “Do I attract your attention, Lady Frederica?”
Of course he did, and the miscreant knew it.
The low timbre of his voice as he asked her the last question made a strange ache draw up inside her. “Why are you accompanying me, Mr. Kirkwood?” she queried instead, turning the subject to far safer matters. “You cannot have been serious when you claimed to act as my chaperone. Even a man who deals in sin for his bread knows what is proper and what is not.”
“As does a duke’s daughter, and yet it does not stop her from stealing away into the night, donning her brother’s ill-fitting clothes, and worming her way into walls behind which I deal my sin.” His tone had grown cool. A reproach, she thought.
She had displeased him somehow. Perhaps he did not appreciate the reminder of the path he had chosen in life. He was not wrong, however.
“Forgive my tongue, sir. I did not wish to offer you insult. I merely meant to speak plainly. You are correct, and I am acting in stark opposite to propriety’s rigid strictures. My only defense is as a female, half the world’s doors are closed to me. I cannot learn anything if I gad about as Lady Frederica Isling.”
He leaned toward her, his stare piercing, seeing through to the heart of her, it seemed. Or attempting to, at the very least. “Fair enough, Lady Frederica. You and your tongue are all too easily forgiven. In exchange for my absolution, perhaps you might enlighten me. Precisely what is it you wish to learn?”
Her cheeks went hot. There was much she wanted to learn, most of which she could not tell him. Her gaze strayed back to her lap. A far safer, less tempting place for them to land. She cleared her throat. “The inner working of your club so I may understand why men are drawn to it and how they can
go about losing everything they have in the name of one more game of chance.”
He made a chiding sound, as though she were a child to be reprimanded. “Come now, my lady. I have already told you, I’ll not have my club’s existence put in jeopardy to satisfy your missish sense of fairness. I will happily explain to you the rules to the games. But if you think to make trouble, I shall have the carriage turned around and you can return to your sheltered world and your closed doors.”
What manner of trouble did he truly think she could affect? She had not even finished her book, let alone found a publisher willing to print it. Perhaps none ever would. Her gaze flitted back to him, finding him regarding her with an intensity and warmth that filled her with an odd combination of excitement and foreboding. Why had this powerful man capitulated to her demands?
“I do not wish to make any difficulties for you, Mr. Kirkwood,” she told him softly, for it was true. She intended to be as unobtrusive as possible. “As I said, I merely wish to conduct my research.”
“Hmm.” He made another noncommittal sound, seemingly devouring her with his eyes. “Where is your mustache this evening, my lady?”
She pursed her lips, reminded of his two small thefts from her. “The disreputable proprietor of the wickedest club in London stole it from me.”
His lips quirked again. “Do tell.”
“Indeed.” She nodded, as if imparting a great font of wisdom. “I am currently en route to his club, with every intention of causing a great deal of uproar.”
This time, his mouth rippled, two dimples in his cheeks making an appearance for just a flash, gone so quickly she may have imagined them altogether. “I cannot say I find fault with the mustache’s absence, but I do not approve of this uproar you speak of. What shall it involve?”
She found herself grinning back at him, the knowledge she was capable of making his grim countenance soften with amusement—however brief—swelling her with pride. “I am afraid if I confide in you now, it shall spoil the surprise. You shall simply have to wait and see.”
“Well played, Lady Frederica,” he drawled, tipping his hat to her. “Well played, indeed.”
Chapter Six
The lady had a sense of humor.
Duncan would not have supposed it, looking upon her. For she seemed an odd little bundle of nervousness and propriety, of rebelliousness and caution. She was a dichotomy, Lady Frederica Isling. More intriguing than he could have supposed just yesterday.
For in addition to her daring and penchant for the absurd, along with her bewitching mouth, vibrant eyes, lush hair, and the loveliest arse in all Christendom, she was also intelligent. He discovered, as he allowed her the run of his private corridors and office, she was a true observer. She watched everyone. Studied everything, even the smallest nuances of someone’s facial features.
“That fellow over there appears to be up to no good,” she warned him now, her eye pressed to the viewing slot overlooking one of his faro tables. “His gaze is darting about, and I do believe he has been palming some of his cards up his coat sleeve. I have been watching him for nigh on to ten minutes, Mr. Kirkwood.”
She spoke of Viscount Weston. Duncan did not even need to press his eye to another viewing slot to be certain. He had been wary of Weston, a young dandy who had squandered some thirty thousand pounds in the last fortnight at The Duke’s Bastard only to have his fortunes suddenly turned. Neither Duncan nor his men had yet been able to prove the whelp’s treachery.
As he watched her viewing his patrons, dressed in her ridiculous coat and breeches, he could not help but think not of Weston and the cards up his sleeve but rather of the curves hidden beneath Lady Frederica’s disguise. Her finely shaped bottom was all he could discern.
“Mr. Kirkwood?” she cast a glance back toward him.
Their gazes clashed, and an unwanted rush of desire washed over him. He was aware of her in a way he had never before experienced. Bloody hell, he needed to regain control of himself. Two days after first spotting her within his club, and he was already giving in to her ludicrous demands to conduct research and following her about like a puppy at its master’s heels. Why had he felt the need to linger here in the dimly lit corridor with her, anyway?
It was locked for the evening, access to it restricted to just himself and Lady Frederica. There was no need to protect her or to watch over her. He ought to go about the business of running his club as usual. The Duke’s Bastard was a machine, it was true, but it was a machine that required him to keep all the parts moving in unison. Lingering here with her was doing nothing but inviting folly.
His cock hardened when she licked her lips, her eyes settling upon his mouth.
All manner of folly, some of it more dangerous than others.
He wanted her, and he could not have her, and it was making him churlish. The need to lash out rose within him, a desperate urge to undercut the heaviness of the moment, the false sense of intimacy that had fallen betwixt them. She was quality. An innocent lady. Not for him.
“Leave the management of my club to me, if you please, Lady Frederica,” he ordered with more harshness than necessary. “I have run The Duke’s Bastard without the interference of an overindulged duke’s daughter for years now, and miraculously, it continues to flourish.
Her thick lashes lowered, hiding the brilliance of her gaze from him, and he found himself hoping she would meet him with the reckless daring he so admired. But instead, her cheeks went pink. “Yes, of course.”
Her meek response, along with the undercurrent of hurt in her tone, cut through him. He instantly regretted his impulse. For all that she was foolish and brave, she was also young and pure. He was jaded. Older. He had raised himself up from the meanest streets, from nothing, to where he was now. He ought to have known better than to allow her to return.
He gritted his teeth. “I do believe the carriage shall be ready for you within the half hour, my lady. Prepare yourself to return.”
Her gaze jerked up from her study of the floor, wide and searching. He saw not a trace of manipulation in her expression, so different from most of the females of his acquaintance—the ladies who wanted a rough man’s hands upon them in the bedchamber but would never acknowledge him by day.
“I have scarcely had any time at all to research,” she protested softly. “Have I displeased you, Mr. Kirkwood?”
Lord God, if she only knew.
If she had an inkling of how much restraint he employed in this moment, how difficult it was to keep from pinning her to the wall and ravaging her sweet pink lips with his. From sinking his tongue inside to taste her, wrapping her legs around his waist so he could grind himself into the center of her as they kissed.
He swallowed. Conjured up images guaranteed to vanquish his fierce reaction to her, the discomfort in his breeches. He pictured his chef’s face. A dead fish being cut open. Recalled, in desperation, the fists of one of his mother’s paramours, smashing into his body when he’d been a wee lad.
At last, the overwhelming grip of lust began to dissipate.
“You have not displeased me,” he said gruffly then. “But you have distracted me. I am a busy man, Lady Frederica. This club will not run itself, and I have much work awaiting me. I have been more than accommodating.”
“Yes, you have.” Her voice was quiet, redolent with an emotion he couldn’t define, something soft and intimate. As if it were reserved for him alone. “I thank you for that.”
Her gratitude made him roll his shoulders, clench his fists. He did not know what to do with it, how to accept it. Duncan Kirkwood was not a man of kindness or generosity. He had spent his youth clawing to survive, and as a man of means, he remained loyal and true to one goal, his need for revenge.
“Think nothing of it.” He gave a flippant shrug. “I merely did not wish to have word of your murder or ravishment taint my club.”
It wasn’t true. He had wanted to see her. From the moment she had begun blustering, spinning her fantastical tale of an
ill mother and a Melancholius Ague, he’d been fascinated by her. How bitterly ironic that the one woman he was drawn to as no other was also the perfect means for him to secure the vengeance he desired.
Another emotion crossed her expressive features, and this one he could discern well enough. Hurt. But how could it be that he, the bastard son of a duke and a Covent Garden whore, had the power to wound a true duke’s daughter? Why would she care what utterances he spewed?
But then, her brilliant gaze searched his, probing, and he could not escape the notion she saw him. Saw straight bloody through him.
“I think you may have taken a liking to me, Mr. Kirkwood.” A small smile curved her luscious lips, and he was once more grateful he had filched her ridiculous mustache. A mouth like hers did not deserve to be hidden. “That is why I am here. That is why you not only sent a brougham for me but also accompanied it. That is why you are wishing me to leave in such a rush as well. I make you uncomfortable.”
Beelzebub’s breeches.
Heat rose to his cheeks. He, Duncan Kirkwood—who made grown men weep, who did not possess the capacity for sympathy, whose philosophy of life was to make the first cut with his blade lest he be cut, who had presided over orgies and commissioned chairs upon which his patrons could cavort, who dressed in midnight black because it matched his soul—yes, he was blushing before her like a maiden in a schoolroom.
“What an imagination you have, my lady,” he said coolly, irritated anew by his unwanted reaction to her, by the feelings she stirred within him. “Little wonder you have decided to try your pretty hand at scribbling.”
He intended for his condescension to nettle her. To send her on her merry way, never to return to his club or his life, never to cause him further distraction. Damnation, he already had what he wanted, what he needed from her. Prolonging the torture was unnecessary.
But Lady Frederica again proved to him she was a woman with mettle and determination.
Sins & Scoundrels Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Series Bundle Page 33
