The thought of her attempting to hire a hack made him want to smash his fist through a damned wall.
Her generous lashes lowered over her vibrant eyes, shielding her from him for a moment. “You promised me the use of your carriage whenever I wished it, did you not?”
Beelzebub’s breeches. She had outmaneuvered him. Had routed him with the cunning persistence of a military genius. “Not to come to this masque, damn you. This is not a proper ball where your infatuated swain will fetch you a ratafia as you’re being watched by the careful eyes of a dozen dowagers. This is a glorified Cyprian ball. The gentlemen in attendance are either in search of a mistress or have arrived with one. The women in here are the feasts laid before a herd of starving wild boars.”
The analogy made him grit his teeth, but it was true. To think someone could have touched her. Kissed her. Led her to one of the pleasure chambers. By God, what would she have done?
She stared at him, licking her lips slowly.
He tracked the movement of her tongue, feeling every bit the starved boar he had likened the other men in the chamber to. Where she was concerned, he wanted nothing more than to claim, possess, taste, touch.
Lick. Bite. Suck.
His cock went inconveniently hard, and he had no one to blame but himself and the lecherous bent of his thoughts. Damnation, his body was on fire for her. Everything in him crying out to haul her in his arms, throw her over his shoulder, and take her away from this debauched crowd.
“Arthur seemed rather kind,” she said softly. “Not at all like a wild boar. I do believe he may have made a thinly disguised reference to my bosom, however, now that I think upon it…”
A growl tore from his throat. He was going to bloody well hunt Arthur down and end him. Tonight. Duncan took Frederica’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together in a grip that was not as gentle as he intended. But he was a man consumed by lust and jealousy and the violent need to protect her, to remove her from this den of iniquity before it tainted her. Before she was ruined.
Ah, yes. There you are, Duncan, you fucking fool. Save her reputation so she can be married off to the milksop who forces kisses upon her and brings her watery lemonades.
He ignored the voice inside him and hauled her through the crush, intent upon getting her alone so he could send her on her way. She did not wear gloves, and why would she to an affair such as this, where many of the female attendees were practically naked beneath their dampened skirts? But damn it if the contact of her skin upon his did not feed the hunger for her that had already rendered him ravenous.
“Mr. Kirkwood,” she protested.
But any other words she may have said were drowned out in the din of revelers and the orchestra as it struck up another waltz. He did not care to hear them anyway. Inside, he was in tumult. She had defied him. Had returned. And for what purpose had she put her reputation and her innocence in such jeopardy?
Through the sea of faces, painted lips, bared bosoms, and black masks, he led her. Finally, he found the almost unnoticeable door in the western corner of the chamber that would lead him to the intricate series of inner halls that were the veins of his establishment. He opened it and pulled her through, closing the door at their backs. Tonight, the hall was dimly lit in keeping with the nature of the evening.
He could not see her in as great a detail as he wished, but it would have to do because he did not think he could make it another step. He whirled her so her back pressed against the wall. He followed her, pressing his body mercilessly to hers, knowing she could feel every hard, hot part of him pressing against her. His cock was rigid, and he did not spare her modesty. There was no room for anything less than the visceral betwixt them now.
“Why have you come?” he demanded, dipping his head until their foreheads met in a parody of the kiss his body screamed to claim.
She expelled a breath, and it was warm, champagne-scented. “I do not know.”
He recognized the tone of her voice. Understood that Lady Frederica Isling was not a female who ever took a step without rationalizing it and planning where it would lead her.
“Liar,” he charged softly.
His hands, of their own volition, had come to cup her face. Her skin was so soft, like the petals of a fresh rosebud. He wanted to stroke her, strip her bare. Taste and touch her everywhere. She was like a revelation. A miracle. A sacred text only he could read.
“Duncan.” His name slipped from her lips in a sigh.
Or an invitation.
It required every modicum of restraint to keep from slamming his lips to hers. “Frederica. Tell me the truth, damn it. You were meant to never return. Your reputation was intact. You conducted your research. What more could you want? Why are you here tonight, in defiance of me and everything that is right and proper?”
“I wanted to see you,” she said on a rush. Her eyes closed. “I need you, Duncan.”
Damn it to hell. Her admission robbed the air from his lungs. One moment, he stood still and silent, gazing down upon her as his world changed, and the next he was assaulted by an almost violent surge of want. Pure desire. Animalistic need. He wanted to lift her skirts, rut with her here and now, against the wall, mark her as his forever. Plant his cock and his seed deep inside her.
The realization shook him. He could not afford to want this woman, to take her for his own. Doing so would dismantle everything he had worked so hard to gain. He could not abandon his course. Not now. Not ever. Did not his mother deserve some retribution? Should not Amberley be made to pay for the manner in which he had abused, used, and abandoned a gentle soul with his own flesh and blood growing inside her belly?
He muttered a curse. Never before had he been so torn. So conflicted. “Why?” he demanded of her because he could not seem to keep the question within himself as he knew he ought. “Why did you want to see me again, my lady? Does the forbidden thrill you? Do you wish for a taste of passion before consigning yourself to the life your father would choose for you?”
Her eyes glittered up at him in the semidarkness. Tears. The realization made everything inside him turn to dust. He had never been a particularly superstitious man, but it seemed to him in that moment that a part of him died while another part of him was born.
“Perhaps I wanted to know what it is truly like before the right is taken from me forever,” she said, her voice hushed.
Damn her. She was making this difficult. Too difficult.
He made short work of her mask, flicking it from her lovely face without a hint of contrition. Spectacles, mustache, mask—he had stripped her of every barrier she used to keep her true self from him. She was on display now, just as he had imagined her since the first night he had caught her in his club, only a hundred times more lovely than his mind had conjured.
She was radiant. Persephone, goddess of spring and life, of fresh buds and turned dark earth and planted seeds and shoots of renewal. She was beautiful beyond description. She called to him as no one before her had. As he instinctively knew no one else after her ever could.
“What it is truly like,” he repeated, his voice gruff, laden with the promise of all he wished to do to her. To show her if he would but allow himself. “Tell me, Frederica. What do you speak of?”
He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, warning himself against temptation, but the scent of violets filled him. As did her breath, the frantic thump of her heart, the heat of her, radiating into him.
Her hands, which had previously been settled upon his shoulders, moved higher, locking around the back of his neck. “Making love.”
She said the two words so quietly he thought he must have misheard her. “Making?”
“Love,” she whispered. “I want to be yours, Duncan. Even if it is only for one night.”
Raw, unadulterated need pounded through him, fiercer and hotter and stronger than ever before. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing his lips to hers then, kissing her, open-mouthed and furious. He kissed her with all the longing bur
ning within him. With all the anger, all the confusion, all the frustration. He wanted her so much, and yet she could never truly be his, not just because of his quest for vengeance but because she was Lady Frederica Isling, daughter to the Duke of Westlake, and he was Duncan Kirkwood, bastard son of a Covent Garden lightskirt.
Because there was no world in which they could ever be one.
And if that bitter acknowledgment made him kiss her harder, and if it made his tongue slide into her mouth with a deeper insistence, and if she mewled in her throat and clung to him as if he was all she had ever wanted, who was he to deny it? His hands slid to her breasts, cupping them for the first time through her bodice. They were high and full, her nipples erect, hard little gems cutting into his palms. He tore his mouth from hers and planted it on her throat, inhaling deeply of her scent, warm woman and floral musk.
Bloody hell, he was lost. Lost in her. He planted kisses everywhere. Opened his mouth to taste her succulent skin, used his teeth upon her flesh. His hands roamed. Claimed. Every curve and swell, each new temptation comprised of sweet-scented, warm, womanly flesh.
He was aflame, the sizzling heat of desire licking through his veins. There was something about Lady Frederica Isling that made him want to claim her. To strip her bare, pin her to his bed, sink home inside her. To unleash his seed in her womb, an act which he had never before committed with another woman. An act he had never wished to commit, being the product of a loveless bedding himself.
“Oh, Duncan,” she whispered, her voice at once a soft balm and a promise of more.
Bleeding hell, how could he resist her?
And then another voice inside him whispered what if? What if he ruined her? What if he took her to his bed? At the least, it would keep her from an unwanted match with her forceful suitor, would it not? Moreover, there had always existed within him the niggling knowledge that leaving her innocence largely intact could mean her father would deny him the payment he wished in exchange for his silence. He had not wanted to damage her reputation or cause her harm, but how could it be so if the lady herself wished it?
A light began to burn within his darkness. Beseeching. Tempting. My God, I can have her. For one glorious night, I can make her mine.
He took her mouth once more, his hands tightening on her waist. She tasted of champagne, intoxicating and tart. His tongue slipped past her lips, and she sucked it. His cock twitched in approval. An innocent lady she may be, but Lady Frederica possessed the passion of a woman.
He tore his lips from hers, pressing their foreheads together so they remained nose to nose, bodies flush, their breaths mingling. Before he could do it, he needed to be certain she was aware of the consequences. She was reckless and passionate, inquisitive and bold, and these were characteristics that could often land one in a spot of trouble. “You do not know what you are asking, my lady.”
“I know well enough.” Her bright gaze burned into him, unflinching. “I do not want the life that has been chosen for me. Tonight may be my last opportunity to be truly free, and if it is, I choose you.”
I choose you.
His heart thundered, her words reverberating with each life’s pulse. The undeniable pull he had felt for her—right from the moment he had first seen her arse at his hazard table—increased, mingling with the fierce, primitive need to make her his. He needed to be inside her.
She made him greedy. Made him weak. In that moment, their skins touching, bodies pressed together, two hundred revelers on the opposite side of the plaster, he knew he had made his choice as well. An air of finality mingled with rightness.
Another thought jolted through him like lightning. Frederica’s brother, the real Lord Blanden, was in attendance this evening. How easy it would be to arrange for Blanden to accidentally discover Duncan and Lady Frederica in a compromising position? What better means of proving, beyond a doubt, he had compromised her?
He would never have taken her innocence, but if she offered it to him, would it not be the irrefutable, indisputable argument he needed to force Westlake’s hand? More so than threat and innuendo, the knowledge his daughter had been ruined would surely move Westlake to relinquish Amberley’s vowels.
Could he be so ruthless? She had asked him to bed her, not to ruin her. Could he hurt her to gain what he wanted? He searched inside himself and felt only the darkness blossoming and spreading, a nothingness where emotions should dwell. He could have everything he wanted, all at once. Frederica and his revenge. Both would be fleeting.
Duncan pressed a quick, hard kiss to her lips before withdrawing, taking her hand. “Come with me.”
And both would be worth the black marks upon his soul. Of that, he had no doubt.
Chapter Twelve
Their fingers laced together, Duncan led her through the labyrinth of secret halls and up a flight of stairs to a chamber she had never seen before. He released her hand to light a lamp. A warm glow spilled over polished dark wood. On a separate floor from the main gaming and pleasure rooms, it was nevertheless luxuriously appointed. A large bed dominated the wall.
A burst of warmth unfurled in her belly, leaving her tingling and terrified.
The door had scarcely closed behind them before he turned, crowding her with his large body. He framed her face in his wide palms, his handsome countenance inscrutable as he looked down upon her. He searched her gaze, it seemed, for the answer to a question that had never been posed.
“It is not too late, Frederica,” he said softly, and her name in his deep, dark voice sent a thrill through her. “One word from you, and I shall bundle you into my carriage.”
Guilt struck her then, an emotion she had done her best to suppress with champagne upon her arrival at his forbidden masque. Who would have thought Duncan Kirkwood, purveyor of vice and sin, would have possessed such a tender heart? Before she had met him, Frederica would not have believed it. But he was so much more than his reputation. It did not surprise her he was not simply taking what she’d offered. He was giving her every opportunity to change her mind, should she wish it.
She would not. Lord Willingham’s visit had made it clear to her what she must do. She regretted the necessity of involving Duncan, for deceiving him after all they had shared felt horridly wrong, but there was no other man she would have ruin her. And ruined she must be. It was her only hope of escaping the grim future of life as Lady Willingham, recipient of forced kisses, brutal touches, condescension, and heavens knew what else.
She did not want to know, and that was why she was here, body pressed indecently to Duncan Kirkwood’s, on her way to ruination. His scent, like his heat, invaded her senses. He was all she could think, see, breathe. She could be honest with herself; her decision to facilitate her ruination had not been selfless. It had been greedy, shameless, and wanton. She longed for Duncan, his mouth, his touch, his body.
For a brief, mad moment, she wondered if she ought to confess her plan to him, but fear he would not wish to aid her spurred her on. She told herself she had no other option.
“My lady,” he pressed, taking her hand in his once more and squeezing it. “Your final decision must be made.”
Ah, but hers had already been made before she had even entered his establishment earlier that evening. Everything was in motion, leading her inexorably to the next chapter of her life.
Onward, she promised herself. When her father was presented with irrefutable proof of her fall from grace, she felt certain he would have no choice but to forego any hopes of a match with Lord Willingham. And then, perhaps Frederica could at last convince her father to grant her freedom.
She shook her head. “I shall not change my mind.”
His jaw tightened as his gaze searched hers. “Good.”
His lips took hers. Hot, hungry, insistent. Devouring. She opened for him, tasting him, savoring the silken heat of his tongue in her mouth. Willingham’s hard, forced kiss had been as bleak as a winter day, cold and harsh. But Duncan was the voluptuous warmth of a summer day. In his
arms, she forgot about her plans. Forgot about the need to be ruined. In his arms, she came to life.
He kissed her breathless, raising his head to gaze down at her. His eyes glistened with possessive fire, his expression fierce. “I have wanted you since the moment I first saw you, dressed as a man, scribbling notes on your ivory pad.”
Her mind whirled at his revelation. Duncan’s kisses and his heady masculine scent had wrapped her in a fog. Facts and reality intruded, like cold little pinpricks. She was misleading him. Using him for her own gain. But if she managed to conduct her plan properly, he would never be affected. Indeed, he would never even know.
“How did you know I was a female?” she asked softly amidst a fresh twinge of guilt. Tell him, said the voice inside her. But the rational part of her knew she must not. If he knew what she meant to do, he would not be here with her now, looking down upon her with such tenderness and need.
And now that she was here, so close to him, their bodies pressed together, his lips near enough to kiss, his hands coasting up and down her spine in a slow, steady caress, she could not stop. She was a carriage, hurtling forward, propelled by her own selfish need for him. Propelled by the promise of the forbidden, the chance to know what it was like to be Duncan Kirkwood’s, even if just for one night.
Not even for a whole night.
Hours. It was all they had. Perhaps this was the last time she would ever see him, and that knowledge made an ache bloom inside her.
He kissed her slowly, deeply, taking his time. There was nothing hurried about this meeting of the mouths. When he withdrew, his thumbs gently tracing her cheekbones, he blessed her with one of his rare, beautiful smiles. “There are not enough false mustaches, ill-fitting coats, or hideous spectacles in Christendom to hide your beauty, Frederica.”
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