But the victory was not a cause for celebration, for he had betrayed Lady Frederica by mere virtue of his visit, and he knew it. Beelzebub, he felt sick. Not just in his guts but somewhere deeper. In his chest. In his heart. This was not right. Ruining Frederica was wrong. Hades was not meant to leave Persephone behind. He was meant to take her with him, back to his underworld. Duncan could not resist one final glance at the Mayfair residence of the Duke of Westlake as he left, and as he did, he saw her pale face in a window, watching.
Every instinct inside him screamed to go back inside, to demand Frederica in addition to the vowels tucked inside his coat. But he knew he could not. He was not selfish as Hades had been. He would not consign her to his fate. She deserved better than a man who would use her for his own gain. She deserved better than a duke’s bastard, a gaming hell owner who daily tread the line between heaven and hell, a man who was more darkness than light.
And so, he turned his back to her, stalked to his brougham, and stepped inside. As it lumbered onto the street, he refused to allow himself to look back a final time. She was gone from his life forever, as she must be.
The documents he had traded for her innocence burned his chest like a brand. For the entirety of the ride to The Duke’s Bastard, he choked down the bile rising in his throat. When he reached his club, he stalked past Hazlitt and a host of others, speaking to no one. Not a damned word.
He went to his chamber, the chamber where he had taken her, where he could still smell violets and the musky perfume of their lovemaking from the night before. With not a moment to spare, he found the chamber pot, dropped to his knees, and retched.
Chapter Fifteen
Frederica stepped over the threshold of her father’s study, back straight, bearing stiff, prepared to accept her fate. A week had passed since the night she had attended the masque at The Duke’s Bastard. A week of forced isolation, during which she had not been permitted to leave her chamber. Her writing implements had been taken, as had the pages of her manuscript.
Mother had visited her once, armed with the spoils of her most recent shopping expedition: a dozen new fans. And she had come with an admonishment as well. You ought not to have made such a grievous mistake, Frederica. His Grace is settling your future now as he must.
Though she had begged her for more information, Mother had offered her nothing. She had, however, left Frederica the gift of a fan fashioned of bone and silk, embroidered with roses and embellished with spangles. As if the fan would cure her broken heart or soothe the worry gnawing away at her. She would have far preferred her mother’s love and reassurance, perhaps some intervention on her behalf, to the fan.
But her mother had given her all she was capable of giving, and Frederica knew it. She had waited in her chamber, trapped in the purgatory of not knowing what would become of her. She had no funds of her own, and nowhere to go, else she would have attempted to run. Fleeing was not the answer to her woes, but she was hopeful her inevitable banishment would be.
She had no doubt Benedict had related the entire, sordid tale to their father, and even if he had not, Duncan would have. From her window, she had watched him departing, inwardly pleading with him to glance her way. As if he had heard her, he had stopped and looked back. And then he had turned away, climbed into his carriage, and disappeared from her life. She had never known such a sickening sense of finality. The cold burst of grief in her breast. The sinking stone of dread.
She felt both now all over again as she approached her father’s desk. She felt every bit the prisoner she was, awaiting the reading of her sentence. She could only hope she would not be forced to become a companion for some gouty curmudgeon in the countryside. Anything, she reminded herself, would be preferable to becoming the Countess of Willingham. If nothing else, Duncan Kirkwood had spared her from that fate, and she would always be grateful for it.
She curtseyed to her father, whose countenance looked as if it had been carved from granite. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Frederica,” he snapped, his expression grim, his voice bearing the crack of a riding crop. “Seat yourself.”
Her relationship with her father had always been tepid at best. He was a man who was not easily pleased. His autocratic temperament made any softening of the heart toward him almost impossible. Frederica supposed it was why her mother attempted to bury her unhappiness beneath a mountain of fans.
“Seat yourself,” he ordered again, his voice raising and echoing from the decorated plaster of the ceiling.
She sat, her face going hot. For some reason, regardless of how much she aged, standing before her father awaiting her punishment made her feel like a shameful child who had broken the Sèvres and neglected to eat her dinner. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
“You have much for which you need be forgiven.” He was cold. Harsh. As unyielding as he had ever been. “How did you dare, my lady?”
She swallowed, held her head high. “I did not wish to enter a loveless marriage with a man who enjoys the suffering of others. I took the action I felt necessary to avoid such a thing.”
“The Earl of Willingham is a gentleman. Any lady would be grateful to take your place and become his countess.” His voice vibrated with the passion of his conviction.
But of course. To her father, a man’s lineage was the indication of his character. He was a duke, and he had made it clear to her in no uncertain terms that he expected her to become a duchess. Marrying her off to Willingham would have achieved such a feat, upon his inheritance of the Amberley duchy.
“You do not know Lord Willingham as I do,” she countered calmly. “He is aggressive with his attentions. There is nothing gentle in his conduct, and I find him repugnant.”
Her father slammed his fists down, sending a jolt of shock through her. “You will hold your tongue. You will listen to what I have to say. When I have finished my piece, you will thank me for the mercy I have shown you, and you will never again dare to disgrace this family, my lady. Am I understood?”
He was angrier than she had supposed. The fire in his eyes was undeniable. She wondered if he truly hated her in that moment. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Her Grace has pampered you,” he continued. “She has allowed you to run wild because you are her only daughter. No more, Lady Frederica. Henceforth, you will conduct yourself with the dignity and grace befitting a lady of the house of Isling. You will cease your lowly insistence upon writing a novel. You will marry the gentleman of my choosing. You will lead a quiet, respectable life from this moment forward.”
His words fell upon her like the weight of an anvil. You will marry…
He could not suppose she would still wed anyone, could he? Why, no man would marry her now, not knowing she had willingly lain with another.
…the gentleman of my choosing.
Of his choosing?
Panic swirled as she searched his inscrutable face, the eyes so like her own, the countenance that had never softened with love or pride when he gazed upon her. “I must be sent away, and I am aware of that, Your Grace. I will accept my fate, whatever you have decided it must be. Please believe that it was never my intent to bring shame upon you. I merely wished to achieve my freedom from a hateful marriage.”
“Her Grace allowed you to read too many books,” her father barked. “I can see that now. A learned woman will always attempt to usurp her betters, foolishly thinking herself superior. It is a trick of the mind, you understand. The wits of a female cannot hold a candle to that of a man. It is simply a part of the laws of God and man.”
Her mother had allowed Frederica to read books because she had been too distracted attempting to fill the emptiness in her life with things. Somehow, she had yet to realize that no trinket or bauble—not even a hundred thousand fans—would be her solace.
“It is my belief that a woman is capable of intelligent thought the same as any man,” she dared to dissent, even though she knew it foolhardy to do so in such a moment, and when she was powerless and entirely
at her father’s mercy.
If indeed he possessed such a thing.
“You are wrong, my lady.” His lip curled. “One need only look to your reckless actions for proof of that. Fortunately, however, no one need know about your folly. Kirkwood’s silence came at a price, but it was easily bought. No one is aware of your indiscretion aside from your brother, and he will certainly not utter a word to damage your reputation.”
Disbelief joined the dread churning inside her. Had she heard her father correctly? “But I am ruined, Your Grace.”
He raised a brow. “A lady is only ruined if word of her misdeeds spread. If no one is the wiser, who is to say she is ruined at all?”
The dread grew and grew until it pressed upon her with such force she feared she would cast up her accounts before her father. All over his desk. No. No. No. This was not right. “Surely a lady’s husband will discover such a thing on the wedding night.”
The smile curling her father’s lips was unkind. Triumphant. “By that time, it shall be too late.”
“You cannot mean—”
“I have spoken with Lord Willingham,” he interrupted. “He is under the impression you have been ill this past sennight, and he sends his regards along with his wish for a swift recovery. However, he is most eager to make you his bride, and I have accepted his offer on your behalf. The two of you shall be married in two months’ time.”
“No!” The shout emerged from her before she could squelch it, as if her denial of his words would somehow render them unspoken or any less true.
Fear ran through her, swift and fierce. Dear God, her father could not have agreed she would wed Willingham after she had been ruined by the earl’s illegitimate half brother, the owner of a gaming hell…it was not possible. But as she searched his features, she realized the ugly, awful truth. She had ruined herself to escape an unwanted marriage, and yet she had been too foolish to make certain everyone knew.
She ought to have attended the masque as herself, shouting her name to anyone who asked. Proclaiming her love for Duncan Kirkwood. Making certain the entire assembly watched as she left hand-in-hand with him, as if they were old lovers. She should not have gone quietly with Benedict, who she had supposed would protect her out of a sense of sibling solidarity. She should not have left that chamber at all.
“Yes, my lady,” her father said calmly. “You will be wedded to the Earl of Willingham in two months’ time. He will be calling upon you tomorrow to take you for a drive. You will be awaiting him, a welcoming smile on your lips. You have disgraced this family enough, and you will not, by God, do so again.”
“If I refuse to leave my chamber, what will you do?” Perhaps she possessed more daring than was wise, for the question had fled her lips before she could rethink the wisdom of it. “If I deny his suit? Refuse to marry him?”
“You will find yourself on the street, forced to live your life as the doxy you have become.”
One sentence. A handful of words. And they had the impact of a blade, stabbing her straight in the heart. Here before her was a man who had never cared for her. It was brutally apparent. Little wonder her mother sought solace in shopping.
“You would disown me because I refuse the suitor you have chosen for me?” she asked, her voice trembling with emotion she did not dare release. Not now. Not before him. She would not have him see her weak.
“I am doing what is best for you, my lady,” he told her coolly. “One day, when you are the Duchess of Amberley, you will offer me your thanks.”
She stood. “That day will never come to pass. I bid you good day, Your Grace.”
With another halfhearted attempt at a curtsy, she fled.
His ominous warning followed her. “You will accept Willingham tomorrow, and you will be grateful, biddable, and kind.”
Frederica did not answer, intent upon her escape.
It was not until she reached the haven of her chamber that her legs gave way and she collapsed to the floor in a heap of skirts and misery. Duncan Kirkwood had exchanged her entire life—her future, her happiness, her wellbeing, her heart—for a handful of gambling notes. For as long as she lived, she would never forgive him.
*
Duncan did not ordinarily drink himself to oblivion. In fact, his drink of choice was a warm cup of chocolate spiced with anise and a hint of cinnamon. Entirely innocent. Something more suited to an overindulgent, cosseted wife of a lord, he knew. Not the drink of a man who had clawed his way out of the gutters using nothing but his determination, his fists, and his ruthlessness. But at the moment, none of that mattered.
Indeed, nothing at all mattered, for he was drinking his fine Scottish whisky from the bottle as if it were mother’s milk. He swallowed down another burning dram, closing his eyes.
But even with his lids lowered on the familiar opulence of his study, he saw her.
The liquor did not make him forget. Frederica was everywhere.
She haunted him like the most vicious wraith. An entire month had passed since he had last seen her pale face lingering in the window at Westlake House. Since he had kissed her. Touched her. Claimed her. Since he had made her his.
Nay, she was not his.
She would never be his, for he had forfeited that right.
He had traded her for the stack of vowels on the desk before him. He blew out a breath of self-loathing and opened his eyes to the sight of Amberley’s scrawl on the documents that would leave the duke destitute. He’d possessed them for a month and had yet to do a damn thing about them.
Because obtaining them had not changed him. It had not left him feeling fulfilled or triumphant. Obtaining the I.O.U.s of his wastrel father did not bring back his mother. It did not ameliorate the senseless horror of her murder. Nor did it assuage the guilt that threatened to swallow him whole.
He had taken Lady Frederica Isling’s innocence, and though she had offered it to him, he had done so with avarice, using her as a pawn. Betraying her trust to her father. Leaving her behind, a lamb for the slaughter. He had become the man who sired him, driven by his own selfish wants and needs, willing to commit any sin to gain what he desired.
He drained some more of the bottle. The vowels remained, mocking him. Alongside them, he had all the bits of her he had thieved, two pairs of spectacles, a false mustache, three hair pins, and the page from her manuscript. More than once, he had held the foolscap to his nose, hoping for the fleeting scent of violets.
A knock sounded at his door. Likely a servant attempting to bring him supper, and he wanted none. He preferred whisky as his sustenance. Tipping the bottle back, he ignored the interruption.
Another rap came. “Sir,” the muffled voice of his butler, Pretty, arrived not long after, splitting the silence. “His Grace the Duke of Whitley is here to see you. He demands admittance.”
Cris.
Beelzebub. He did not wish to see his friend just now. “Tell him I am indisposed.”
The door flew open, and the duke strode past the hulking, hideous butler. “He will tell me no such thing, you bounder. Christ, you look terrible, Duncan.” He paused, raking Duncan with a gaze that saw far too much, he was sure. “Pretty, fetch your master some hot chocolate and a tray of food.”
“Er, yes sir.” Pretty executed a half bow. “Your Grace, sir.”
Having been born in the stews, he had cut his teeth on the life of a pickpocket. One of many Duncan had plucked from a life of misery, Pretty was loyal, diligent, and somewhat uncertain of proper expectations for his position.
Duncan didn’t give a goddamn. He had hired a butler not because he required one but because he had wanted to give Pretty a position at which he excelled. A chance to raise himself above the poverty and misery to which he had been born. The chance Duncan had never been given.
Cris waited for Pretty to retreat, closing the door behind him, before crossing the chamber to Duncan’s desk. He made a clucking sound with his tongue, one more suited to a governess than a duke. “Such a cruel stroke of f
ate that a man as bracket-faced as he ought to bear a surname of Pretty.”
Duncan took another swig from the bottle, eyeing his friend. The liquor he had consumed made his tongue loose. “Pretty is not his true name.”
Cris lowered himself with negligent grace into the chair opposite Duncan’s desk. “Knowing you as I do, I ought not to be surprised. But somehow, I am. Tell me, how it is that your butler bears a sobriquet rather than his surname?”
“He hasn’t a surname.” Duncan raised his bottle toward his friend in a mock toast before dousing himself with another healthy swallow toward oblivion. He swallowed, smacked his lips. “He was born in the rookeries. Never even knew his mother. He has always answered to ‘Pretty,’ and so Pretty he shall forever be.”
“You are the best man I know, my friend.”
Duncan shuddered as he swallowed too much whisky at once. His stomach balked, but he forced it into submission. “Then perhaps you should consider extending your acquaintances, Whitley.”
Cris smiled with the confidence only a duke could possess. “I have no wish to extend them, having already discovered all I require in one ill-tempered club owner. Perhaps you know him? Tall fellow, dark-haired, with a sudden penchant for hiding inside his home and drowning himself in drink?”
Fuck.
He lifted the bottle to his lips, tilted it, swallowed. Savored the burn down his gullet. Met his friend’s gaze, unwavering. “I know him well.”
“I am worried about you, my friend,” Cris said then, his tone low, his face devoid of expression.
“Worried? About me? Why?” Duncan attempted to keep his expression blank. A hiccup rose in his throat, and he swallowed it down. Damn, this was growing old. Or he was growing old. Too old for this, surely.
Cris raised both brows, raking him with a telling glance. “Need I answer that question, Duncan? According to Hazlitt, you have not been to your club for a month. Pretty tells me you have hidden yourself away here, refusing most sustenance.”
Sins & Scoundrels Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Series Bundle Page 47
