Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  One more dubious lift of his dark brow, and Hazlitt was gone, disappearing into the lively fabric of the club that was coming to life beyond Duncan’s office. The door closed with a barely audible snick. He and Lady Frederica were alone.

  The silence seemed suddenly ominous.

  “Would you care for a whisky, Blanden?” he asked, because it was what he asked all his friends, acquaintances, and patrons of the male variety.

  It occurred to him, quite belatedly, there was no means by which Lady Frederica could have ever sampled whisky or anything stronger than ratafia or orgeat. He could only hope she did not accept.

  “Of course,” she said in her feigned gentleman’s baritone.

  Damnation.

  He moved to the sideboard where he kept a decanter and glasses. Whilst he did not often imbibe, he had long ago learned that any discussion—be it friendly or decidedly the opposite—was best conducted with a bit of fire to round off the hard edges. He poured two fingers for himself, hoping to quell his ardor, and one for her before spinning on his heel.

  If his eyes settled first upon her thighs, partially visible thanks to her ill-fitting coat, it could not be helped. And if they next settled upon the area where he knew her breasts hid, how could it be his fault? He could detect only the faintest swell beneath her waistcoat and shirt. Were her breasts large and full as her hips suggested they might be, or were they small and rounded? Perfect little handfuls? Did her nipples match the delicate pink of her mouth?

  Lord God, he had to stop himself. He strode to her, distractedly offering the glass with two fingers of whisky in error. Before he could catch himself, she accepted the glass, her dainty fingers curling around the tumbler.

  “I am honored by your presence this evening, my lord,” he managed, hoping to distract her with dialogue. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Pink tinged her high cheekbones. “I would like admittance to the…viewing area once more, if I may, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  He could not have been more surprised had she punched him in the gut. Indeed, the breath fled his lungs in that moment as if she had. He raised his glass, taking a fortifying sip, measuring his response. Allowing her to view once had been reckless and foolish—a whim to sate his own wickedness. But to sanction her return, admitting her once more into the privileged world of secrecy, spoiling her innocence even further…he risked far too much.

  But granting her another chance to view the revelers in the club’s pleasure chambers appealed to him. It intrigued him. It made his cock stiff and painful, prodding the fall of his breeches.

  “I was under the impression the viewing area left you rather shocked, my lord,” he hedged, grinding his jaw.

  “Shocked but intrigued, sir,” she corrected, lifting her own glass to her lips and taking a ladylike sip.

  She coughed, blinking, as the bite of the whisky hit her tongue for the first time. But instead of abstaining from drinking further, she shocked him by lifting the glass to her lips once more and taking a long draw. Her eyes closed, and she scarcely suppressed a shudder as she swallowed before exhaling through her mouth.

  Beelzebub, this woman had audacity, raw and real and true. He had never witnessed the like. That an innocent, sheltered lady—the daughter of a duke—would dare to infiltrate his club, dressed as a gentleman, two days in a row, watch the unprincipled coupling of his patrons, and sample whisky with such daring seemed an impossibility. But here she was, brave and beautiful and brash, defying logic and reason and wisdom.

  Here she was in his office, wearing breeches and ugly boots and an unbecoming hat, the most breathtaking creature he had ever seen. She frightened the ballocks off him in ways he could not begin to comprehend.

  Unless…it was possible she was not as innocent as he presumed. Perhaps she had already been ruined, and her taste of the forbidden had led her here to his club. Perhaps she had been compromised by Eversley, the pompous prig with the insatiable appetite for cunny and the small cock.

  If she had, by God, he would…

  His fingers flexed at his side impotently. What was he thinking? That he would lodge his fist in Eversley’s jaw to avenge Lady Frederica’s honor? He was fit for Bedlam. First, he had no knowledge of whether or not the lady possessed honor, or if the viscount had indeed besmirched it. Besides, she had seemed shocked last evening, and he did not fancy her a great actress. Second, he needed more head-clearing Scottish whisky. Immediately.

  “Delightful whisky, Mr. Kirkwood,” she rasped in an eerie echo of his thoughts, tipping her glass back and downing the remaining contents. She gasped and coughed, bending forward, swaying on her feet. “Simply delightful. I shall have another, if you please.”

  Another? For all her luscious curves, she was still a lady, her frame smaller and more delicate. He could not believe she had ever sampled a spirit so strong. The effects of her first glass had yet to settle in, but they would, and when they did, he did not wish to be the man tasked with scooping her off the floor.

  Even if holding her in his arms held an infinite amount of appeal.

  Especially because it did.

  He frowned at her. “I do not think it wise to have another glass at this early a juncture in the evening. Do you, Lord Blanden?”

  Lady Frederica blinked at him. Her eyes traveled down his body in a slow, maddening perusal that somehow managed to leave him more frustrated and hungrier for her than he already was.

  “Yes, I do. Of course, I do. I’ve never had whisky before. Er, that is to say, I have never before imbibed a whisky as delightful as this. I am loath to carry on without another glass.”

  Duncan tossed back the remnants of his own glass before snagging hers and taking both back to the sideboard. He poured a generous amount into each. To hell with caution. To hell with attempting to listen to his own dwindling sense of honor. If Lady Frederica wished to view the pleasure chambers once more, she would. And if she wished to get soused on his whisky, she would. Who was he to stop her?

  “Here you are, my lord.” He offered her the glass, their fingers brushing as she accepted it from him. The brief contact sent desire shooting through him.

  She seemed similarly affected, swaying on her feet toward him. Her pupils were large and obsidian, dilated discs in the centers of such green opulence. “Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  Suddenly, he longed to hear his name in her husky, silken voice. “Call me Duncan, if you please, Lord Blanden.”

  “Duncan,” she said softly, smiling. “Thank you.”

  For a moment, he could almost forget who and what they were. He had lived thirty years as the Duke of Amberly’s bastard, knowing he would never be a lord. Knowing his sire would never acknowledge him. Understanding he had siblings who had been raised to a life of unimagined privilege, wealth, and cosseting. Siblings who would attain the respect of their peers by mere virtue of their birth, without ever having to earn it. And he had never, not once, been envious of the quality. He had never wished to be one of them.

  Yet here and now, he wished—futilely and foolishly, and just for a moment—to be one of them. He wished he was a lord. He wished he was her equal instead of her inferior.

  But he had learned from the time he was a lad that wishes were nonsense, and nothing he could ever do would earn him a place in the peerage. All that was left to him was making his fortune and buying his respect, and it was precisely what he had done.

  He raised his glass to her in a mocking salute, taking another long draw of the liquor. “Thank me later, my lord. Come along, then. If you wish to view this evening’s wickedness, I shall not detain you a minute longer.”

  *

  Good heavens.

  What could she have been thinking?

  Her mind and body were at war. Frederica brought the glass to her lips, trying her best not to inhale the pungent scent of the spirits Mr. Kirkwood had poured her. She swallowed, exhaling through her mouth to avoid tasting the whisky, for it was a dreadful elixir. One she would not wish to ordinari
ly consume save for the pleasant hum it had begun in her veins.

  She felt, quite suddenly, warm. Overly warm. And relaxed. Lazy. Her pulse pounded, and her head seemed strange. Was it too large for her body? Too heavy for her neck? And why did Mr. Kirkwood—nay, Duncan—seem suddenly taller? More brooding? More handsome? Why did his chest look so broad and strong?

  Why did she long to touch it once more?

  “…I shall not detain you a minute longer,” he was saying.

  Frederica was too intent upon his lips, watching the sculpted, beautiful fullness of them moving. His chin too was lovely, a small dimple marking the tip, his jaw long and hard and dappled with the shadow of golden whiskers he must have shaved that morning. His entire countenance was not just alluring but…arresting. He was handsome, and yet there was more to him. He was intriguing. A bit of a mystery.

  “My lord?”

  His voice, steeped with a sliver of irritation, cut through her musings. She hoped she had not been staring. Why did she feel so odd? It was as if her mind was fashioned of clouds, and she could not make sense of anything or anyone. For a moment, she forgot what she was about. Forgot to keep her voice deep, to maintain the pretense she was her brother. The mustache she had affixed to her upper lip—a prop from some silly parlor game she had resurrected to assist in her disguise—itched. Her fingers longed to pluck it from her skin. When she opened her mouth to speak, the thing tickled her.

  How irritating.

  It had also gotten thoroughly steeped in spirits, part of it lying wetly against her skin. She wanted to say something, to answer Mr. Kirkwood, but she could not force her tongue to obey her command. It was as if she had lost all control of her body. As if she were…

  Nay, it could not be. Or perhaps it could.

  Was she…soused?

  She brought the tumbler back to her lips, taking another long draught. Perhaps it would calm her. Yes, it must calm her, or at least imbue a sense of clarity. Or certainty? Which was the correct word?

  “Lord Blanden?” His voice cut through her thoughts yet again, this time as demanding and sharp as a whip on her skin.

  She jumped. The glass fell from her fingers, slipping to the floor. It landed on the thick carpet with a dull thud, the remainder of her whisky sloshing onto her thieved boots and the rug in equal measure. She glanced down at the mess she had unintentionally created. “Oh, dear.”

  At Westlake House, she never cleaned up after herself. Ladies did not do so, and the legion of staff her father employed oversaw the granting of her every whim. If she so much as upended her teacup, two maids were on hand to tidy up the spill. It was not so here at The Duke’s Bastard. She knew twin, slashing stabs of guilt, for first sneaking her way into his club and then for making a mess of his lovely carpet.

  “You mustn’t fret over it, Blanden. Servants will see to it.”

  She ignored him, her guilt overwhelming her every other sense. She sank to her knees, reaching into her jacket for a handkerchief. What a treasure that gentlemen could go about with such a convenience secreted upon their person, she thought.

  And then she realized Duncan was upon his knees as well, his large hand blotting the stain with his own handkerchief, and she forgot to think about anything but him. Their eyes met. Clashed. Her heart hammered.

  He was so near to her she could touch him. Could reach out and trace the bow of his upper lip. Run her thumb along the seam, cup his wide jaw. Lean forward, falling into him, their lips colliding.

  Frederica meant to apologize for her startling lack of grace. For soiling his fine carpets. But instead, it was as if her body was obeying her fantasy. She lost her balance, teetering forward. There was nowhere to land but on him.

  Her shameful descent unfolded with a hideous torpidity. Her hands flailed. Her eyes went wide. Her spectacles—a replacement pair since he had neglected to return hers yesterday evening—slid off the end of her nose. She fell into him. His hands, large and warm even through her layers, caught her about the waist, and they moved as one.

  He landed on his back.

  She landed atop him, colliding with his chest, her legs tangling in his. Her hat flew from her head, taking some hairpins along with it. A long, perfectly formed black curl fell across her face. She stared down at him, the evidence of her subterfuge on full display, aghast.

  “My, but your hair is singularly long and lustrous for a gentleman, Blanden,” he said, his bright-blue gaze burning two holes straight through her.

  “It is an unusual vanity, I know,” she attempted to explain, before realizing she had neglected to lower her voice. Drat.

  “Perhaps not so unusual after all, Lady Frederica.” He rolled suddenly, moving them so she was on her back on the carpet, and he was atop her instead.

  She was dizzy, and it was a combination of the whisky she’d imbibed, his big body pinning hers to the floor, the scent and feeling of him invading her senses like a rampaging army, the unexpected reversal of their positions.

  The sinking realization he knew who she was.

  He had called her by name.

  Not Blanden. Not my lord. But Lady Frederica.

  The breath left her in a rush. Her frantic mind absorbed fragments of facts. He was atop her, settled intimately between her thighs. His arms bracketed her head. He was so near, the warmth of his breath skated over her chin like a caress. She ought to be alarmed by their position, the inappropriateness of it.

  She could not have ruined herself more thoroughly if she had tried. This was disastrous. She had been caught by Duncan Kirkwood himself, deceiving him, trespassing within the hallowed walls of his club. One word from him to her father—to anyone—and all would be lost.

  However, she could not seem to summon even a shred of remorse. All she felt was heat. Languorous licks of something wicked and delightful and altogether wrong, singeing her from the inside out. Beginning in her belly, sliding lower, to the forbidden place between her thighs, and radiating everywhere. Was it the spirits she had consumed? Or was it merely him?

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself, my lady?” he asked softly, his voice a delicious rumble, fashioned of sin and seduction and everything she had been taught to avoid at all costs.

  Everything she wanted.

  She pressed her lips together, struggled to find her wits. Perhaps it would be best to make one more attempt to convince him he was mistaken. For the sake of her reputation, if nothing else. “I am the Marquess of Blanden. Would you be so kind as to remove yourself from my person, Mr. Kirkwood? I daresay this is highly irregular.”

  “Mmm.” He flashed her a wicked grin that sent a fresh wave of need unfurling within her. “Highly irregular indeed. It is not every day that a lady, and the unmarried daughter of a duke at that, infiltrates my club by assuming the identity of her brother. What is your purpose?”

  How was she meant to think or form a proper answer with his body in such distracting proximity? She had never had occasion to be in such intimate contact with a gentleman before. Not even when Willingham had forced his kiss upon her. It had been a cold, slimy peck, his lower body held away from hers, and she had been left swimming in a sea of revulsion. She had certainly not imagined how forbidden and delightful it could feel to have a gentleman atop her.

  Not a gentleman, she corrected herself.

  The prince of London’s most infamous gaming hell. A man who ruled over his sinful kingdom with dashing aplomb. A man who was feared and revered. Duncan Kirkwood. The last man she ought to ever have known.

  The only man she wished to know.

  There it was, foolish but true.

  She was a lady who had lived her life above reproach, who had followed all the rules, learned all the arts expected of her, who had been dutiful and good. A lady who had grown weary of balls, expectations, halfhearted suitors, and above all, propriety. A lady who was curious.

  A lady who wanted to be debauched.

  “I am conducting research,” she told him at last, honestly. There see
med no further purpose in attempting to deceive him when he had already caught her out.

  “Research,” he repeated. He caught the curl that had worked itself free of her pins between his thumb and forefinger. Tugged it gently. “What manner of research?”

  She blinked up at him, trying to comprehend his reaction. He did not seem angry. Not precisely. Rather, he seemed…intrigued. “I am writing a novel. The Silent Baron. The baron gambles away his entire fortune inside an establishment similar to The Duke’s Bastard. I required an accurate recounting of the sights, sounds, and smells, the patrons, the games, the furnishing, any and all details.”

  “A novel.” He frowned down at her, his full lips thinning together, brow furrowing. “You are penning a novel?”

  Did he think her incapable because she was female? All the naughty feelings bursting to life inside her shriveled. Her hands found his shoulders—broad, hard, delightful shoulders, drat him—and shoved. “Yes. I, a female, am writing a novel. Now if you do not mind, you are hurting my back with your hulking form, and I would greatly appreciate the removal of your person from mine.”

  It was a lie, of course, for he was not putting undue pressure upon her. Indeed, there was no part of his weight settled upon her, his arms bearing the brunt.

  But he did not move, disagreeable fellow that he was. Rather, his eyes narrowed. “You are one of those troublesome sorts, are you? If you think for one moment I will allow you to write maudlin drivel painting my club in a negative light, you are thoroughly wrong, my dear. Just as wrong as you were when you fancied you could flit about a gentleman’s club without anyone noticing you were female.”

  That gave her pause. “When did you know I was a female?”

  “From the first bloody moment I saw you.” His lip curled. “No gentleman has an arse like that. It’s unmistakable.”

  He rolled off her at last, gaining his feet with an effortless fluidity of motion she could not help but admire. When he offered her his hand, she took it with great reluctance, allowing him to help her to her feet as well. The connections of their bare palms sent a strange, new flutter skittering through her. She stared at him, swaying on her feet, feeling the effects of the whisky continue to burn through her.