Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  In Frederica’s mind, it would not do for Lord Willingham to think of her as his bride. Ever. She shivered, wishing the lilies would disappear. Wishing she could return to The Duke’s Bastard the night before and take the reins into her own hands.

  She did not bother to feign a smile. “That would not do at all.”

  “Three pots,” her mother decided, smiling. “One can never have too many. Perhaps a new fan as well? When Lord Willingham asks your father for your hand tomorrow, we will go immediately to Madame Ormonde for your trousseau. Oh! It shall be wonderful.”

  Wonderfully awful.

  Sickness coiled in Frederica’s stomach. Though he had informed her himself he wished to speak to her father, she had somehow been hoping he would delay. “How do you know the earl will ask for my hand tomorrow?”

  Her mother traced the delicate shape of one petal admiringly. She was a lovely woman, though lines marred her visage. With white streaks shooting through her raven tresses, she often tucked them beneath a turban, and today’s choice was deep red, ornamented with pearls. “Lord Willingham was good enough to indicate his intentions to Benedict in order that His Grace may make haste back to town.”

  One day remaining.

  Tomorrow she would be betrothed to Lord Willingham when all she could think about was his illegitimate half brother. How cruel was fate? Icy tendrils closed over her heart. “What if I do not wish to wed the earl, Mother?”

  Her mother turned her attention back to her. “Dear heavens, Frederica do not be silly. You will make a fine countess.”

  “But I do not wish to be a countess,” she persisted, pressing the matter as she had never before dared. The last few days had left her feeling liberated. “I want to write novels.”

  Her mother shook her head, an expression of ill-concealed disgust pinching her features. “Nonsense. You are the daughter of a duke, and you shall be a countess. In time, you will forget your childish yearning for ink-stained fingers.”

  Her mother’s careless dismissal of Frederica’s writing never failed to hurt her, regardless of how many times it was issued. “It is not a childish yearning, Mother.”

  “Ladies do not waste their talents in needless endeavors,” said her mother with a sniff.

  “Such as shopping?” she could not resist asking.

  “Shopping is a lady’s art,” her mother snapped in an uncharacteristic show of ire. “I despair of ever making a proper lady of you, Frederica. When you become Lady Willingham and assume all the duties associated with that noble title, you will understand just how trivial and foolish your old yearnings were. Nothing shall make you happier than being a wife and mother. It is your greatest obligation in life.”

  Frederica knew she ought to refrain from pursuing the matter further, as arguments with the Duchess of Westlake were akin to spinning in a circle too many times. It made one terribly dizzy. “Are you happy, Mother? Is that why you spend most of your days buying fans and creams and gewgaws?”

  Her mother’s gaze was inscrutable. Her shoulders stiffened, the feather on her turban bobbing comically. “Of course I am happy.”

  “Perhaps I want to seek my own happiness,” she said softly. “If Father would only grant me my dowry—”

  “His Grace will not countenance such folly,” her mother interrupted coldly. “You will marry, or you will become a companion to Lady Ogden.”

  Of course. She was more than familiar with the threats issued by her father and upheld by her mother. Frederica was to marry the odious Lord Willingham or languish in the country with no prospects and no hope of ever completing The Silent Baron or seeing it published. How unfair life was for a female. Had she been a male, she could have made something of herself like Duncan Kirkwood had. At the least, she would have been taken seriously. She would have had a choice in her future.

  Just then, their butler, Elmwood, appeared to announce the arrival of the Earl of Willingham. Dread unfurled within Frederica as her mother instructed Elmwood they were at home and would be happy to receive his lordship.

  The earl appeared, dressed in a claret waistcoat and buff breeches that was not as garish as his ordinary mode of dress. His cravat made up for it, a jarring cerulean tied in the Mathematical style. He bowed as Frederica found herself once again comparing the earl to Duncan. Mr. Kirkwood as she must think of him now, for she had used the last of her visits to his strange, exhilarating world.

  Where one man blazed with vitality and sensual charm, owning any chamber with his presence, the other merely filled the room with his pomposity. Lord Willingham thought himself a catch, and he made no secret of it. Frederica knew precisely why he had settled upon her—Willingham’s father was rumored to have beggared his estates by gambling away nearly everything he had. The earl wanted Federica’s dowry, and she did not fool herself for a moment into believing he had more innocent motivation.

  He was exchanging pleasantries with Mother, and Frederica scarcely paid them any heed until it was too late. He turned to her, offering his arm. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said smoothly to her mother. “A turn about the gardens will be ideal on this fine day. Come along, won’t you my lady?”

  Willingham did not even wait for her response before leading her reluctantly to the small walled garden in the rear of the townhouse. The day was unseasonably warm, but Frederica could not stifle either her shiver or her misery as she walked alongside the earl in silence, her slippers crunching in the gravel along with his boots. She supposed he would go riding today, and for a moment, the most ridiculous urge to see Mr. Kirkwood atop a horse struck her.

  She squelched it, knowing she did herself no favors in continuing to think of him. The man at her side was her future. They stopped before the hedges in the center of the garden, which had been trimmed into a perfect square. At its center was an assortment of long grasses, Sweet William, peony, and white Mignonette.

  “You are radiant this morning, my lady,” he said with a remarkable lack of passion.

  “Thank you,” she said, staring at the bold flowers and proud blades of grass swaying in the gentle breeze. Here were flowers she could appreciate, planted in the soil, roots dug into dirt, standing resilient day after day beneath the sun and moon. They would not be removed by the hands of a diligent servant in two days’ time, never to be thought of again.

  “I will speak to your father tomorrow, Lady Frederica. It will be my honor to make you my countess.” Willingham’s voice was low in a pleasant enough sense, though it possessed none of the velvet suggestion laden in Duncan’s.

  She turned to him at last, looking up into his rigid countenance. He was so proper, so foppish, so at odds with everything she wanted but could not have. “My lord, I have a confession to make. I am in the midst of writing a novel.”

  “A novel, my lady?” His brows rose in question, disbelief evident in his tone and expression both. “Surely you jest.”

  “I do not.” She did not flinch, continuing to meet his gaze. “I wish to see it published. As my husband, will you object to such an endeavor?”

  “My dear Lady Frederica.” He laughed as though she had made a sally. “As the Countess of Willingham, you will find more than enough duties to occupy you. The woman’s place is as mother and wife. You shall be so fulfilled, I expect you will forget all about such childish fancies.”

  Her future loomed before her, inviting as a grave. The earl would take her dowry and her body, owning her. She would provide him an heir, and he would strip her of everything she valued. It was entirely possible he would forbid her to write, and how would she gainsay him? What rights would she have as his chattel?

  None.

  She did not want to be the cut lilies, scentless and pure, untouched by the wildness of nature, never ruffled in a wind or soaked in the violence of a lashing rainstorm. She wanted to be the flowers thriving in the dirt.

  She could not marry Willingham.

  “I expect your countess would,” she told him. And the smile curving her lips had nothi
ng to do with the earl and everything to do with the plan that had begun to blossom in her mind. “It is such a lovely day, my lord, but I do think we ought to return to my mother lest she suspect us of challenging propriety. I would so hate for my pristine reputation to bear a mark so soon to our nuptials.”

  “Have patience, Lady Frederica,” he ordered, his tone clipped, his hands on her upper arms sudden and unexpected as they gripped her, biting into her tender flesh. “Before you flee, I would have what I have come for.”

  Frederica did not have time to defend herself from the inevitable onslaught of his mouth, rough and wet. His tongue speared between her lips, aggressively darting into her mouth. He tasted bitter and unpleasant. His hands on her arms tightened painfully until she was sure the morrow would bring more bruising, and he made a low sound in his throat, as if he was enjoying this forced, unskilled meeting of lips. She held her breath and remained still, hoping he would stop.

  But oddly, her indifference only served as encouragement. He kissed her harder, one of his hands going to her waist and then sliding higher, cupping her breast, his fingers biting into her flesh and sending a jolt of pain through her. Unlike Duncan’s skilled, masterful caresses, Willingham’s painful fervor made her cold. His tongue plowed deeper into her mouth. She reacted instinctively, biting it.

  He released her at last, staring down at her with a new gleam in his eyes that sent a tremor through her. “I look forward to making you my wife, Lady Frederica. You will learn me, my dear. I will take great pleasure teaching you.”

  She vowed it would never happen. As he escorted her back to her mother, she began to formulate a plan. It would either end in her ruin or her salvation. But in either case, she would never be the Countess of Willingham, and she would never have to suffer his kiss or his punishing touch again.

  *

  He had done the honorable thing.

  Duncan stood on the periphery of the crush, watching men and women whirl and twirl. Throaty laughter rose above the din of the orchestra, which had just begun a sinful waltz. On any other evening, he would have been struck by the pageantry of it all, the notion that a lowly street urchin and duke’s bastard could create all that was before him from nothing. On any other evening, he would have felt like a king surveying his courtiers.

  This evening, he raised a glass of champagne to his lips and drained it as he watched with a disinterested eye. Masked lords and ladies of the night surrounded him, bosoms on display, ripe and full and creamy, dampened skirts. Contraband whisky and the finest French champagne were being liberally served. The night would end with satisfaction for many.

  But for Duncan, it would end as it had begun, with a hollow ache in his chest and the daunting fear he had made the greatest mistake of his life in allowing Lady Frederica to leave him. He had watched her from above, being handed into his carriage. Had pressed his palm to the cool pane of glass as the conveyance lumbered forward, disappearing into the London night. Had wished the smoothness of the glass was instead her hair, silken and luxurious, her face, soft and beautiful, her cunny, lush and wet.

  He had not made a mistake, he reminded himself, hoping if he repeated it enough in his mind, he would believe it. Lady Frederica still maintained her virtue. She would go to her husband with an unburdened mind and a maidenhead intact.

  He gritted his teeth, catching a servant bearing champagne and trading his empty glass for a full one and draining half its contents in one gulp. He needed to numb himself. To become mindless and uncaring. It was the only means by which he could fumble through the night.

  “Duncan.”

  The throaty voice at his side, uttering his name in a sultry tone, was as unwanted as the thoughts rampaging through him. He turned to find Lady Clifford. She was dark-haired and beautiful, a jewel-encrusted mask of ivory doing nothing to hinder the effect of her loveliness. Creamy complexion, rosebud lips, wide blue eyes, and a bosom a man could happily lose himself in.

  Once, she had stirred him.

  Now, he looked upon her and felt nothing. “My lady,” he acknowledged, his tone as stiff as his entire body felt.

  She pursed her lips. “Do you dare to treat me as someone unfamiliar to you?”

  He sent her a mocking smile. “Never. I am all too familiar with you, I daresay.”

  Her nostrils flared, the only sign of her displeasure. She inhaled, the effort making her breasts rise higher above her tight bodice and indecent décolletage. “I have missed your cutting wit.”

  Ah, but he was not flirting. He no longer had the capacity to be entertained by women of her sort. Something had changed inside him, and he could not help but to be disgusted with himself for ever allowing Lady Clifford to use him. He thought now of the things he had done to her, at her request, and he felt ill.

  “I have not missed you at all,” he told her coldly, offering her a mocking bow. “If you will excuse me?”

  He did not wait for her response before striding away. Thankfully, his gaze lit upon his friend Cris, the Duke of Whitley, with a flame-haired siren on his arm. Cris had been through hell, fighting against Boney in Spain, and he had returned to a mountain of responsibilities. It would seem his friend had found a distraction to make him happy, at least for the evening.

  As he approached the masked pair, the strains of Cris’s conversation reached him.

  “…wholeheartedly do not regret my decision.” His friend spotted him then and flashed Duncan a rare, welcoming smile. “There you are, old fellow.”

  Cris’s lovely companion turned to face him, and even beneath her mask, Duncan could clearly discern she possessed a staggering beauty. He hoped to hell this was the governess Cris had been mooning over, and that his friend had finally won her affections.

  “Miss Turnbow, Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, owner of this fine establishment,” Whitley introduced them.

  Duncan bowed, and Miss Turnbow offered a well-practiced curtsy. He took her gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips, deciding to needle his friend. “A pleasure, Miss Turnbow, to make your acquaintance. Would you care to dance?”

  Cris stepped forward, scowling. “I am afraid you are too late. I have already claimed this dance with Miss Turnbow.”

  He muttered something else that sounded like And every bloody other one.

  Duncan grinned. Ah, yes, this would be the governess, and it would seem his friend was rather besotted. Good. “Perhaps the next dance, then.”

  Cris’s gray gaze glittered with irritation behind his mask, his jaw clenching. “Haven’t you an unsuspecting patron in need of fleecing somewhere?”

  His grin deepened, his improved mood untouched by Cris’s ire. He had never seen his friend so possessive of a woman before, and he could not quite temper his enjoyment.

  “As a wise man recently said to me, if only everyone else thought you as droll as you find yourself, friend,” he said, repeating the words Cris had said to him not long ago. But all levity dissipated when his gaze traveled, as if by instinct, to a masked woman dressed in a diaphanous pink gown, dark hair styled artfully atop her head. His body reacted with a savagery he could not contain. Mine, it hummed. It simply could not be her. But then she turned and smiled at a masked gentleman, and recognition hit him like a fist to the gut. “What the devil is she doing here?”

  “She?” Cris asked, sounding concerned. “Is something amiss, Duncan?”

  Duncan’s gaze remained fixed upon her, watching as she laughed. He was going to rip the man standing far too near to her limb from limb. Whoever the hell he was, his breaths on earth were numbered. “Nothing I cannot manage, Cris,” he forced himself to say, offering a bow. “Enjoy the evening, lovebirds.”

  Without waiting for a response, he moved toward her, drawn as ever. Part of him wanted to kiss her senseless. Part of him wanted to throttle her. How had she managed to come to the club again tonight, and looking as she did, like a Venus risen from the sea?

  It was the first time he had seen her dressed as a woman, and she was so beautifu
l he ached. If he had been drawn to her in her ill-fitting male costume, he was bloody well slavering over her now, even as he stalked closer, agitation and irritation mounting.

  The instant she noticed him, her eyes went wide behind her mask. He did not stop until he reached her side, inserting himself between her and the unlucky gentleman who was going to meet an untimely end if he did not step away from Duncan’s woman.

  His woman?

  Beelzebub’s ballocks, he had to do something about this foolish infatuation, this untenable weakness she caused in him, the fever she lit in his blood. His jaw tensed. He bowed to her, ignoring the interloper he had maneuvered to the side. She was all he saw, her eyes glittering, her full pink lips glistening, her long, graceful arms, throat bedecked with winking gems, her bosom…holy hell, her bosom at last. Perfect handfuls straining against her bodice.

  “Madam.” Into that lone word, he infused every emotion roiling through him. Outrage, frustration, jealousy, and desperate need.

  “I beg your pardon, Kirkwood,” sputtered the fellow behind him. “I was about to have my waltz with Angel.”

  He spun on his heel and pinned the masked gentleman—the Earl of Darby, unless he missed his guess—with a meaningful glare. “I am afraid you are poaching, my lord. This ladybird is mine.”

  Duncan hoped like hell the earl read his imminent murder in his expression. It would seem he did, for he lingered but a moment before conceding. With a bow, he melted into the crowd. Snarling, Duncan turned back to her.

  Damnation, she was gorgeous. “Angel?”

  Her creamy skin flushed red. “What would you have me tell him? My true name?”

  “No, my lady.” He stepped nearer, so close her skirts billowed about his legs, almost ensnaring him in as cloying a grip as Lady Frederica herself did. He lowered his face to hers, wishing he could snatch away her mask so he might see her in her full, womanly glory. “I would have had you stay at home where you belong. How the hell did you find your way here?”