“I am sure you must know such a smile better than I,” she said then, hoping to deflect Freddy’s attention from herself. “After all, each time I see you, you appear even more overjoyed than the last. If Mr. Kirkwood is such a commendable husband, perhaps you ought to consider hiring him to train all the gentlemen in town.”
Freddy grinned. “Mr. Kirkwood is an incredibly ideal husband, but I dare not share my time with him in such a fashion. I am not nearly generous enough. Need I remind you, however, that we were discussing you and not myself? I daresay you are attempting to distract me from my course.”
Because her course was making Leonora distinctly uncomfortable.
Because she was afraid her friend’s assertions were true.
She had spent the days since she had last visited Freddy with Searle never far from her side. He took her to the opera, escorted her to a ball. They spent drowsy evenings sharing brandy from a snifter, his head in her lap and Caesar cuddled up to them both whilst she read him poetry. Their nights were devoted to blazing passion, and sometimes their mornings and even their afternoons, too. Only yesterday, he had caught her in the music room whilst she played on the pianoforte. He had sunk to his knees and lifted her skirts, pleasuring her with his mouth as she sat upon the bench.
It is my fondest wish to make love to you in every chamber of this house, he had said afterward.
Even now, the memory of his frank, wicked statement sent a trill down her spine, and a fresh spark of want lit within her.
“Leonora, darling?” Freddy’s voice cut through her musings once more. “You look as if you need a chocolate biscuit. Tea, as well?”
“I fear no chocolate biscuit, regardless of how decadent, can cure what ails me,” she said, comprehension hitting her like a stone.
“And now your silly smile has fled at last, but you look quite pale. Do I need to send for hartshorn?” Freddy quipped.
If the weight upon her chest had not been so heavy, she would have laughed. But this—her heart—was no laughing matter. And she feared it was very much in grave peril.
“How did you know you were in love with Mr. Kirkwood?” she asked, feeling vaguely ill.
Freddy’s expression softened. “It was not one act or one word. It was sudden, a rush, all at once. A deep, complex gale of emotion and the understanding that I loved him more than I had ever fathomed possible. And when I realized how I felt for him, I also could not recall a time when I had not loved him. I know that sounds strange, but I feel as if he were my fate. Perhaps you think me foolish—indeed, I would not blame you if you did—but I cannot help but to feel he was always the one who would win my heart. We had to travel our separate roads to find each other, but once we met on the same road…”
Her words trailed off and she smiled, her eyes going glassy.
“Once you met on the same road, you knew,” Leonora finished for her friend, who had begun sniffing in an effort to stifle the tears threatening to break free. “And now perhaps I must send for the hartshorn for you. Or at the very least, a handkerchief.”
“Oh, my darling friend!” Freddy emitted a decidedly unladylike sound that was one-part laugh, one-part sob, and one-part snort. “It is my emotions, torn asunder, ever since I have found myself in this delicate condition. I tell you, I am either a watering pot or casting up my accounts or near delirious with longing for Mr. Kirkwood.”
Leonora laughed, her heart bursting with joy for her friend. Such love, such contentedness. She could only pray she would find the same with Searle. That his ice would melt enough beneath the blazing persistence of her sun.
“I hope to one day aspire to such a condition, dearest Freddy,” she said in a voice gone thick with emotion of her own.
Freddy’s brows rose, and she scooted to the edge of her seat, clasping her hands together. “Perhaps you need not aspire?”
She flushed. “It is too soon to tell.”
“Did you seduce the marquess, then?” Freddy asked, eyes going wide.
She winced. “I am afraid I made an abysmal effort at doing so, but somehow, our marriage was finally…consummated.”
“And?” Freddy asked, waggling her brows in an animated manner that did not fail to draw a giggle from Leonora.
“And…you were correct about the pleasures to be had in such an endeavor,” she said stiffly, aware her cheeks were once more aflame. Perhaps beet-red would be her permanent complexion from this moment forward.
“Wonderful.” Freddy beamed at her. “This means I shall not be forced to box Searle’s ears on your behalf.”
Leonora laughed again, partially at the thought of her feisty friend attempting to box her stoic husband’s ears, and partially because she knew it was no sally. “Pray leave his ears untouched. The marquess is a complicated man, but the last sennight has been rather a revelation to me. Where I once feared he would forever remain a mystery, I do have hope. He has walls built around his heart, it is certain, but I now feel as if I may be capable of scaling them.”
“To the devil with scaling them, darling,” Leonora said with a grin. “Burst right through them. Tear them down, stone by stone.”
“One way or another, I am determined to find my way beyond them,” she said. “And when I do…”
Once more, she allowed her words to fall away.
For she had realized in the breath before she would have spoken the remainder of the sentence that she had been about to say… And when I do, I will see that he surrenders his heart to me just as surely as I have already ceded my heart to him.
“And when you do,” Freddy persisted, being Freddy and wanting more, a full confession if she could have it.
But just then, they were interrupted by a knock at the salon door and an announcement from the butler that the Duchess of Whitley and Lady Sarah Bolingbroke wished to call upon Mrs. Kirkwood.
“I am at home,” Freddy announced, turning back to Leonora when the butler had disappeared. “Do not think I shall not expect to hear more, though if you do not give it freely, I shall not force you. The Duchess of Whitley and Lady Sarah should prove just the distraction you’re seeking.”
Her lips tightened at the recollection of Searle whirling about the dancefloor with the incomparable Lady Sarah. “How is Lady Sarah a familiar of yours now, Freddy?”
“She is friends with the Duchess of Whitley, and I have spoken with her at length at several events now. The Whitley ball, the Yardley musicale, and Wrotham’s ball. She is a very talented poet. Duncan is going to publish a volume of her work at my recommendation. You will love her, darling, I promise.”
Leonora pursed her lips, unconvinced. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, Freddy. Just as long as she never again dances with my husband, I shall never have a problem with her, I vow.”
Freddy gave her a knowing look. “I understand your feelings of possessiveness all too well, my dear. I feel precisely the same way about Duncan. But do trust me on this score. Lady Sarah’s sole interest is in bringing justice to the gentleman responsible for her sister’s death. Her volume of poetry will create a tremendous stir.”
Leonora recalled Lady Amelia Bolingbroke, who had been presented at court when Leonora had. Lady Amelia had been every bit as beautiful as Lady Sarah, but hers had been a dark beauty where Lady Sarah’s was golden.
“Are you saying Lady Amelia was murdered?” Leonora asked, a shiver going through her at the notion. She did not recall precisely what the gossip had been at the time of Lady Amelia’s death—something to do with an abrupt illness of the lungs, she thought—but there had never been one whisper of something as nefarious as murder.
“Not precisely,” Freddy said enigmatically. “I have promised Lady Sarah my confidence, but all will become known soon enough, with the publication of her poems.”
Though Freddy looked as if she had been about to say more, the arrival of the duchess and Lady Sarah precluded further conversation on the subject. How very mysterious it all was. As the two new additions settled thems
elves in the gold salon, Leonora found herself easily charmed by Lady Sarah and glad for the distraction of some female companionship.
Anything to help her to ignore the restless stirrings of her heart and the dreadfully inconvenient feelings she continued to develop for him. After all, it was too soon, far too soon for love.
Was it not?
*
“Searle.”
Of all the ill-timed interruptions, Morgan could think of none more vexing than the appearance of his old war friend the Duke of Whitley whilst he was at The Duke’s Bastard in the midst of attempting to drink himself to oblivion. Duncan Kirkwood’s smuggled Scottish whisky had one hell of an effect upon the senses. At the moment, he was not certain he could stand without swaying.
“Whitley,” he greeted curtly, not bothering to rise from his chair because…well, it simply would not do to fall upon one’s face before half the peers in London.
“You have been avoiding me,” Whitley observed, seating himself in the empty chair at Morgan’s left.
He skewered the duke with a pointed glare. “Unsuccessfully, it would seem.”
“You appear to be enjoying far greater success at giving the bottle a black eye.” Whitley’s drawl was acidic.
“If you sought me ought to cast judgment, you can go to the devil, Cris,” he slurred. “I am not in the bloody mood for company.”
No indeed, he was in the mood for drinking copious amounts of whisky to deaden the troubling emotions burgeoning within him. Emotions which had everything to do with the woman he had married. Emotions which would only serve to make him weak and undermine everything he had set out to do.
He could not bear to lose sight of his plans, to stray from the path he had settled upon. Not when vengeance was almost within his grasp. If the thought of betraying the woman who surrendered herself to him so sweetly each night—and morning and afternoon, at that—made him ill, he would simply drown his compunction with more spirits.
Whitley sniffed, raising a sardonic brow. “You are more soused than a drunkard who fell into a barrel of blue ruin.”
“Precisely the judgment I am speaking of,” he growled, lifting his nearly empty glass to his lips for another draught. “Have you a point to make, or did you sit here with the sole intent of causing me unnecessary irritation?”
“Perhaps causing you irritation brings me pleasure,” Whitley quipped.
Morgan drained the rest of his glass. “If it is pleasure you seek, you ought to be looking to your wife.”
“Speaking of wives, tell me, why are you here in the club, in your cups, when you are a man newly wed?” the duke asked with deceptive calm.
Morgan stiffened at the mentioning of Leonora. Sweet, delectable Leonie, as he had come to think of her. Hellfire, why were these maudlin sentiments inescapable? For that matter, why was Whitley inescapable? He should have known Cris would come sniffing about for the truth, undeterred by Morgan’s efforts to rebuff him at the Kirkwood ball.
“I fail to see why the ordinary pursuit of my daily activities should be of such interest to you.” Though he strived to affect a tone of boredom, Morgan could not deny that Whitley’s continual probing set him on edge.
“Because I know you, Morgan,” Whitley countered. “I know you do not take any action before careful planning and consideration. We were at war together, after all.”
“Yes.” He busied himself by splashing some more whisky into his glass. Thank Christ he had managed to cozen an entire bottle for himself. It rendered getting soused so much easier. “But we are at war no longer, and I fail to see what you are after.”
“The truth,” Cris persisted.
“The truth is I wish to get drunk.” He took another leisurely swallow of liquor. “And I wish for you to leave me in peace.”
“You compromised her intentionally,” Whitley bit out.
Damn him. Morgan’s hand shook, sloshing a splash of amber liquid over his fawn breeches. “I did nothing of the sort. Cannot a gentleman seek to aid a lady in distress without possessing motives that are less than noble?”
“You made certain you would be found alone with her,” the duke persisted.
Morgan thought briefly about smashing his friend in that straight, even row of white. It would serve him right for his bloody meddling. Could he not see his interference was neither wanted nor needed?
“I did not,” he lied calmly.
“Why prevaricate with me, old friend?” Whitley asked in a tone that was deceptively soft. “You told me you were concerned for Lady Leonora’s wellbeing, and then you set off in search of her. When you did not return to the ballroom and neither did she, what was I to think? I had no choice but to seek you out, and to involve the lady’s mother, which you anticipated I would do. There was no look of surprise on your face when we entered that chamber, Searle. Not even a blink.”
Very well. He could hardly argue the point. Nor did he have the time or the inclination. He had a very alluring half-bottle of whisky awaiting him, along with the promises of silence and numbness.
He raised his shoulders in an indolent shrug. “I wanted her as my wife, and now I have her. Go play hazard or tup a whore, Whitley. I care not what you do, so long as it does not involve me.”
But Whitley’s expression only grew more determined. “Why did you want her, specifically?”
“Why not?” He forced a smile he little felt, raising his glass toward the duke in a mock salute. “My bride is beautiful, and I could not be more pleased with her.”
Which was the truth and the reason for his inner torment. He could not want her and use her at the same time. He could not need her as much as he did, with a ferocity that threatened to tear him in two, if he was also using her to lure Rayne back to England. He could not spend all the hours in his day either fucking her or thinking about fucking her if he also meant to make her his weapon of revenge upon her heartless bastard of a brother.
“Lady Leonora is indeed beautiful,” Whitley agreed. “And a very kind, gentle-natured sort, as vulnerable as a kitten, which makes your choice all the more intriguing.”
“She is the Marchioness of Searle now,” he reminded his friend, sending another damning gulp of spirits down his gullet. By God, for a moment, there was not one Whitley exuding ferocious disapproval but two. He closed his eyes, collecting himself as a wave of dizziness assailed him.
If he passed out in the midst of the public rooms, would Kirkwood have his arse hauled to a private room? Perhaps Whitley could help him to his carriage. It may be time to execrate—er, extricate himself—from The Duke’s Bastard.
“You look hideously cup-shot, Morgan. Let me get you to your carriage before you pass out on the floor and piss yourself.”
How like Whitley to couch a friendly request with an insult. Morgan thought about consuming more whisky, but his gut roiled at the notion. The familiar sights and sounds of the club swirled at the edges of his vision. Perhaps he ought to have spent the day at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon with Monty, beating him to a pulp. Violence was a restorative where drink was a curse.
“I can get myssself to m’bloody carriage, Cris,” he slurred, attempting to stand and falling back on his arse in an undignified heap.
Well, this had certainly taken a turn for the best. Er, the worst.
His mind was muddled, as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The warm glow of oblivion that had been tingling within him now felt like the heat of the sun, burning him, making him sweat. Or perhaps that was his newfound sense of guilt, eating him alive. Damnation, he had taken up the whisky to avoid such unpleasant emotions, not to wallow in them further.
He blamed this entire cratastrop-catastero…eternal hellfire, why had even his brain ceased functioning? This entire catastrophe, he blamed upon the Duke of Whitley. Without his presence, Morgan never would have consumed so much whisky in such a short amount of time. Never mind that he had already been well on his way to becoming drunk as an emperor before Whitley’s arrival.
�
�I shall have Duncan prepare a private chamber for you,” the duke said coolly. “I am not certain you can travel in this state. Whatever has happened to you, Morgan, I can assure you that playing the toss pot at one’s club is decidedly not the rage.”
“I do not need a private chamber, and nor do I give a proper goddamn what is the rage,” he snarled, growing angry with the duke for his cursed persistence.
Kirkwood appeared at his elbow then, and it should hardly come as a surprise, for Morgan had learned quickly that the man presided over his club like a king seated upon his throne.
“Lord Searle, allow me to direct you to a private chamber for your comfort,” Kirkwood offered, his tone convivial but with an underlying edge even Morgan could discern, in his cups though he was.
Kirkwood was not making a polite request of him but making an order.
Christ, he had not imagined the day when the Duke of Whitley and the bastard son of a duke would become his bloody jailers. He stood, and this time managed to keep his balance, grinding his jaw as he allowed the two men to flank him and lead him into a side door which led to a series of interior halls Kirkwood no doubt used to manage the club.
In icy silence, the three of them traveled to a private chamber that was comfortably appointed. The door had scarcely closed before Kirkwood was upon him. “See here, Searle, as you are the husband of Mrs. Kirkwood’s most beloved friend, I am choosing not to toss you on your arse or ban you from my club. But by God, if you dishonor or embarrass Lady Leonora in any fashion, I will not hesitate to cut you to size and lay you low. Am I understood?”
“It seems to me you are too fond of my wife, Kirkwood,” he countered, a sharp pang of possessiveness shooting through him. “I will remind you she is now the Marchioness of Searle and Lady Leonora no longer.”
Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3 Page 65