Damn.
“Who is it?” he asked Hazlitt at length.
Hazlitt, who hailed from the rookeries but like Duncan had clawed and fought his way from seedy filth and poverty to prosperity, raised a lone brow. “He gives his name as Lord Blanden, sir.”
Her.
Hazlitt’s discreet disapproval left him without doubt the man did not believe Lady Frederica was her brother the Marquess of Blanden for a moment. Duncan did not hire fools, and Hazlitt was no exception—indeed, he was one of the cleverest men he knew. He ought to refuse her entrance. The night was early, and he had a great deal of work to accomplish before emerging on the floor. His ledgers were out of balance, and it seemed to him someone had been stealing from him.
She was nothing but trouble. If he had half the mind the Lord had bestowed upon a rooster, he would send her on her way. Forget she existed. Expunge all thoughts of wide emerald eyes framed with thick lashes, midnight hair, and full, pink lips from his mind. Visit the lovely and debauched Elise, Lady Burton, instead. The countess knew what he preferred, just how far to push the limits of his appetite for the depraved.
“You may send him in, Hazlitt.” The words emerged from him in a rush. From some secret, dark recess of his mind not even he knew existed. It went against common sense, against his plans, against every damned thing to perpetuate her falsehoods. Each appearance she made at his club heightened the risk, for if anyone else suspected her or unmasked her, his carefully wrought plans for revenge against his sire would be dashed.
Hazlitt bowed and disappeared, snapping the door closed.
For a moment, Duncan was alone with his clamoring thoughts. Why the hell had he allowed her entrance? What was the purpose of delaying, of allowing her to continue with her ruse? He swallowed, raked a hand through his hair, and otherwise attempted to compose himself. Lust, he realized.
Base. Crude. Wrong.
It had felled many a great man before him. But there it was, shameful and true, a fact he could not deny. He wanted her. Last night, he had lain awake in his bed, thinking of her, hand on his cock, and he had found his release to the thought of him on his knees before her, tasting the sweet flesh between her thighs as she watched the wickedness unfolding within the scarlet chamber. How sweet her pearl would have been against his tongue. He would have sucked until—
The door opened once more, and there she stood, Hazlitt hovering over her shoulder with his piercing stare. Duncan flicked his gaze back to her, taking her in—the awkward, ill-fitting coat and waistcoat navy and gray respectively, at odds with her buff breeches. Her cravat was crooked. Her boots scuffed and clearly a discarded pair of her father or brother’s. Her hair was once again stuffed beneath a hat.
He stood and willed his painfully erect prick to soften. Thank Christ for the cut of his coat, which hid his tremendous and inappropriate reaction to all thoughts relating to Lady Frederica.
He bowed. “Lord Blanden.”
She bowed as well. “Mr. Kirkwood.”
Her gruff attempt to disguise her voice had returned.
“Thank you, Hazlitt,” he called to his hovering man, for he had no wish to perpetuate an audience. He wanted her alone so he could decide what the devil he was to do to her. Er, with her, rather. “That will be all.”
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 a
ll 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 ordinarily 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 ba
ck 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.”
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