Prince of Persuasion

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Will you require supper?” Mr. Hazlitt asked coolly.

  She eyed him over the rim of her spectacles, rendering him crisp and forbidding rather than blurred and frowning. “Do you dislike me, Mr. Hazlitt?”

  His lip curled. “I dislike trouble.”

  He knew she was not a gentleman, then. The momentary thaw in his rigid expression was just the revelation she required.

  She raised a brow, for the wallflower she was had been replaced with a different person entirely. In her disguise, she was free to do and say and act as she wished. If only it wasn’t fleeting, her precious liberty, slipping away far too quickly. “Trouble, sir? You would dare to refer to a peer of the realm as trouble?”

  The disdain on his countenance only heightened. “You ain’t a peer of the realm, my lord. You’re a cockish wench if I ever saw one, and I’ve seen many in my day. You may have Mr. Kirkwood under your spell, but I’m not going to allow you to lead him or this club into bad bread.”

  Bad bread?

  She was not certain she understood Mr. Hazlitt’s rude manner of speech, and she wished in that moment to record it lest she forget. Such speech could lend an air of realism to her characters.

  Oh, dear. There she went again, worrying about The Silent Baron. Poor Mr. Hazlitt seemed to be anticipating a response. How easy it was to get caught up within her mind and story, rather akin to being trapped in a plethora of ivy vines.

  What had he called her? Cockish wench? Dreadful. Her cheeks went hotter than ever.

  She pursed her lips. “I do not like you either, sir, so perhaps we can dispense with formality and you may simply leave me in peace. Where is Mr. Kirkwood, and when might I expect his return?”

  His gaze narrowed. “You’re a cunning baggage, aren’t you? I’ll not be telling you where he’s gone or why. You can wait here as you’re told, or I will have you removed. The choice is yours, my lord.”

  Ah, yes. There it was again. The bitterness lacing his voice as he exaggerated her address. “I am perfectly happy to remain here, awaiting Mr. Kirkwood. Alone. If you will excuse me, sir, I would appreciate some quiet.”

  She had already spied ink, sheaves of foolscap, and a pen awaiting her at Mr. Kirkwood’s desk. If she must wait, she would make use of her time and Mr. Kirkwood’s supplies. There was something about using his personal writing implements that seemed somehow intimate. Fitting.

  “At the slightest hint of trouble from you, I’ll have you tossed on your arse,” Mr. Hazlitt warned, a hard edge to his voice.

  “Noted, sir.” She flashed him a smile she little felt. “Good evening to you.”

  “Nay, good evening to you. Tabitha may well occupy Mr. Kirkwood’s entire night.” With a mocking bow and a dark-eyed glare, he added, “I predict you shall be wishing for that supper.”

  Tabitha.

  Her mind traveled instantly to the beautiful, bold woman she had met the previous day. Tabitha with the lovely face, goddess-like form, and wandering hands. She was what had kept Mr. Kirkwood from this appointed meeting with Frederica? An unwelcome stab of jealousy pierced her at the thought. Only yesterday, he had been dismissive and cool. It made no sense, and yet it also made dreadful sense all at once. Men like Mr. Duncan Kirkwood were not gently bred. They were wild and unpredictable, uncivilized in their pursuit of pleasure.

  With great effort, she kept her expression as serene as possible, showing nothing of her tumultuous thoughts. “Rest assured, Mr. Hazlitt, if I grow hungry, I shall call for you. You are dismissed, sir.”

  Hazlitt made an exaggerated bow and left the chamber, the door closing with more force than necessary at his back. Frederica winced, every bit of fight in her suddenly drained. She plucked her spectacles from her nose and tossed them against the wall, not caring if they smashed. Her hat was the next victim, torn from her head. Followed by a handful of leather-bound volumes atop his desk.

  She rather hoped she cracked a spine or two.

  Still fuming with pent-up irritation she had no wish to feel, she devoted herself for a time to reviewing the titles of the books in his office. Poetry volumes, all of them save one, which was entitled Views of the Seats of Noblemen and Gentleman. Perhaps he studied the locations, architecture, and priceless artwork on display in the country homes of his patrons, all the better to know whom to fleece.

  The unworthy thought reminded her of just how much a stranger Mr. Kirkwood was to her. Today marked the fourth since he had appeared in her life, and already she was throwing tantrums, kissing him in hidden halls, and spying on lords engaged in shocking acts of depravity. There was also the matter of costuming herself as a gentleman and sneaking about London.

  But the kiss. The kiss had altered everything.

  A shiver trilled through her. What had become of her? Where was the sensible wallflower who was keener to devote herself to books and her secret passion for writing than anything and anyone else?

  She has awakened from a long sleep.

  Frederica approached his carved chair, noting the depiction of what was undeniably Hades on one half and Persephone on the other. Life and death, darkness and light, come together. She traced a lone finger over the intricate carvings, absorbing this small manner in which she could make sense of Duncan Kirkwood.

  The man who had kissed her as if she were his life’s breath.

  The same man who had abandoned her the next day.

  A fierce urge to write overcame her then. Words crept into her mind. Scenes and emotions unfurled. She had come here to be near her characters, their world, to bask in it and understand it in some small measure. Here was her chance.

  Despite her misgivings and the tumult at work within her, she settled in Mr. Kirkwood’s chair. Her fingers, still stained with midnight ink, itched to write more. She dipped his pen into the inkwell, trying to ignore the scent of him that seemed to permeate everything, especially her resolve.

  Her quill scratched over the paper. The owner of the gaming hell appeared before the baron, and he rather resembled Mr. Kirkwood, much to her consternation. But she quickly became swept away by the characters and the plot. There was a mystery afoot as well, one she had not previously conceived.

  She wrote furiously, caught up in the scene, in the emotions, in the intrigue of it all. Losing herself in her writing could be so easy some days, and others, she arrived at passable sentences with great difficulty.

  With a sigh, she dropped the pen back into the well and took a moment to read what she had written. To her surprise and delight, it was quite good. The thoughts were well formed, the plot growing in intrigue and strength. Even the dialogue had flowed exceptionally well, despite her irritation at Mr. Kirkwood’s abrupt abandonment of her.

  She had one more evening.

  Perhaps she would not see him again before returning to the despicable monotony of her life as Lady Frederica Isling. The acknowledgment and the accompanying pang it sent through her fell into the recesses of her mind for a moment when her eyes unintentionally landed upon a packet of correspondence. The missive on top of the stack bore her father’s name.

  What business could Mr. Kirkwood have with her father? Her fingers hovered over it, the wicked urge to snatch it up and break the seal dashed abruptly when the door to his office swung open.

  There he was, clad in black as always, his brow knitted into a frown that did nothing to diminish his beautiful features as he stalked into the chamber and carelessly flicked the door shut once more at his back. She stood, sending some of her frantically written manuscript pages flying to the plush carpet like sad little birds too soon fallen from the nest.

  “Oh, bother,” she muttered, hastening to scoop them up lest he offer to help and attempt to read her words. Lest he see himself in the debonair, rakish gaming hell owner.

  “Lady Frederica.”

  Her name drawled in his deep rich voice made her skin pebble into gooseflesh and an answering surge of yearning blossom in her core. She did not look up at him, ignoring his greeting as she
attempted to concentrate upon the recovery of all her pages. Blast it, why had she not thought to number the pages of her scene? Now they would be a hopeless jumble until she spent time collecting them back into their proper order.

  Gleaming black shoes, in the height of fashion, approached her, stopping alongside a sheaf of paper that was beyond her reach. She surged forward, crawling on hands and knees, but he was too quick, and his long fingers descended, closing on the sheet.

  “No,” she cried out, scrambling to her feet and making an unladylike lunge toward him in an effort to recover her stolen manuscript page. “That is private material, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  It was certainly not ready for anyone else’s eyes, having only been written. Moreover, with her rotten fortune, she was sure the page he held captive would also be the one bearing his description. She could hear her words, almost aloud.

  He was a handsome man with a devilish air and a careless demeanor that hid a sharp, cunning mind. He bore an intelligence that belied his crude beginnings, a persuasive manner that could not fail to enamor all in his charmed presence…

  Her ears went hot once more as he held the paper aloft and out of her reach, his frown deepening as his eyes settled upon the page. “What is this, my lady? You have been making free use of my ink and paper? This foolscap is quite dear, I will have you know.”

  “I shall recompense you.” She made another ineffectual swipe through the air, rising on her toes to no avail.

  He was taller, his arms longer, his reach well beyond hers in more ways than merely one. “In what manner?”

  Her cheeks burned, too, her gaze flitting to his. Was he ungentlemanly enough to refer to the stolen kisses of yesterday? The kisses that were scorched into her memory forever? Did he dare suggest she pay for the pages she had used by kissing him again?

  “If it is kisses you wish, perhaps you ought to request them from another,” she bit out, horrified she could not recall the undignified outburst once it had been released. Why, she sounded horridly jealous. Which of course, she was not.

  “Kisses.” He lowered the paper, hiding it behind his back as he pinned her with his intense gaze. “An intriguing means of remuneration. I confess, it was not what I had in mind. But why should anyone other than you pay for the paper you have ruined without my leave?”

  She pursed her lips, considering her response. “The paper is not ruined. I was passing the time by writing The Silent Baron.”

  He quirked a brow, not appearing any further inclined to relinquish the page to her. “Ah. I might have known. Tell me, why the devil is the unfortunate fellow silent?”

  “He loses the ability to speak,” she grudgingly offered, hating revealing her plot aloud so simply, for it did not sound nearly as majestic as her mind rendered it. “His country seat burns down, and he rushes inside to save the woman he loves. He fails, though he escapes with his own life. After, the baron is never the same.”

  “How grim, Lady Frederica.” His countenance remained unsmiling, his gaze assessing as ever. The missing page of her manuscript was still being held for ransom behind his back.

  “Life is grim,” she countered, for it was the bitter truth. Though she had been born to a world of privilege, it was not the world she would have chosen for herself. She had never truly felt as if she belonged. Societal constraints and expectations made her itch. The thought of marrying Lord Willingham made her ill. “The baron must do penance for his sins in one fashion or another, and the injuries he receives in the flames steal his capacity for speech.”

  “And what would a cosseted duke’s daughter know of the grimness of life?” he asked, a mocking undercurrent to his delicious voice she did not like.

  How she resented him for that question, for the assumption that wealth and rank necessarily brought happiness along with them. “Being forced into matrimony is rather grim, would you not agree, Mr. Kirkwood?”

  “Forced?” His eyes seemed to burn into hers, so unnaturally light and bright.

  She could not look away. “Forced, Mr. Kirkwood. Just as I said.”

  He curled his upper lip in obvious disgust. “To the unwanted suitor you previously mentioned?”

  He had remembered. True, the revelation had not been made many days prior, but it struck her that her reference to her would-be betrothed had remained imprinted upon his memory.

  She grimaced. “Yes.”

  “This suitor,” he began, saying the word as if it tasted sour on his tongue, “has he ill-treated you?”

  Though his tone was calm, she detected an undercurrent of barely leashed savagery. She thought of Lord Willingham’s deft maneuvering on their drive so he could find a part of the park with enough privacy that he could force his suit. His hands had gripped her with a painful violence, his forced kiss as unwanted as his touch and courtship both.

  For a brief, wild moment, she wondered what Mr. Kirkwood would say if she revealed the identity of her suitor. Lord Willingham had certainly never spoken of Mr. Kirkwood, and nor had the gaming hell owner ever mentioned his lineage, though the name of his club said it eloquently enough. She still could not reconcile the two men sharing blood.

  “He has kissed me when I did not wish it,” she admitted softly.

  Something indefinable flashed in his eyes. “Does your father not care for your opinion in the matter?”

  She thought of her father’s ultimatum before he had left for the country. “He wishes to see me settled as soon as possible. I am afraid his choice for me is not my own, and having grown impatient, I must say no. He does not particularly care.”

  “And who is your choice, my lady?” he asked, his voice as strained as his expression.

  What an odd dialogue to be having with the wicked Mr. Duncan Kirkwood. If she did not know better, she would almost swear the man cared for her. But, of course, she knew better. She knew he only cared for his own gain, his own pleasure.

  She considered his question for a beat. “Someone who is caring, who is kind. Someone who will not frown upon my writing. A man who will champion me rather than attempt to silence and stifle me. A man who is bold and adventurous of spirit.”

  For some ludicrous reason, the man she pictured inside her mind resembled Mr. Kirkwood in much the same manner the character in The Silent Baron did. Oh, dear. This would never do.

  “Does this paragon have a name?” He stiffened, his entire body going rigid, a hardness that had not been previously present underscoring his words. “You need but tell me, and I can vouch for his integrity or lack thereof.”

  Frederica shook her head swiftly. “He does not bear a name. There is no one.”

  A slow, beautiful smile lifted his lips. “Good.”

  She did not understand. “You are pleased a worthwhile husband does not exist?”

  He shook his head, stepping forward, crowding her with his large, warm body. She retreated a step, uncertain of his intentions, every part of her screaming to remain where she was and raise her face to beg for more of his kisses. But then she recalled why he had been absent for so much of the evening. She remembered a beautiful, golden-haired woman named Tabitha, who had been the cause of his defection.

  “I am pleased you do not have a suitor you are enamored of, Lady Frederica.”

  His revelation was not what she had expected. It stripped her down, cut to the marrow. The question that had been eating her alive could be contained and ignored no longer. She set it free. “Where were you this evening, Mr. Kirkwood?”

  His lips flattened, nostrils flaring, but the intensity of his gaze could have scorched her, set her aflame. “I was settling one of my ladies. She and a patron had an unfortunate clash. If you are looking for shame or an apology, you may continue your search elsewhere, my lady. I run a den of vice. The Duke’s Bastard is not a church, though men may come here to worship at the altar.”

  “At the altar of sin,” she finished for him, her blood growing cold. One of my ladies. This reminder, like his absence, struck her in a way nothing else c
ould. How easy it could be to forget their disparate circumstances. But she must not confuse her interest in him, his club, and the life he led for anything more.

  “Sin indeed.” He stalked forward, sending her backward once more.

  One step, two, three, four, until there was nowhere left to flee. The sharp edge of his wooden desk bit into her tender flesh. Her hands found the polished surface.

  He planted his hands on the desk alongside hers, bringing the missing page within her reach at last as he pinned it to the surface. But all thoughts of repossessing it fled when he lowered his head until their gazes clashed at the same level. Heat and danger smoldered from him. He had never been more glorious.

  “It is the reason for every patron’s attendance at my club, Lady Frederica. Sin. Depravity. Wickedness. Unless you have failed to realize it, you are so far from your sheltered world of balls and soirees and evening musicales. No one here gives a damn about propriety or dancing the minuet or sipping orgeat. The men here have assembled for one reason and one reason alone. It is how I have earned my bread all these years.”

  The bitter sting of jealously was eating her alive from the inside out. “Did you kiss her as you kissed me?”

  He stared at her, darkness rolling off him in waves. It was almost a tangible thing between them, the part of him he held at bay. “Who?”

  “Tabitha,” she whispered, hating the name, hating the woman, her angelic face and her dampened skirts and her hands that seemed intent upon stroking a man’s… Good sweet God, she fervently hoped the woman had not…that Mr. Kirkwood had not… He did not seem to be the sort of man who sampled the wares of those beneath him, but it was true that many such men existed. “Did you kiss her?”

  Please say you did not.

  Please.

  Please.