It would seem she had failed abysmally on that score.
“Truly, my lord?” Mr. Kirkwood flashed her a grin that transformed his features from strikingly handsome to breathtaking.
It was an odd thing for a man to be so beautiful, but there was no other way to describe him. Gazing upon the full effect of him now, she could not seem to find her voice. Especially since his hot gaze had once more dipped to her breasts, as though he could see the fullness of them carefully hidden beneath the trappings of civility.
Frederica blinked. Oh dear. What had he asked of her? One gaze into the brilliant depths of his eyes—one perusal of his full, sensual lips—and her mind was as muddled as the pages of an unbound book that had been thrown aloft. Slowly drifting to earth, but no longer in the order it had once been.
No longer the same.
Thoroughly jumbled.
She had to leave. That was the answer to this madness, this impossible conundrum facing her. She spun on her heel, desperate to flee the chamber and run from Duncan Kirkwood, his club, and the improper sensations he elicited in her all at once.
A hand gripped her elbow. Superior strength stayed her and twirled her about. The quick, forceful motions took her by surprise. Frederica lost her balance and toppled forward.
Into Mr. Kirkwood’s chest.
Her splayed palms connected with his midnight superfine coat, absorbing the firm strength hidden beneath the layers of wool and linen. Her heart thudded. A queer sensation settled between her thighs. Frederica had never touched a gentleman so intimately before, and Mr. Kirkwood—well, he was surely not a gentleman. But he was of the male persuasion. And he was delightfully broad, large, and firm. Beneath her tentative hands, he was warm. He was…
“Are you feverish, my lord?” Mr. Kirkwood’s deep voice, sinfully amused, interrupted her wild musings.
“Perhaps I may have a touch of my mother’s ague.” She swallowed, the precise name she’d given for the illness disappearing from her mind, along with most other coherent thought.
Her hands, meanwhile, required no independent guidance. She was intrigued, and she could not help herself from indulging. She could not deny herself the details she sought.
This, too, was the reason why she had taken the great risk of infiltrating his club—for research purposes. How could she write The Silent Baron with any degree of accuracy if she possessed no knowledge well from which to draw?
She could have guessed a man’s form was firmer than her own, for instance. But she could not have known how defined and hard his muscled torso felt beneath her questing fingers. She could not have experienced the steady beat of his heart, or inhaled his delicious masculine scent of lemon, musk, and amber. She could not have noticed the tiny flecks of green in his blue eyes, or the faint brackets alongside his full lips that suggested an inclination to smile and laugh often. She would not have noted the glint of candlelight in his golden locks, which were longer than fashion and tousled.
Her liberties were unprecedented and egregious, as was being alone with him in his office, nary a chaperon to be found. In his inner sanctum at the midst of a den of iniquity. Her hands, however, had a mind of their own, traveling beneath his cutaway to his waistcoat.
What was she thinking, mauling Duncan Kirkwood’s chest? How shocking. The trouble of it was, now she had begun, she could not seem to stop. Surely it was her curiosity propelling her. Surely it was not that she…enjoyed the illicit pleasure of stroking a strange gentleman’s chest. Specifically, of stroking the chest belonging to one of London’s most notorious men.
Nay.
He touched her forehead. Pressed the backs of his fingers to her skin for a brief moment, and the contact resonated in her core. “You do not feel feverish to me,” Mr. Kirkwood said then, interrupting the heavy silence that had fallen between them. “Do you, my lord, perchance possess a fondness for testing the quality of a man’s waistcoat with your hands?”
She swallowed again. Caught. How had she forgotten she was masquerading as a gentleman? She snatched her hands away from him at last, flushing. The sensation of his lean abdomen seemed imprinted upon her palms.
“No.” She blinked. “Er, yes.”
His lips quirked into a smile she could only describe as swoon-inducing. “Which is it, my lord? Yes or no?”
Neither. Frederica calculated the odds of successfully fleeing the chamber once more. Perhaps if she distracted him first, or if she was somehow able to douse the flames of the wall sconces, she could detain him long enough to make good her retreat. Or better yet, perhaps she could convince him she was ill.
“Forgive me my familiarity,” she said, taking care to keep her voice as gruff as possible. “I seem to have lost my balance. No doubt I have contracted the ague as well. For my dear mother, it began with her falling into things—just the furniture at first, mind you. Chairs. A Louis Quatorze table. Then one day, she fell atop the Duchess of Blackwater during an at home, and it was the beginning of the end. The duchess gave my mother the cut direct after that occasion. Indeed, I fear it will not be long now before death claims me as well. I ought not to be near you, sir, lest the ague be catching.”
If Mr. Kirkwood did not allow her to leave after this embellishment, she knew not what would sway him.
His gaze seemed to burn into her. “This duchess…was she a friend of your mother’s?”
“The Duchess of Greywater,” she clarified, nodding. “Yes, of course. She and my mother were dear friends. No longer, I am afraid, and it is just as well, truly, for my mother could have infected her with the ague otherwise. I really ought to be on my way, sir. Not only does my mother require me, but I could make you ill. I would never wish for the ague to settle its curse upon you.”
“Greywater or Blackwater?” he snapped.
Frederica did not follow him for a moment. Perhaps because she had been rather preoccupied by watching his mouth. His lips were so firm and supple, the loveliest shade she had ever seen on a gentleman, dusky pink, full and so well-defined. Too pretty, almost, for a man’s mouth. The effect was startling and breathtaking all at once.
“I am afraid I do not understand, sir.”
And she didn’t. It was as if he spoke in riddles.
“The duchess your supposed mama fell atop,” he elaborated, his jaw hardening and his tone deepening, resonating with anger. “Upon first reference, you called her the Duchess of Blackwater. Thereafter, you referred to her as the Duchess of Greywater. The same woman cannot be both, can she?”
Oh, how dreadful this is. The longer she remained, the more of herself she gave away. Mr. Kirkwood seemed taller in that moment. More menacing. Perhaps it was his steadfast devotion to colorlessness—his entire wardrobe was midnight black, even his cravat, and she noted for the first time the ring he wore, emblazoned with a skull.
She had never seen another man as compelling in his singular appearance—or as frightening. “I misspoke,” she forced herself to say. “Do forgive me the error. It is the Duchess of Blackwater, of course.”
Frederica could only hope he was not knowledgeable enough to recognize her blatant falsehood, for there was no extant Duchess of Blackwater. How could her simple foray into The Duke’s Bastard have gone so miserably astray? When she and her friend and fellow wallflower Lady Leonora Forsythe had first settled upon the notion of infiltrating the gaming hell in disguise, neither of them had bargained for the madness unfolding now.
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
Too smoothly.
His expression shifted, taking on a predatory harshness. He moved forward, crowding her with his tall, broad body. She forgot to breathe.
“Tell me something, will you not?” he asked before she could garner a response.
She had retreated half a dozen paces, and with the last, her back met plaster. Her shoulder grazed a painting, sending it listing to the left. Her heart thumped. Her palms were sweaty. Misgiving blossomed inside her like a triumphant summer rose.
“What
is it you wish to know, sir?” she asked as his eyes burned into hers. There was nowhere else for her to go, and pinned beneath his gaze, there was nowhere else she wished to be, anyhow.
“Your name.”
How dull. She could not stave off the wave of disappointment crashing down upon her. Ninny! She scolded herself. What did you think? That he would ask for your hand in marriage when you are posing as a gentleman?
There was the reminder she needed.
She straightened her shoulders, her gaze never wavering from his. “I am the Marquess of Blanden.”
“Blanden?” he repeated the name she had given him—her brother’s courtesy title, of course—his countenance shifting once more. Turning pensive. “Your father is the Duke of Westlake?”
She did not flinch, for her response to this question, at least, was true. “Yes, he is.”
“Bloody sodding hell,” he said lowly, his eyes scouring her.
It was decidedly not the response she had anticipated.
Chapter Two
Her name was Lady Frederica Isling.
And he wanted to devour her.
She was not a gentleman, thank Christ. Nor was she the Marquess of Blanden—also thank Christ, for the Marquess of Blanden was as interesting as a twig. Though she certainly did resemble him, from her raven-wing hair peeping beneath her hat to her wide green cat’s eyes. Nay, unless Duncan was wrong, she was Blanden’s sister.
It was his business to know every facet of the lives of the quality. He knew their sires, their friends, their sisters, and their mistresses, knew their debts and their properties and gambling habits. Knew their bedchamber preferences, knew which men were drunkards and which never drank a drop. He almost knew to a man how many times a day they pissed.
Which was why he knew the Marquess of Blanden possessed one near spinster sister his sire was attempting to marry off. Which, in turn, meant her appearance in his club, dressed as a gentleman, in direct opposition to all decency and propriety, was providential.
Lady Frederica was everything he required. The final ingredient necessary for vengeance upon the Duke of Amberly, a man who shared his blood but not his name. His plot could unfold according to plan thanks to the inquisitive and brash nature of one small, determined female.
And here she stood, defiant yet wary, giving herself away. She smelled of violets. Her hips were full and delicious. How he had ever mistaken her for a man—even for a moment—baffled Duncan as he looked at her now. Little wonder he had been attracted to her arse first. She was curved in all the proper places, and just thinking about her was enough to make him go rigid. He longed to pleasure her until she lost herself and her starch both.
But he could not devour her, for she was an innocent, and he was a bad man. A man she ought not to know. A man who had uses for her she could not possibly fathom.
He reined himself in. Forced himself to meet her bright, inquisitive gaze. He could gain what he wanted without debauching her. Without ruining her. She worried her lush lower lip with her teeth, biting it for just a moment as her wide eyes scanned the chamber, seemingly for a means of escape. She was a dichotomy of purity and sin—pale, creamy skin, delicious femininity, light and darkness, her hair black as a starless, midnight sky. As he studied her, all his good intentions fled, as insubstantial as unsown seeds blown away and scattered in the wind.
He could leave her entirely innocent.
But he was not going to.
“Come with me, Blanden,” he said, the devil within him breaking free as he turned on his heel.
This would earn him his place in hell. But it would be worth an eternity. He had no doubt.
“I beg your pardon?” she called after him. Her attempt to keep her voice gruff and low faltered, revealing the sultry notes of her own mellifluous tone.
He stopped, sparing her a glance over his shoulder. Once again, her loveliness hit him with the force of a fist to the gut. Christ on the cross, she was beautiful. A few tendrils of her dark hair had escaped its confines to curl about her face.
Every instinct within him screamed to keep her here. To keep her to himself as if she were a rare treasure. He wanted to kiss the sweet fullness of her lips. To worship her limbs, from ankle to thigh. He wanted to open the fall of her breeches and set his tongue against her. To work her until she shivered and shook beneath him, finding her release with his name on her pretty lips.
But none of those things were meant to be. He would not touch her.
He flashed her one of his most charming grins instead. “Come along if you please, my lord. There is something I wish to show you.”
Her brows rose. “N-no thank you, sir. I must take my leave at once.”
It was time to give her games a try himself. “I understand your dear mother is in ill health, but on your last visit to my club, I was told you made a discreet inquiry. If you accompany me now, I shall take you to the secret rooms as you asked. I seek only to offer you solace in your time of trials, my lord.”
She blinked, her spectacles rendering the action exaggerated. “I do not recall making such an inquiry, and I must be on my way.”
“Nonsense.” His grin deepened. He was enjoying himself. It had been some time since he had been intrigued by anyone. This woman, this madcap duke’s daughter with her penchant for fantastical falsehoods, had somehow managed to garb herself as a man and inveigle her way into his club for reasons that currently eluded him. But he would have his answers, and she would accede to his whims. “I insist, my lord. Just a few moments of your time is all I require. Then you can return to your darling mother’s side. Though I must say I find it rather perplexing that the Duchess of Westlake should be attended by only a gouty, one-legged, blind manservant.”
A flush tinged her cheeks. “Indeed, I fear my family has experienced a reduction of circumstance in recent years. Naturally, we prefer not to discuss our private concerns unless the situation requires it. I would appreciate your discretion.”
“Of course, my lord. I am the soul of discretion whenever merited.” Truer words were never spoken. He bowed. “Now, if you will accompany me?”
He could almost hear the wheels inside her mind spinning as she attempted to plot further means to deny him. What an odd, fascinating creature she was. Pity he could not do as he truly wished with her.
She swallowed. “I…perhaps I might accompany you for just a few moments, sir. But I cannot be detained much longer, I fear.”
“We shan’t need much time at all,” he promised, feeling like a fiend and utterly unrepentant in spite of it.
He predicted she would flee within seconds of pressing her eye to the viewing hole in the scarlet chamber. Duncan strode to the hidden panel in his office that allowed him access to the secret corridor running behind the club’s public pleasure rooms. His fingers found the mechanism that opened the door, and he stepped into the dimly lit hall.
In addition to providing his members with all the gambling, excellent French food, and illegal Scottish whisky they desired, he also catered to their sexual whims. The polite world thrived upon clandestine excess, and he happily indulged his wealthy patrons in every vice they could imagine. Birching, orgies, binding, two men together, two women…it mattered not. Occasionally, he watched.
Watching was the only way he would allow himself to participate, and even that was a solace for rare occasions. When the black mood struck him. When no one could slake his needs. When he looked inside himself and saw nothing but darkness where a soul should be.
“Where are you taking me, sir?”
Her hesitant voice—not even an attempt to disguise its lilting femininity now—stayed him. He turned to find her hovering at the threshold, and with the light of his office at her back, she glowed. How like Persephone she was, on the brink of entering his dark underworld. But unlike Hades, he had no need of force. His inquisitive goddess would follow him because she was curious, and because she could not find another means of extricating herself from her tangled deceptions.
“Come and see,” he invited. “Not every member of The Duke’s Bastard is granted entrée here. It is a privilege.”
She was intrigued. He could read her so easily. But she was also afraid of what she would encounter, hence the hesitation. Her sheltered mind could not possibly imagine the depths of depravity to which he could introduce her. For a moment, he imagined leading her into the sapphire room, using the silken bindings kept there to tie her to the bed. Stripping her of her masculine clothes.
Or better still, opening only the fall of her breeches so he could slide inside her. He would watch himself take her in the mirrored walls. He would make her scream his name. He would…
Bloody, bloody hell.
He would do none of those things.
“Blanden,” he snapped, irritated with himself for his lack of control. A man did not reach the height to which he had scrabbled, fought, and clawed without being as rigid and orderly as a soldier. Duncan Kirkwood did not relinquish his power over himself or others. Not for anyone. Not for any reason.
Ruthlessly, he tamped down the desire burning through his veins. He had always been aroused by the forbidden, and Lady Frederica Isling was no different. Ladies stirred his blood and his cock. Even when they wore dreadful spectacles and the ill-fitting garb of a gentleman, it would seem.
She made her decision and stepped into the corridor at last, walking with a natural sway to her hips he could not help but admire. Her thighs were shapely beneath the fluttering drape of her coat, and damn him if the sight of her in those boots did not make his prick rigid once more.
She reached him, eyes blinking behind the thick lenses, magnified and vibrant even in the low lighting. “What is it you wish to show me, sir? Let us make haste so I can return to my mother.”
“The viewing you requested, my lord,” he said, sliding the small door covering, the viewing hole open.
Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection Page 24