Frederica frowned at Leonora. “My dreams are priceless. I do not know what any of the rest of it is worth. But I cannot ruin myself if I am discreet. The gambles I’m making far outweigh the potential reward. All I have ever wanted is to write a novel and see my work in print. I am so near to achieving my goal, to being taken seriously, but the plot concerning the baron must be unshakably realistic.”
All this was true as well. Most young ladies aspired to marriage. Frederica had been groomed to attain the proper ladylike arts. She could sing, she could play the pianoforte, she could dance and curtsy and manage a passable effort at watercolors. She had been courted and wooed by earls and viscounts.
But all she truly wanted was to hold her book in her hands. She wanted the characters and stories rioting in her mind to come to life in ink and paper. She wanted readers to pluck her book from a shelf and share her world. It was a desire that had plagued and spurred her in equal measure from the moment she’d first held a book in her small hands as a girl. The story had captivated her, and she had known what she must do.
“I know how much you wish to finish your novel, Freddy.” Leonora kept her voice hushed, but her expression was determined, jaw stubborn and hard. Her disapproval was clear. “But it is not only unwise to put yourself and your reputation in jeopardy in such a fashion, it is the height of folly. Once was bad enough. To think you wish to return…” She shuddered with dramatic flair, allowing her sentence to trail off before continuing. “You cannot think the risk of ruination is worth the reward.”
“I can and I do,” she insisted stubbornly. Drat her friend for being the voice of reason she did not wish to hear. She had been hoping Leonora would be as intrigued by the prospect of her return to The Duke’s Bastard as she was. “I have decided being ruined may be a fate preferable to that of becoming Lady Willingham. Indeed, it holds increasing appeal by the day.”
Perhaps by the hour.
Certainly since she had made the acquaintance of one Duncan Kirkwood.
What was it about the man?
Leonora gasped. “You cannot mean it, Freddy.”
She raised an incredulous brow at her friend. “Would you care to be the Countess of Willingham?”
Leonora flushed and looked down at her lap. “At six-and-twenty, I suppose I should accept his suit and be grateful.”
Frederica’s stomach flipped, weighed down by the instant boulder of self-loathing. “Oh, Leonora, pray forgive me for my thoughtless tongue.”
Frederica cursed her thoughtlessness, for no one knew better than she that her friend wished to become a wife and a mother more than she wished to take her next breath. While Frederica had never aspired to becoming a gentleman’s wife, Leonora did. Her painfully shy manner around gentlemen and her limp had rendered her a wallflower. As the years went by with nary a marriage prospect—not even a dubious one like Willingham—she crept closer and closer to spinsterhood.
“You must not fret on my account.” Leonora flashed her a smile of forced brightness. “I harbor no illusions about myself. How can I? Limping Leonora, with a brother who has been absent from England for years, an invalid mother, and hardly a dowry to speak of, cannot aspire to lofty prospects. It is a small mercy I have been able to gain entrée to society as I have.”
“You are the daughter and sister of an earl,” Frederica argued, for she hated the complacent manner in which her friend denounced herself. “Any gentleman would be fortunate to take you to wife. Indeed, there are none worthy of you. You are the kindest, most intelligent, and most beautiful lady in all London.”
“Pish.” Leonora waved a dismissive hand through the air, as though she were discreetly shooing a bothersome fly. “I am lame as an old horse. I cannot dance. I do not flirt. I am not a great wit, and I cannot even play the pianoforte. My singing voice rivals a rooster for jarring shrillness. My family is awash in scandal, and I have no great fortune as my saving grace. Even my youth slips away with each day. I do not fool myself, Freddy. I know precisely who and what I am.”
“You are perfect, and I refuse to countenance any of the things you’ve just said.” Frederica was firm on this.
She was protective of her friend. Unlike Leonora, she had never been subject to such mockery or ridicule. They had become quick—if unlikely—friends, and Frederica was more grateful for her with each passing day. Leonora was the sister she’d never had. Each of them had one brother only, and together, they had found a mutual camaraderie borne of necessity and mutual respect.
“My darling Freddy, you are blind as ever in regard to me.” Leonora pursed her lips. “It is one of the legions of reasons why I adore you. But because I love you so, I must caution you against the rash decision you have made. Indeed, I must not just caution you but advise you not to return. It is a miracle you arrived at such an establishment on your own and returned unharmed. But the thought that dreadful man had you in his office, alone, makes me long to hunt him down like the miscreant he is and lay him low.”
She blinked at the vehemence in her friend’s tone. Leonora was not ordinarily possessed of a violent nature. Frederica performed another cursory inspection of the chamber, making certain their maids remained otherwise occupied. Leonora’s was stitching, and Freddy’s appeared to have fallen asleep.
“He is not as much a villain as one would presume,” she found herself defending Duncan Kirkwood.
Much to her shock.
And dismay. And shame. Great shame. But there was some part of her—some deep and previously undiscovered part of her—that felt a connection to the man. An interest. Even an attraction.
Leonora’s mouth fell open. “Not as much a villain? Have you forgotten he is the illegitimate half brother to Lord Willingham, a man you detest?”
She almost had. The two men were so different that it was far too easy to forget. “He is nothing like the earl. Indeed, he is…”
Intriguing. Handsome. Magnetic.
“He is not a good man, Freddy,” Leonora interrupted, saving her from making any embarrassing admissions. “Good heavens, he has beggared lords without compunction. He preys upon the weaknesses of lesser men for his own benefit. He harbors ladies of ill repute within his establishment. Scoundrels like him are the reason why you are writing The Silent Baron.”
“Yes.” She could not deny her friend’s words, for they were true. All of them. Even the last. Gambling was a sin. It was wrong. The way in which men such as Duncan Kirkwood earned their fortunes by exploiting the weaknesses of others had motivated her to write The Silent Baron. Her book would be a culmination of fact, fiction, intrigue, mystery, sin, and—ultimately—redemption. “I cannot argue with you, Leonora, but there is something about Mr. Kirkwood that is oddly compelling. I cannot explain it or make sense of it myself. How I wish you could accompany me.”
“Accompany you?” Leonora’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? What violence did he commit against you? Are you frightened of him? You can go away—join your father in the country, perhaps—if you fear for your safety.”
She shook her head. “He did nothing to me.”
Not true, taunted her conscience. He took you to the viewing corridor. He allowed you to witness unspeakable acts. He showed you depravity without a hint of remorse. Indeed, he was proud of it. And you liked it. You were not shocked or thoroughly disgusted as you ought to have been. Perhaps there is something wrong with you as well. Some moral deficiency.
Frederica ordered her conscience to muzzle itself at once. She had no wish to hear anything further on the matter. Her decision had been made, and it made her chest fill with a buoyancy she had never before felt. Freedom. Choice. She could be wicked if she chose. How freeing. How tempting.
“Did he take liberties?” Leonora demanded, her voice strident enough to attract the attention of their lady’s maids.
Frederica pressed her lips in a firm line and forced herself to answer in an equally loud tone. “That is what the gossip sheet claimed about Lady Marigold, but I am not certain we ou
ght to believe such scurrilous accounts.”
“Just so,” Leonora agreed. “How remiss of me. Idle gossip ought never to be considered.”
“No,” Frederica agreed quietly. “It should not. I cannot explain it, Leonora. Do not ask it of me. All I can say is there is something decidedly different about him. Something intriguing. He is not altogether bad. Certainly not good either. But he is not the devil we have suspected him of being. I feel confident of it.”
“It does not signify,” Leonora charged quietly. “Freddy, you cannot mean to return. You cannot even contemplate it.”
But she was. And she would.
She was beginning to realize, however, she would never convince her friend of the wisdom of her decision. For the first time in their lengthy friendship, Frederica decided to do the unthinkable.
She lied. “You are quite right, of course, dear friend. I shan’t return. It would be dangerous, foolhardy, and ruinous. I do tend to allow my imagination to guide me, and I shall not make the same mistake in this instance. I will simply make the best of the research I was able to gather on my foray there yesterday.”
Leonora’s eyes narrowed into slits. Her disbelief of Frederica’s abrupt change of heart was apparent. “You cannot return, Freddy. It is not an abundance of caution on my part but rather my love for you that prompts me to warn you.”
Frederica sent her friend a reassuring smile. “Naturally, I shall not. Pray do not trouble yourself another moment more on my account, Leonora. I bow to your superior wisdom, as ever.”
If all went according to plan, Leonora would never know.
Just one more trip into the devil’s den, she promised herself. Another jaunt to The Duke’s Bastard.
Once more.
That was all she wanted. All she needed. For the sake of research alone. Of course.
Leonora pinned her with a searching look she could not like. “My wisdom is superior indeed. Do not forget I warned you.”
Frederica smiled. “I never required a warning, dear heart.”
Perhaps you do, threatened the voice once more. Perhaps you ought to take heed.
She smothered it in the same fashion she buried her friend’s doubts. Down, down, down. Until it was no longer there.
Chapter Four
“Sir, there is a visitor for you.”
Bloody, bloody, misbegotten hell.
Hades and Beelzebub.
Hellfire and damnation.
Duncan threw down his quill, not caring if ink splattered on the ledger he’d been painstakingly balancing. Irritation surged within him, mingling with desire. Why the hell should his man announcing a visitor grant him a rigid—almost painful—cockstand?
Because you think the visitor is her.
Lady Frederica Isling, to be precise. She had told him she would return on the morrow.
The black-haired beauty with the emerald eyes and strange manner of conducting herself. The girl who had dared to dress as a man to infiltrate his establishment. To his knowledge, she was the only one who had ever had the gall to attempt such subterfuge in order to gain entrance to The Duke’s Bastard.
Part of him admired her for it.
Part of him wanted to bed her into the next century.
Another part of him found her an irritation and a complication he did not need. Her appearance in his club had already provided him all the ammunition he required. Indeed, her usefulness to him was at an end. All he need do was pay a visit to her father, the Duke of Westlake, and vengeance would be his.
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 th
e 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.
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