Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  “Mr. Kirkwood,” she called out, her feet moving toward him. She could not chase in the shoes that dwarfed her feet—as it was, she’d needed to wedge several pairs of stockings inside the toe to render the things wearable—but she managed well enough.

  He stopped just short of the door, stiffening, keeping his back to her. “Lady Frederica, it would not be wise of you to encourage me to linger in this hall.”

  The subtle implication of his words thrilled her. Sent heat blossoming in her, settling in the forbidden flesh she could not seem to ignore. The unspoken suggestion that she tempted him ought to frighten her, but she was reveling in her newfound freedom whilst it was still hers. When her father returned to town, she would not dare to be so bold in her escapes. And with his arrival would come a fresh wave of urging her to wed. Willingham would not wait long.

  But it wasn’t just her fleeting freedom making her heart pound and an ache pulse between her thighs. It was him. This man. He was not the sort of gentleman she would have ever been allowed to know. Mr. Kirkwood was scandalous. Dangerous. Even if his club was frequented by the peerage’s loftiest lords, he was still the bastard son of a duke and a doxy. He worked to earn his living.

  Polite society shuddered at such a plebian notion.

  Frederica found it intriguing. Admirable. Attractive.

  He was attractive. Frightfully so. He was forbidden, and it only made her long for more time in his enigmatic presence.

  “Why should I not encourage you to remain here?” she asked, inwardly cursing herself for the breathless quality of her voice.

  He already thought her a pampered, witless duke’s daughter. She did not need to further his opinion. She was still speaking to his back. His head was bowed, almost as if he attempted to cling to his restraint.

  She had seen the raw glint in his beautiful eyes. For a perfect moment, she had read his confusion. He, too, felt the connection between them—odd and unexpected yet so perfectly natural, as if it had been preordained. She knew it.

  And he had not yet left. Or moved.

  Temptation burned through her, along with an unaccountable boldness. Frederica scarcely recognized herself. The meek wallflower who was content to remain on the periphery of society was nowhere to be found. It was as if she had shed her old self in favor of her new identity. Here and now, she found herself in the midst of the most interesting bustle of people and vice and sin she had ever imagined. She found herself just a step away from the man she had only read about in scandal sheets.

  One more step forward. She took it.

  Frederica placed a palm on his back. She’d shucked her gloves, which had only hindered her ability to properly take notes, and the heat of him through his coat seemed to singe her skin.

  “You did not answer me,” she prodded, fancying her hand absorbed the steady, fast thuds of his heart.

  He was rigid beneath her touch. Strong and male and lean. His scent washed over her, and the pulse in her core turned into a throb. She felt suddenly as she had when she had pressed her eye to the viewing slot and witnessed the most shocking acts imaginable. Hot. Achy. As if she needed something but did not know precisely what that something could be.

  Only this time, it was magnified by one hundred.

  “You should not touch me, my lady.” His voice was rough and low, a decadent rake over her senses.

  Naturally, his warning only made her bolder. She flattened her left palm to his shoulder as well, daring to slowly move her hands. The slope of his bones and sinew, the cords of his muscle, the solid strength of him—she learned it all, for the first time. She had only danced with gentlemen in ballrooms, driven with them in the park. So proper, a necessary degree of separation at all times. But this—Duncan Kirkwood—was real, and she could not deny how much she adored exploring his virility.

  “Why should I not touch you, Mr. Kirkwood?” She continued her perusal of his back, unashamedly. It felt far too good. All of it.

  She felt like a prisoner who had been locked away all her life, only to suddenly be handed the key. She wanted to fit the key to the lock, swing open the door, and run free. Dear heavens. Perhaps something was wrong with her. Perhaps she was inherently wicked. Whatever the case, she wanted her research to include him.

  She could acknowledge it to herself if to no one else.

  “Because you are an innocent,” he growled then. “You are a lady of quality, and I am decidedly not a gentleman.”

  “What if I do not wish to be an innocent?” The question fled her unintentionally. Her tongue was always ahead of her mind, saying what she felt. Speaking out of turn.

  Was it her imagination, or did he sway toward her?

  “Lady Frederica, I can assure you that you are out of your depths,” he gritted.

  Was she? Yes. Without question. But that did not mean she longed for him any less. There was so much she wanted to know. So much she wanted to learn. Frederica was insatiable for knowledge. For research. To make her novels come to life.

  Perhaps also to make herself come to life.

  “Would you kiss me?” she asked, and she did not know why. Kissing Duncan Kirkwood had not been her purpose in coming here this evening. Nor had her own ruination.

  His silence seemed to fill the softly lit hall, echoing all around them, mocking her.

  She had made a fool of herself.

  Humiliation burning through her, she tore her hands from him and spun on her heel. It would be better if she allowed him to fetch the carriage and she remained where she was, too far away to further embarrass herself. Too far away for him to tempt her. She could only hope he would leave with haste.

  She could not bear to return tomorrow. Not after begging for his kiss. A man like Duncan Kirkwood would have no use for a sheltered miss. What had she been thinking? Likely, everything she had read in him had been wrong. Drat her observational skills. They were flawed. Just as she was.

  Tears stung her eyes.

  How would she ever write a novel when she could not even understand herself?

  She heard him mutter something behind her, and then the fall of footsteps.

  Hands clamped on her waist, spinning her. She lost her balance and fell into him, into his hard chest. Perplexed, Frederica glanced up at him. “What are you do—”

  But she could not finish her question, for his lips were upon hers. Firm and warm and so different from the one and only kiss she had ever received. This kiss was aflame.

  She forgot her shame. Forgot her tears.

  Forgot everything but Duncan Kirkwood’s mouth on hers, his hands spanning her waist, his lean body burning into hers. His tongue coaxed her lips to part, and when she did, he shocked her utterly by thrusting it inside her mouth. Not roughly or rudely but slowly, a sleek foray as his kiss continued to play over her. It was voracious and yet gentle all at once, a breathtaking contradiction of slow seduction and sensual mastery.

  Her hands went to his shoulders, holding herself steady against his devastating onslaught. At this proximity, one of his long legs thrust between hers thanks to her breeches, he made her dizzy. His scent filled her, and he overwhelmed her. He was everything she felt, thought, tasted.

  She tasted him, she realized, giving his tongue a tentative nudge with hers. And he tasted of pleasure and passion, of the forbidden and…cocoa with a hint of anise. All this iniquity surrounding him, liquor on every sideboard, and Duncan Kirkwood tasted of chocolate. She felt powerful in that moment, as if he had divulged a secret to her alone.

  Growing bolder, she tangled her tongue with his once more, and he rewarded her with a low sound in his throat, part growl, part hum, and all satisfaction. She never wanted this moment, this kiss, to end. Closing her eyes, she gave herself over completely to the sensations, to the passion vibrating in the air, in her, between them.

  His lips moved over hers with reverence, soft and slow, steady and deep. She forgot who she was, who he was. Nothing else signified. He owned her with his passionate kisses. His hands began
to move, sliding inside her coat, making her tremble as he traveled slowly upward, gliding over her waistcoat.

  He did not stop until he reached her breasts. They burned and ached inside her painfully tight binding. His fingers splayed open, as if cupping the mounds he knew were hidden beneath her gentleman’s attire, and through the layers, she felt that touch like a brand. His thumbs swirled, unerringly finding her nipples.

  A fresh wave of sensation burst. Desperation laced through her—to tear away her coat, waistcoat, and shirt, to undo her bindings. She wanted those thumbs stroking her skin, easing away the sting, his fingers plucking at the tender buds until the only ache in them was caused by him.

  Again and again, his thumbs moved while his mouth claimed hers. It was the most intimate touch she had ever received, and it changed everything. Something inside her shifted. Here was the key, in the lock, and she turned it. The lock opened.

  She wanted to touch him everywhere, and so she did. Her hands found his neck first, strong and surprisingly soft to the touch above his cravat. And then her fingers sifted through his thick, sleek mane of golden hair. She framed his cheeks next, desperate to maintain their connection. Here, the tiny pricks of hundreds of his shaved whiskers abraded her skin in most delicious fashion.

  His lips left hers burning, tingling, and forever altered, moving down her throat. Her fingers returned to his hair, so thick and lustrous. Somehow, his kiss upon her bare skin, directly above her madly pounding pulse, drove just as intense of a sensation through her as his kiss on her lips did. She hungered. Yearned. His mouth opened to suck her flesh above her neck cloth, his teeth delivering a bite that had her crying out, her fingers digging reflexively into his hair.

  “So sweet,” he murmured against her throat, his tongue flitting over her skin. “Forbidden fruit always tastes best.” His thumbs raked over her bound nipples again, inciting an almost painful rush of pleasure.

  Frederica was mindless. Breathless. She didn’t wish to think about his words, what they meant. All she wanted was more of him. More of his mouth, his tongue, his touch. The heat that had been building within her made her arch her back, seeking, urging him to continue. She wanted him to open her waistcoat, unbutton her shirt and lift it over her head. She wanted him to slice away her bindings. She wanted his hands on her bare skin without impediment.

  She wanted…

  A knock sounded. Quietly at first, and then more persistent. Rap. Rap. Rap.

  Mr. Kirkwood stilled. For a beat, silence descended, and there was no sound save the muted din of the club and pleasure chambers beyond their private little viewing hall and the ragged sound of their breaths mingling until they became one. She fancied she could hear their hearts pounding in unison.

  Rap-rap. Rap-rap. Rap-rap.

  “Mr. Kirkwood?”

  “Beelzebub’s ballocks.” Cursing, he tore away from her as if she were a live coal shot from the fire grate, and he had plucked her up from the floor with his bare fingers only to realize his folly and fling her as far and as fast from him as he could.

  She swayed, wrapping her arms about herself as a sudden sense of loss hit her. Her lips felt swollen and tingly. Her body was alive as it had never been. Even the patch of skin on her throat he had sucked and nipped stung. Her mind seemed separate from her body. Mad thoughts rained through it.

  Duncan Kirkwood kissed me. I kissed him back. He tastes like cocoa, and his hair is softer than a fine silk. His shoulders are every bit as hard as they appear. His hands on my breasts…

  No.

  She had to stay the wildness he had created within her. She watched as Mr. Kirkwood smoothed his coat and stalked toward the door, jerking it open without sparing her a backward glance. His words echoed in her mind, joining the tumult. Forbidden fruit always tastes best.

  Was that what she presented to him? A challenge? The unobtainable? Perhaps he kissed every female of his acquaintance with such fiery dedication. After all, the man did employ harlots. He did have viewing slots dedicated for the pleasure of patrons who preferred to observe the depravities unfolding within his den of vice. He had created the perfect dwelling of sin at The Duke’s Bastard—gambling, drinking, and worse. What sort of man was he?

  Precisely who was the man she had just asked for a kiss? The man who had left her shaken and confused, questioning herself and everything she knew to be true? Right from wrong, honor versus ruin, freedom or safety, recklessness and care.

  The interior of Mr. Kirkwood’s office backlit the gentleman at the door, bathing his face in shadows. Frederica did her best to feign disinterest and act the part of a gentleman as she felt the fellow’s gaze settle upon her for the briefest of moments before discreetly flicking away.

  “Didn’t realize you were otherwise engaged, sir,” the man murmured. “My apologies.”

  Mr. Kirkwood flicked a glance at her over his shoulder, his brow furrowed, before turning back to his staff member. “His lordship is new to the viewing hall. I was merely providing him an introductory lesson in the art of pleasure.”

  Dear Lord, the manner in which the word pleasure rolled off his tongue, smoother than fresh cream, made her flush and wish for more such lessons at the same time. She ought to be appalled at herself, and part of her was.

  But the other part of her—the part of her that longed for freedom and the pursuit of her own dreams—reveled in every second of what had occurred this evening. That part of her wanted more. And more. And then some more afterward.

  “What the hell do you require, Hazlitt?” Mr. Kirkwood bit out, an edge of irritation blunting his tone.

  He did not appreciate the disruption.

  Good, then. Neither did she.

  “Forgive me, sir. I would not ordinarily seek you out, but I am afraid there is a delicate matter underway. Lord Greaves has returned Monsieur Levoisier’s dinner on no less than three occasions, claiming it is unworthy. Tonight, Monsieur lost his patience and he is, er, offering Lord Greaves his opinion. His distinct and unfettered opinion.”

  “I will attend the matter.” Mr. Kirkwood sighed, passing a hand through the thick golden strands atop his head. He cast her a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “Remain where you are, enjoying the view, if you please, my lord. I shall return forthwith.”

  Naturally, since he did not wish her to accompany him, there was nothing she wanted to do more. How fascinating—the chef of a gentleman’s club verbally assaulting one of the patrons. As discomfited as she still felt after Mr. Kirkwood had kissed her, her mind was ever spinning stories.

  Here was an opportunity to witness a club’s workings firsthand—its patrons, its staff, a conflict. Frederica could not ask for more. If she was not able to remain cloistered away in the hall, exchanging kisses with Mr. Kirkwood, she would happily accept the second-best fate in the name of her novel.

  She cleared her throat. “I find I am famished, Mr. Kirkwood. I shall accompany you and have my supper whilst we are about it. Killing two birds with the proverbial stone, as it were?”

  He glanced back at her, his expression startled for the briefest of instants before his mask of control once more settled into place. “Please, my lord. I insist you remain here until I return.”

  He insisted, did he?

  All the more reason for her to ignore him. She flattened a hand to her midsection and rocked back on her heels as she had seen her father do on numerous occasions. “I fear I find myself ravenous, Mr. Kirkwood. I require sustenance before aught else. Do you care to lead the way?”

  Mr. Kirkwood’s gaze narrowed upon her. “Be that as it may, my lord, I am afraid I must suggest you remain here whilst I arrange a tray to be sent to you. That way, you can assuage any hunger you are currently suffering from.”

  Any hunger you are currently suffering from.

  Had he intended the secret meaning to his words? Her gaze studied him, melding with his for a brief moment. It was a moment where their connection became so visceral and undeniable, she could not catch her breath.r />
  But she had to. Inhale. Exhale. Calm thyself.

  “No tray will be necessary.” She sent him her sweetest smile, swinging her gaze to the befuddled manservant who awaited Mr. Kirkwood’s response at the threshold separating the office from the den of iniquity. “I shall dine alongside everyone else.”

  “That would not be—”

  “Mr. Kirkwood, I am afraid—”

  “I wish to gamble,” she announced, seizing upon the idea. With an audience, she was certain she could manage to convince Mr. Kirkwood to join her in any endeavor. “If you will not feed me, then perhaps you will lead me to the hazard table?”

  “No.” His answer was clipped. Dripping with an air of finality.

  She raised a brow, both inwardly and outwardly. “I do beg your pardon. No?”

  “No,” he confirmed darkly before seeming to recall their audience. “That is to say, perhaps I shall escort you there if I’ve the time. Remain here and I will return.”

  How clever he must think himself. But she would not be denied this opportunity.

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “My use for this hall is decidedly at an end.”

  He pinned her with a glare. “Is that so, my lord?”

  “Yes, it is,” she challenged right back. “Mr. Kirkwood.”

  “Sir?” the servant intervened, his expression as anxious as his tone. “I am afraid Monsieur may create a stir if he is allowed to continue unchecked.”

  Another foul epithet emerged from Mr. Kirkwood. He bowed his head. Looked from his manservant to Frederica, and then back. “Very well. Lead the way, Hazlitt. My lord, do as you wish until I can rejoin you.”

  Do as you wish.

  “Yes.” She beamed at him, a new sense of excitement bubbling up within her. “I shall.”

  He muttered something beneath his breath as they retreated from the hall, and she swore it sounded like that is what I fear.

  Naturally, she ignored it. She would make the most of her time within the walls of his club. After all, her writing was her first and only love. There was not room for scornful owners of gentleman’s clubs. No room at all.