Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  Chapter Seven

  The minx was going to borrow trouble, and he knew it. His mind should have been concerned with the possibility his chef was on the cusp of alienating an earl with deep pockets and a penchant for gambling poorly. Ordinarily, he would be calculating how much he earned from Lord Greaves’ gambling losses and endless hunger for quim in a year and measuring it against Monsieur Levoisier’s wages per annum, calculating how much of an attraction the proclaimed French was for his patronage, estimating the cost of procuring another, equally refined chef to keep his patrons well fed and sated. Balancing cost and reward, weighing the outcomes.

  His mind adored facts. Ledgers gave him an odd sense of peace—numbers were familiar and comforting, and watching them add and grow without subtracting had long ago become a favored pastime. To a lad who had grown up picking pockets for coin and spending many a night with an empty belly, those growing figures represented the unattainable—stability. Happiness.

  Raised voices reached him as he approached the dining room, and he winced, reminding himself he had matters of far greater import requiring his attention. Lady Frederica Isling could remain where he had damn well told her to remain, or he would bar her from further entrance to his club. Indeed, he ought to bar her altogether after her foolish request and his equally witless acceptance of the gauntlet she’d thrown.

  Why had he kissed her? When could he do it again?

  Beelzebub’s banyan.

  “The soup bloody well requires salt.” The agitated proclamation of Lord Greaves echoed through the dining hall as Duncan crossed the threshold.

  Monsieur’s face was flushed, his lip curled. The man was as volatile as he was gifted, but Duncan employed him for his culinary brilliance and not for his Gallic temper. He strode forward, Hazlitt at his heels, intent upon dousing this rather unwanted, ill-timed fire.

  He had to thrust all thoughts of one midnight-haired lady from his mind.

  “The soup is parfait, my lord,” Levoisier spat. “Adding salt is inconcevable. The great masters, do you think they added more paint to their canvas, ruining it with too much pigment? Non. They knew perfection. Alors, you must admit too much of une bonne chose destroys that which is déjà—”

  “Monsieur Levoisier,” Duncan greeted in a calm interruption. He knew from experience that the more the chef reverted to his native tongue, the angrier he had become. The worse his outrage. The more astringent his venom. “I have a special request for you that must be addressed, if you please.”

  The chef blinked owlishly, distracted from his rage. “Monsieur Kirkwood.” He bowed. “Good evening, sir.”

  Duncan bowed in turn to Lord Greaves, whose jaw was on edge. The earl was a young fop with the sort of classical features that made ladies swoon. He knew so because several of his lady consorts—bored society wives, all—had remarked upon his rakish allure. To Duncan, the fellow was a purse with hair that needed trimming and an ego that needed clubbing.

  But the businessman in him would never attend to said clubbing. “My lord, please accept my sincere apologies for any deficiency in your soup course. If you think it requires salt, I am certain Monsieur Levoisier shall be more than happy to remedy the oversight.”

  The chef made a choking sound.

  “The soup is bland,” said the earl in a dismissive, cutting tone. His nostrils flared.

  “Indeed, my lord,” Duncan soothed. “Monsieur shall add salt as you recommend and return a fresh bowl to you forthwith.”

  “It is not mere soup,” argued the chef, his ears going scarlet. “It is bisque of crayfish à l’ancienne. It needs no salt to the discerning palate.”

  Duncan gritted his teeth. “A correction will be made, my lord.”

  The earl raised a supercilious brow. “Excellent, Mr. Kirkwood. I knew I could rely upon your sound sense of reason in this matter.”

  The chef began to speak.

  “A special request,” Duncan reminded Levoisier. “From an esteemed guest to the establishment.”

  The Frenchman’s eyes rounded, and Duncan knew he supposed he was referring to Prinny, and while the Prince Regent had honored The Duke’s Bastard with his royal presence on numerous occasions, this was decidedly not one of them. Duncan felt not a speck of compunction at deliberately misleading the chef, however.

  The cost of the fellow’s pride was not worth the loss to Duncan’s coffers should the Earl of Greaves choose to eschew his club after a rift with an overzealous French chef. He turned to address his man. “Hazlitt, you will see to the correction of his lordship’s soup course, I trust?”

  “Of course, Mr. Kirkwood.” Hazlitt swept forward, retrieving the earl’s bowl of soup and placing it upon a salver.

  Hazlitt was more than capable of soothing ruffled feathers. As Duncan’s right hand man, the unwanted task often fell to him, and he always handled it with aplomb. Like Duncan, Hazlitt had been born into the stews. He had come from nothing, and had fashioned himself into something. He was loyal, trustworthy, and capable.

  With another bow to the earl and a pointed look at his chef that brooked no opposition, Duncan excused himself and his employee. When they exited the dining hall, Duncan turned to the Frenchman.

  “I require a supper in my private office,” he announced, even though he knew it was folly. “For two. Your finest effort would be appreciated.”

  Lavoisier nodded. “For you and your esteemed guest, sir?”

  Esteemed guest.

  He supposed one could call her that.

  Or problem.

  Minx.

  Mayhem.

  His downfall.

  Yes, any of those would do.

  But best to settle upon the former rather than any of the latter for the moment. He inclined his head. “Indeed, Monsieur. Add a pinch of salt to the earl’s bowl and then send your finest to me within the hour. I shall be waiting.”

  *

  “What do you prefer, my lord?”

  Frederica blinked at the lovely, flaxen-haired woman before her and did her best to subdue her inherent jerk when her companion’s small, dainty hand landed upon Frederica’s thigh. “Ahem.” She pretended to clear her throat, her mind whirling, searching for diversion tactics. “I do enjoy reading. What do you prefer, miss…”

  Her companion giggled, natural color appearing in her round cheeks, heightening the pigment she had already applied there with her own hand. “You may call me Tabitha, if it pleases you, my lord. I was not speaking of something as decidedly boring as reading. I rather had something else in mind.”

  She frowned at Tabitha, wishing she was not so willowy of form and fair of hair. So lovely. This woman worked for Mr. Kirkwood. In his club. She did…unsavory, unspeakable things. A twinge of something she refused to call envy cut through her.

  Frederica belatedly realized Tabitha was looking at her expectantly, running a tongue along one lower lip that seemed unnaturally red. She frowned. Was the woman hungry? Perhaps she had been inquiring after the sort of fare Frederica desired to eat.

  She blinked, remembering to keep her voice suitably gruff. “I do like young rabbits, though I suppose that isn’t the thing.”

  Tabitha’s lips parted. “Young rabbits, my lord? How tender must they be?”

  Foolish question from a tiresome woman. Frederica was growing weary of her company as it distracted her from her opportunity for unfettered observation. Why would she not simply go away?

  She frowned. “Does anyone truly like meat that is old, tough, and dry?”

  Surely that subtle chastisement would deter the woman from additional questions.

  But Tabitha leaned closer, her scent tickling Frederica’s nose, her golden curls, partially unbound and brushing against Frederica’s shoulder. “What else do you like, my lord? Perhaps I can accommodate you. I may not be young, but I am not yet old.”

  Did she intend to cook Frederica a meal? This made no sense. Frederica had only just witnessed Mr. Kirkwood’s man urging him to soothe the chef’s irri
tation. Tabitha did not resemble a cook at all. “Oysters are tolerable as well if in patties à la Française.”

  “How wicked of you, my lord.” Tabitha tittered, draping herself on the arm of Frederica’s chair.

  Good heavens, what was wicked about such a commonplace dish? Why did the creature insist upon crowding her so? She cast a glance about the sumptuous chamber, searching for a glimpse of a tall, blond gentleman before she realized what she was about.

  Her frown deepened. “Wicked?”

  Did Tabitha lack intelligence? Frederica felt unaccountably itchy in her brother’s pilfered shirt and coat. For a moment, she longed for the comfort of her chamber, her books, her quill and ink and papers, the writing desk she loved. But then she forced herself to recall this was one of her final opportunities to investigate Mr. Kirkwood’s club.

  After this evening, she had only two visits remaining. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the disappointment surging through her at the realization.

  “Very wicked.” Tabitha’s warm breath and warmer lips grazed Frederica’s ear, startling her.

  She swallowed. This was rather untenable. The other woman’s hand landed on her thigh, stroking over her borrowed breeches. Stiffening, she thrust the hand away in haste, ignoring her companion’s disapproval. Blast. Despite her best intentions, she’d managed to find herself in a situation.

  She had wandered from Mr. Kirkwood’s office in the wake of his abrupt departure, partially to irritate him and partially to answer her own curiosity. After all, she had research to conduct. He had closeted her away inside his office and hidden corridor, and she had yet to further experience the bustling atmosphere of the club. She required more time on the floor, mingling, overhearing snippets of conversation, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells.

  Her innocuous observations of the gentlemen gathered to indulge their vices had been going precisely according to plan. No one had even paid her any heed. Until she had been pulled aside by Tabitha, that was, who seemed intent upon the mauling of Frederica’s person. Was this what gentlemen preferred, to be boldly pawed at by tittering females garbed in dampened dresses with their bosoms on garish display? Little wonder Frederica was still unmarried.

  Her brows snapped together and she fixed Tabitha with a fierce, disapproving frown. “I do think I find myself famished, Tabitha.”

  But her words seemed to have the opposite effect of her intent, for Tabitha’s errant hand returned, nearly grazing the apex of Frederica’s thighs in search of Lord knew not what. Frederica bolted from the chair, in her haste, knocking into Tabitha, who nearly tumbled to the floor. Alarmed and sensing she was well out of her depths—fearing discovery or worse, more overtures from the persistent female—Frederica spun on her heel, prepared to bolt.

  And promptly slammed into a male chest.

  Hands steadied her. The familiar scent of musk and its accompanying notes enveloped her. She looked up into the eyes of Mr. Duncan Kirkwood. Her hands settled on his biceps, and not without noting how firm and strong they were. How they flexed and tightened beneath her touch. That brilliant gaze of his glittered with a combination of promise, menace, and something else…

  Remembrance.

  She could not help but look at his finely molded lips then, recalling how they had felt against hers—firm, hot, coaxing, and knowing, gentle yet devouring all at once. Her ears went hot at the reminder of his bold kisses, her response.

  “My Lord Blanden,” he said at last, the decadent rumble of his voice striking a ripple of sinful want inside her that refused to settle.

  She bit her lip hard enough to distract herself. It did nothing to alieve the furious riot of sensation inside her. Duncan Kirkwood had taken her in his arms. He had kissed her. His tongue had been inside her mouth, his hands on her breasts. How could she ever look upon him again without wanting more of the same? Without needing it the same way she needed to breathe?

  “This is a different manner of hare than I supposed.”

  The tart female voice broke Frederica from the spell of Mr. Kirkwood’s eyes and lips and the haunting ghost of his kisses. She released her hold on him, taking a discreet step backward.

  Mr. Kirkwood quirked a brow, settling his gaze upon the other woman. “Have you something to say, Tabitha?”

  Tabitha pursed her lips. “This is the way of it then?”

  Mr. Kirkwood’s mouth tightened, his jaw clenching. “Perhaps you would care to make conversation with Lord Eversley. He appears in need of enlivening companionship, Tabitha.”

  Frederica had the distinct impression she was on the outskirts of a conversation about something other than what it appeared on the surface. She did not like it. Not one bit. “Mr. Kirkwood,” she said, finding her tongue without his blazing eyes devouring her. “Tabitha was kind enough to offer me sustenance. I was just about to partake.”

  A feline smile curved Tabitha’s lips. “Yes, his lordship was. Perhaps you would care to join us, Mr. Kirkwood? The three of us could dine together. A feast, if you will.”

  “That will not be necessary, Tabitha,” he said smoothly, a beautiful smile curving his lips and rendering him even more handsome than he ordinarily was. “His lordship and I shall dine together. Alone.”

  Tabitha’s mouth fell open for a brief moment before she collected herself and curtseyed. “I daresay it explains a great deal. Of course, my lord, Mr. Kirkwood. If you will excuse me?”

  Frederica frowned as the golden goddess walked away, swaying her hips. What a strange creature. She could not shake the impression Tabitha harbored a tendre for Mr. Kirkwood, and she was ashamed to admit the notion sent a pang of jealousy straight through her.

  Mr. Kirkwood’s deep, delicious voice interrupted her musings then.

  “Shall we, my lord? I for one am ravenous.”

  Her attention snapped back to him in a trice. Why, oh why, did the word ‘ravenous’ on his sinful lips incite such a trill of pleasure down her spine? And what, oh what, had she gotten herself into this time?

  *

  An hour later, Duncan watched Lady Frederica Isling take her first bite of Monsieur’s famed Charlotte of apples with apricot marmalade, and he knew with a certainty that set his teeth on edge; he was the one who had borrowed trouble. Here she sat opposite him in the small table in his office where he ordinarily preferred to dine alone, beyond the eyes of his patrons, often whilst reading.

  Trouble.

  He had kissed her. Against the judgment that had never failed him in his life. Against his admittedly malleable sense of honor. Certainly, against his carefully wrought plans, which required her to return unscathed to her papa the duke. All the better to allow Duncan’s threats to permeate the august man’s shroud of arrogance.

  And he had not just enjoyed it, but he had reveled in it. The softness of her lips beneath his, the way she had responded to him, and the beauty of her surrender had all undone him. He’d gone mindless with the need to claim her. To kiss her with such ruthless abandon that his mark would forever be upon her memory and her mouth both.

  She made a lusty sound of unabashed pleasure, and he gritted his teeth with greater force, trying to ignore the dart of her pink tongue over her full lower lip. Trying not to recall the sweet, tentative tide of that tongue against his.

  Beelzebub’s bottom, he had to think of something else. Anything else. To distract himself before he spoilt the perfect opportunity for revenge that had been all but delivered to him on a silver salver.

  “I now understand why so many gentlemen flock to your club, Mr. Kirkwood,” she said when she had swallowed the bite of moist, buttery perfection he knew Lavoisier’s Charlotte to be. “The culinary mastery of your chef, despite his penchant for berating your patrons, is unparalleled.”

  He seized upon her words as the distraction he required, frowning at her. “My chef does not berate my patrons, madam. Do not put that in your book, else I shall become an object of supreme ridicule.”

  Her eyes glittered, a saucy smirk flirti
ng with the corners of the mouth he could not help but want to kiss again. “I cannot fathom you being the object of anyone’s ridicule, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  A strange thing happened to him. Warmth—nay, a bloody inferno—blossomed in his chest, in his gut, in his cheeks. He prickled with it. Blazed with it. He, who had for so long been lusted after and chased by females for the power he wielded or the pleasure he could bring them, experienced a novel sensation. He was flattered. He wanted to preen beneath her intelligent gaze. He had impressed a duke’s daughter, and not just any duke’s daughter but one who was lively, witty, intelligent, and beautiful.

  Trouble, a voice inside nettled him. She is trouble.

  He ought to send her on her way. Two more such evenings were all he had agreed to, and if he had half the wits he’d been born into the rookeries with, he would have sent her home the moment he had learned her identity.

  Instead, he found himself falling beneath her spell. In this moment with the din of his club beyond them and no one to interrupt, in the place he loved best, he felt at home. Having her in his zealously guarded space should have made him eager to be rid of her. Instead, his mind was swiftly inventing more reasons to keep her precisely where she was, eating Lavoisier’s damned Charlotte with more pleasure than the most seasoned courtesan showed her lover.

  “I have been the object of not just ridicule but scorn, hatred, disgust, and worse more times than I have fingers and toes, my lady,” he told her solemnly, and it was the truth.

  Though he may currently preside over the most sought-after club in London, he had been born the bastard son of a Covent Garden whore. He had been beaten. Tossed into prison. Spit upon. He had been derided and scorned and mocked. He had schooled himself on everything he knew. He was not ashamed of his past, but it made him wary. It made him aware how very fleeting everything in life was. Every candle sputtered out at some point.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Kirkwood,” Lady Frederica said with genuine feeling. “No one should have to endure such awful treatment.”

  He studied her, searching for pity and finding only empathy. His shoulders relaxed. He rolled them once. Twice. “It is the way of this world, Lady Frederica. Some men are born to great privilege, and others to great suffering. I was the latter, but I have fashioned myself into the former. Your Charlotte grows cold.”