Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  He nipped. Licked. Kissed. Beelzebub and hellfire, she was a feast and he could not stop partaking. “Did he also tell you to throw my books to the floor?”

  She stilled, swallowed in a ripple he felt against his open mouth as he worked back down her throat. “No.”

  “Were you jealous, my lady?” Beneath her waistcoat, nothing but the fine layer of her lawn shirt between their bare skins, he swept his hand over her in a caress that ended over her bound breasts. His thumb pressed until he felt the compressed bud of her nipple. Using his blunt nail, he raked over it once, twice, thrice. Until she arched against him, responsive as ever. “Tell me, is that why you desecrated my office?”

  “Why should I be jealous, Mr. Kirkwood? I am merely conducting research,” she murmured, fingers digging into his shoulders a bit harder. “How…interesting it is to see the side of life denied to me as a gently bred female.”

  He did not like her answer. Did not like that she still had the presence of mind to goad him and match him wit for wit. Something had changed between them from the moment he’d swept open the door to find her seated in his chair, at his desk. A primitive sense of possession had blossomed, and with it, a desperate need.

  For her.

  Only her.

  Four days. That was how long he had known her. That was how long it had taken for her to put her mark upon him. It was ludicrous and laughable, and yet there it was. Duncan Kirkwood, a man who had belonged nowhere and to no one, was so enthralled by one eccentric duke’s daughter that he could not concentrate on his club or even his retribution.

  “Interesting.” He repeated her bothersome choice of word against her skin, accompanying it with another slow scrape of his nail over her bound nipple.

  Her moan rewarded him.

  “Yes,” the minx dared repeat, taunting him. “My research has proven most enlightening, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  Most enlightening? He would rob her power of speech. Render her breathless and helpless. He kissed a necklace around the base of her throat, stopping at the dip where her pulse galloped even more than it had just moments before. His hand found the fall of her breeches. The fastenings. He plucked one button free of its moorings. Then another.

  “Mr. Kirkwood,” she said softly. Shakily. “What do you think you are doing?”

  He smiled against her silken skin. Button three was removed. Then four. The fall dropped. His fingers slipped into the opening, happy to discover her flesh, warm and silken and so damned glorious he could not resist dipping his fingers between her folds to truly feel her for the first time. Wetness kissed his skin, and he found her pearl unerringly. It was even more responsive than the rest of her. Her hips jerked, and she cried out.

  “I am helping you with your research, my lady,” he said, answering her question at last. He stroked her with increasing firmness, noting her wide, glazed eyes and shallow breaths. If this was how it was between them the first time, what would it be like the second? The third?

  No.

  He could not think in those terms. As adrift as he was in his own lust, even he could acknowledge tonight would be the only night he could allow himself to misbehave with Lady Frederica Isling. Her reputation was important. As was her innocence. He required both to remain intact in order for his plan to succeed. Did he not?

  Perhaps not whispered an insidious voice inside him.

  “This…Mr. Kirkwood…I…oh.” She made a delirious sound of pleasure, her head tipping back as if it were too heavy for her neck.

  Precisely, and he had not even had his tongue upon her yet. He kissed her again, inhaling her sweet scent, like a sugared flower, before dropping to his knees on the carpet. He had not locked his office door, and the cautious part of his nature reminded him he ought not to take such a chance. If they were discovered, any witnesses would instantly imagine he was servicing another man. It was the sort of rumor from which he doubted he could ever recover, though dalliances of that sort were common enough among the ton.

  And yet, with Lady Frederica, he did not care. He could not summon the will to leave her. All he wanted was just one taste, he promised himself. He would give her pleasure, restore her costume to rights, and send her on her way assured she would never again wear a gentleman’s breeches without thinking of him.

  But first, he wanted his name on her lips when she came.

  “Duncan, my lady,” he told her, caressing the generous curves of her hips. She had clamped her legs shut during his descent, and she watched him shyly now, cheeks flaming.

  No sight had ever been lovelier than Lady Frederica Isling disheveled and unbuttoned atop his desk, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her gaze glistening, pupils black and huge.

  “Mr. Kirkwood.” Her protest was small and husky and redolent with uncertainty.

  He could see in her eyes she wanted whatever he would give her, but she did not know what that something was or how to achieve it. What it would mean for her. When was the last time he had been this near to innocence? When had he ever been so untouched, so pure?

  Never. Was it why he wanted her so badly? Did some primitive part of him think to regain what he had lost by claiming it from her? He wanted her. Wanted to consume her. To lick and taste and suck. And yes, to fuck, though he would restrain himself from the last. He was Hades, and his Persephone was seated before him.

  For tonight, he could drag her brilliance into his dark world. She would leave, but she would never be the same.

  “Duncan,” he coaxed again, gliding his palms down her thighs. Her heat scorched him. He stopped when he reached her knees, and he gently urged them apart. “Open for me, sweet.”

  Her lips parted, her lashes fluttering on her cheeks. For a beat, he thought she would deny him, that he had pushed his intrepid virgin too far. Until she responded, her knees gliding apart with the cajoling pressure of his hands.

  One word escaped her. A whisper of sound. “Duncan.”

  The sweetest sound he had ever heard. It was like a promise on her lips. He dipped his head to trail a line of kisses up her inner thigh. The fall of her breeches slipped down, revealing her to him. He guided her legs wider, mesmerized by the exquisite sight, like a blossom opened just for him. Pink and pretty.

  He lightly scored his nails back up her thighs as he leaned forward. The earthy musk of her arousal consumed him, and he could not wait a moment more. He ran his tongue along her slick seam. A hum of approval tore from him. She was sweeter than a candy. Up and down he licked, slow and lingering, allowing her to adjust to the newness of the sensations. To the delicious intimacy of him pleasuring her with his mouth.

  He parted her folds with his tongue, finding her pearl, flicking over it with steady, quick pulses. She jerked, hips rising up to meet him, and he obliged, burying his face deeper, breathing only her, tasting only her, hearing her rapid breaths, the soft cries of pleasure she made no effort to contain. When he suckled the needy bundle of flesh, she writhed against him, her fingers delving into his hair.

  Damnation, he had scarcely begun, and she was about to spend.

  She was so responsive, and he was harder than he had ever been, his cock desperate to sink inside her tight, wet cunny. But he could not. All he could do was lay his tongue to her, bring her to the precipice.

  A low, keening sound burst from her. She quaked as her pinnacle gripped her, fingers tightening in his hair, a small flood of wetness slipping from her channel. He lapped it up, savoring it on his tongue as if it were the finest nectar. He stayed with her until she rode out the final spurts of pleasure, using his tongue and teeth to heighten and prolong it.

  At last, he pressed a final kiss to her sex before he gently fastened the fall of her breeches. He slid the buttons into their moorings and rose to his feet. She wore a dazed expression, cheeks flushed, eyes closed, almost as if she did not dare to look at him after what had transpired between them.

  He smoothed a stray tendril of midnight hair from her forehead and pressed a kiss to the smooth flesh, ignoring t
he pang in his heart he had never felt before. Tamping down the tender surge of protectiveness. Lady Frederica was not and would never be his, but he had been the first man to help her experience passion, and he would always relish that knowledge.

  “Your research for this evening is at an end, my lady.” He kissed her forehead again, then her furrowed brow before straightening and forcing a stern expression to his face. “It is time for you to go.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Good heavens! Frederica Rose Isling!”

  “Do hush, Leonora,” Frederica chided her friend, blushing furiously and casting a glance around to make certain the outburst had gone unnoticed. “I have no wish to be the target for scurrilous gossip.”

  Thankfully, in the crush of the Aldersley rout, two wallflowers in their usual place on the periphery of the entertainment did not garner much interest. The orchestra was insufferably loud this evening, the ballroom was unseasonably warm, and the lemonades were weak and watery.

  Not much to recommend the affair in Frederica’s mind.

  But the temperature of the chamber and the quality of the beverages were not her greatest concern. Her friend’s shocked countenance was. Or rather, the reason for Leonora’s shocked countenance was.

  Had she truly believed, even for a moment, that confiding in her beloved friend—who had always been more practical and proper than she—would be a wise idea?

  “I simply cannot believe you returned to that den of vipers,” Leonora hissed, her tone lower, less strident. Still accusatory, however. “I warned you against it, and you promised you would not, Freddy.”

  Frederica pursed her lips, searching for the proper response before deciding upon honesty. “I lied.”

  Leonora’s eyes went wide, her incredulity incapable of being restrained. Her lovely face was ever expressive, and anyone who gazed upon her in this moment would recognize her undisguised outrage. “How dare you lie to me? We are sisters, are we not?”

  Their unlikely friendship had begun two years before when the Season’s reigning belle, Lady Maria Athcourt, had begun spreading tales of “Limping Leonora.” Frederica had deliberately spilled her punch all over Lady Maria. They had been inseparable ever since. In Leonora, Frederica had found a calmer, pragmatic foil to her eccentric nature. They complemented each other, and together they were a formidable team, always looking out for the other.

  But that loyalty did not necessarily mean they always agreed.

  “Of course we are sisters,” she reassured her friend. “But you are also a sister who tends to disapprove of my inclination toward…adventure.”

  Leonora’s brows shot upward. “Adventure or ruin, Freddy? For ruin is precisely what you are inviting by returning to a cesspit of vice with that horrid man.” She shuddered. “They say he is a hulking beast who ill uses all the ladies of the evening he employs. That he is without a hint of kindness or compunction. Do you know how many men he has left destitute?”

  Frederica ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips, her gaze darting about once more. She did not like to think of Duncan’s profession or the nature of his business, for if she did, then she could not like him. And if she could not like him, she could not welcome his kisses. Nor could she allow him to sink to his knees and…do what he had done to her.

  She hadn’t a name for it yet, but whatever it was, the sensation had been so intense and pleasurable, that for a moment, she had been convinced she had been catapulted into the stars. The mere memory of his tongue playing deftly over her flesh was enough to make her ache even now, in a chamber filled with others.

  “He is not a hulking beast, and nor does he abuse his powers in regard to the female members of his staff,” she countered. “I cannot deny he runs a den of vice but despite that, he is a good man.”

  And he was. She felt certain of it. Felt it all the way to the marrow of her bones.

  Her friend gaped at her. “You dare to defend him? He is a monster, Freddy. What has he done to you?”

  Heat burned her cheeks. She diverted her gaze to the couples twirling about the ballroom beneath the glinting candlelight. The evening should have been a welcome diversion. A happy excuse to reunite with her friend. Instead, it was an impediment that kept her from being where she truly wanted to be. Her brother, who ordinarily eschewed balls of all sorts, had suddenly decided they all simply must attend this one. Mother had been happy to comply, presented with the opportunity to display her newest fan.

  “What has he done?” Leonora repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. “Good heavens, Freddy. Tell me he has not…that you have not…did he hurt you?”

  “Decidedly not,” she said coolly, growing rather irked with her friend for her reaction. One would think Duncan was a scoundrel of the first order. A soulless, evil, morally deficient man with an incessant appetite for destruction and greed. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  Oh dear. She should not have added the last.

  And she knew it the moment her friend pounced. “Freddy! Have you been ruined?”

  Leonora posed the last question in a shocked whisper, but Frederica nevertheless made another furtive inspection of their surroundings. The answer to her friend’s question was simple, though she had not thought of it in those terms until this moment.

  Yes, she had been ruined. The liberties she had allowed Duncan Kirkwood to take with her body—shocking, wonderful, wicked—meant she would be damaged goods in the eyes of society should anyone discover the truth. But her secret was safe, and no one would ever know.

  “Leonora,” she protested softly. “Let us speak of something else.”

  Her friend’s mouth opened in a perfect circle of surprise, her eyes going wide. “You have been! Frederica! What can you have been thinking? Something must be done. He must pay for his actions.”

  Frederica’s cheeks went hot. “I did not confirm anything untoward occurred.”

  “He must marry you.” Leonora ignored her half denial, fanning herself wildly in her agitation. Blond curls that had been artfully arranged to frame her face flapped about. “What if you are enceinte?”

  Her friend posed her last question as if she were proclaiming the sentence of death.

  “I cannot be,” she said with certainty, for that much at least was true. “Nor will he marry me.”

  Though she could not deny the sudden flare of warmth such a notion produced in her. It lit a spark, grew a tiny flame.

  “How do you know? Such delicate matters take time to be revealed. Oh! I knew I should never have kept silent about your plan.” Leonora waved her fan even harder, creating a breeze that was strong enough to whip over Frederica’s arms as well.

  “My brother has…literature,” she explained. “I discovered it amongst his old coats and breeches when I was searching for my disguise.”

  Shocking literature. Literature she had pilfered along with the outgrown waistcoats, breeches, and shirts. Naturally, she had secreted it in her chamber, and she had read it from cover to cover. Twice. The book was quite clear that a man had a seed which emerged from his member, and without such an event, a woman could not bear a child.

  “Frederica.” Leonora—sweet, tender, kindhearted, and always above reproach—looked aghast at Frederica’s revelations.

  Well, and there was the trouble, was it not? Leonora would make a fine wife to any gentleman. She was proper and perfect, a veritable saint among mere mortals, and yet her limp caused her to be overlooked. Frederica knew how much her friend longed for a husband and children of her own. Whilst Frederica, on the other hand, had been courted more times than she could count until she decided to become a wallflower. Frederica wanted adventure, freedom, the chance to pursue her dream of seeing her words in print.

  She also wanted Duncan Kirkwood.

  “He has debauched you,” Leonora charged quietly.

  Had he? Frederica pursed her lips. Yes, she supposed so. In the last five days, she had lived more, seen more, and understood more of life than she had in all her two-an
d-twenty years combined.

  She regretted nothing.

  The realization made her stomach go fluttery, as if inhabited by butterflies. She reached out a staying hand, capturing Leonora’s agitated fan. “You must stop bandying about such incendiary words, my dear. I am merely conducting research for The Silent Baron. You know better than anyone how important this is to me. Pray do not grow cross. If I do not have you, I do not have anyone.”

  Leonora was her only true friend. She had her father and her brother Benedict, both hopelessly inept at conducting meaningful conversation with the fairer sex. Her father’s idea of speaking with her involved a rapid succession of questions, an inquiry into the use of her pin money, and a reminder that she was expected to make a great match. Soon. Her brother’s conversation was abbreviated, often punctuated by distraction. They were six years apart in age—their mother had lost three babes and buried one stillborn child in the time between their births—and given her penchant for ignoring anything that did not give her immediate gratification, Mother was not any more comforting a figure.

  Leonora fixed her with a pointed look and a frown. “I am not cross, Freddy, so much as I am outraged on your behalf. You are the Duke of Westlake’s daughter, for heaven’s sake. That man is the illegitimate brother of your future husband, and he has earned his fortune by capitalizing upon the misfortune of others.”

  Frederica preferred not to place the Earl of Willingham and the phrase “future husband” anywhere in the same vicinity. She could not suppress her shudder at the thought, but she feared sooner rather than later, it would become her reality.

  Yes, there was a part of her that well knew what she was doing was wrong. That it was not fair to Duncan to allow him liberties whilst knowing she was almost promised to his half brother. Just as it was not fair for her to flagrantly ignore propriety and allow another man such intimacies when she knew she was bound for the altar with Willingham.

  “He has made his fortune in the means that were afforded to him,” she defended Duncan then, realizing as she said the words just how true they were. “Just as any gentleman in his place would. He has built something truly incredible, Leonora. You would be horrified if you saw it, I know, but it is breathtaking. It is garish and beautiful, horrible and thrilling all at once. I cannot quite describe it. The air of the place is so alive, thrumming with the forbidden.”