Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  But he couldn’t stop because she was the sun, the moon, and all the glittering stars in the blanket of the night sky at once. Fierce, brilliant, glorious. No other woman before her could compare, and he knew instinctively no woman after her would either.

  Her fingers were in his hair. Her delectable arse met with the edge of his desk, and it was the night before all over again. Unlike last night’s frenzied lovemaking, however, tonight he wanted to savor. If it was indeed his last night with her, he would not act with haste.

  He kissed her. And kissed her. Their lips melded perfectly. Kissed until his lips bruised hers. Licked into her mouth like he was delving inside her perfect, untouched cunny with his cock.

  Everything in him screamed to take her, then and there. To sink home inside her, and allow their bodies to make the decision for them. But he could not. He tore his mouth from hers, knowing he would end it here this evening. Knowing he must, for both their sakes.

  He stared down at her, breathing harshly, absurdly pleased by the contrast of her masculine hat, bound hair, and gentleman’s dress to her full, kiss-swollen lips, dazed eyes, and feminine beauty. “Tell me I am benevolent and without avarice now, my lady.”

  She stared at him, silence deepening between them, as she slid her gloved hands from his hair, caressing his face, cupping his jaw. “You are a good man, Duncan Kirkwood. This I know.”

  Her faith in him made his chest swell. But she was wrong. He shook his head. “I am not.”

  She would learn soon enough who he truly was. A man without compunction. A man who cared for no one else. A man whose goodness had died the day he had seen his mother’s lifeless corpse on the floor when he was but a lad. A man who had seen and endured far too much of the world to ever be worthy of her wide-eyed worship.

  “We shall disagree, then,” she said softly.

  Damnation. Here she was, his Persephone. And he wanted to keep her, in his dark underworld, at his side. Forever. Something inside him broke open. Jagged shards rained. He was awash in her. In the way she saw him. In the man he saw reflected in her eyes.

  But it was not meant to be.

  “We shall disagree,” he repeated, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her lips before releasing her and disentangling himself from her touch. “This is your last visit here. Tell me, my lady, what aspect of the club would you like to research for your novel?”

  Her gaze followed him as he put some distance between them, glittering. “I want to see the scarlet chamber.”

  Beelzebub’s ballocks.

  Chapter Ten

  In silence, Duncan led her to the chamber where such shocking depravities had occurred the first night she had visited his club. It was not in use for the moment, meaning she could wander through its sumptuous appointments, taking notes as she wished whilst Duncan looked on.

  Bereft of its lewd occupants, the space seemed somehow less wicked. Indeed, it was almost as proper as any drawing room, with the exception of the dark crimson wall coverings, immense bed, and shocking pictures depicting nude men and women cavorting. One caught her attention for its ribald subject matter, a woman on her knees before a man, his member in her mouth.

  Gasping, she glanced back to find Duncan watching her. His brilliant gaze upon her felt like a caress. In his eyes, she saw the same need that had not stopped burning inside her from the moment he had first set his lips to hers. Each moment she spent in his presence, each kiss, each touch, stoked the fire until it could not be banked.

  She was an inferno.

  Just yesterday, he had laid his tongue upon her. He had licked her most intimate flesh, had brought her to throbbing release with nothing more than his mouth. The picture and the memory of him pleasuring her made a steady ache throb to life between her thighs. Would it be the same for him if she took him in her mouth?

  She wanted to ask, but she dared not give voice to the forbidden words. Cheeks stinging, she turned away from him at last, walking about the chamber and taking notes she knew she would never use later. The research she was currently conducting was not for The Silent Baron, for she could never relate such scandalous details and hope for publication.

  No, indeed. This research was for her.

  She noted an assortment of riding crops and whips laid out on a table, varying in length and thickness. Puzzled, she turned back to Duncan once more, only to find he had followed her and stood near enough for her to close the distance between them with a single step. His jaw was rigid, his large body radiating tension.

  “What is the purpose of these?” she asked.

  He shook his head in slow denial, his gaze continuing to burn hotly into hers. “Such detail should not be included in your novel, my lady. It would be beyond the pale.”

  It was a fine time for him to draw a line between the depravities he would teach her about and those he would not, and she was having none of it. “Tell me.”

  “Some prefer pain with their pleasure.” Though his tone was soft and low—gentle, almost—it possessed an undercurrent of darkness.

  Pain with their pleasure. Shock flared as understanding dawned. The men and women who made use of the pleasure chambers at The Duke’s Bastard reveled in all manner of debaucheries, and apparently taking riding crops and whips to each other was yet one more.

  She swallowed against a surge of something inside her, part revulsion, part curiosity. “Do you?”

  He did not respond immediately, holding her in the potent thrall of his stare. “I enjoy giving pleasure,” he said at last. “Like gambling, it is something I excel at.”

  Yes, he did, and she could attest to that. His words were neither a denial nor an admission, however, and they sent a shiver through her. She wondered how many other women he had pleasured. Did he kiss them all the way he kissed her, as if he was ravenous for her taste on his lips? The heat inside her suddenly cooled. She turned away, putting some distance between them once more.

  “I see, Mr. Kirkwood,” she managed to say, gratified when her tone did not waver or reveal even a hint of her distress.

  How foolish of her to think, even for a moment, that what they shared was special. For her to think he may have some tender feelings for her just because her heart seemed to swell two times its normal size whenever she thought of him. An icy tendril of despair crept up inside her as she thought of the longing she felt for him.

  It was their last evening together.

  The final hours in each other’s presence.

  If only that hard truth did not make her want to weep.

  She continued her exploration of the chamber, but the thrill of discovering that which should forever remain a secret from her had abated. In its place was a morose combination of jealousy and futility.

  “My lady.”

  His voice was near. Too near. She spun about, clenching her pencil and notebook. “Mr. Kirkwood?” She raised a questioning brow, aware of the awkward formality that had fallen between them.

  She wished she had never asked to come to this chamber, for now that she was within, she felt as if she had opened Pandora’s box. I will never see him again, she thought, and I have ruined our final kisses. If only she had fled on that memory, something to which she could cling.

  “I have never made use of this chamber, my lady,” he told her quietly.

  Her heavy heart lightened instantly at the revelation. But she was embarrassed he had sensed her question. She had no claim on him. She had not yet known him for a full sennight, and this was to be the end of their association. “It is not my concern whether or not you have, sir.”

  “I tell you freely.” Still watching her intently, he brushed her chin with his fingers. Just a glancing touch, and yet she felt it everywhere. “This chamber is for the entertainment of my patrons.”

  Relief slid through her. The thought of him with Tabitha or some other beautiful goddess in this chamber had been enough to make her ill. “Have I seen the worst or is there more?”

  “There is more.” His jaw clenched. “
Though I feel confident you have already seen more than enough. What is the meaning of this research, my lady? I do not believe you can use it in The Silent Baron.”

  She allowed her eyes to linger upon the finely hewn features of his face, the blade of a nose, full lips, the dimple in his chin. He was so beautiful, like a god among mortals, dressed all in black and come to rule the land of the living with his call to sin. She would gladly heed his call if she were free to. In that moment, she cursed the fate that would have her married to Duncan Kirkwood’s brother instead of him.

  “Curiosity,” she answered honestly. “When my freedom has been taken from me, and when I must become a proper wife, I want something to remember. Some small promise of daring and passion and yes, even sin. I find myself fascinated by your world, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  And fascinated by you, she added inwardly, for it would be far too much of a confession. Her pride would not allow it.

  “You astound me.” He plucked her hat from her head suddenly, finding the pins in her hair and setting them free one by one. “And confound me.”

  She knew she should stay him. Each thud of a hairpin on the rug was akin to a bell that, once rung, could not be undone. Her thick dark hair began to fall in heavy waves to her shoulders. His hands moved in reverent strokes, smoothing it around her face.

  No one had ever touched her with such delicate care before. Her lady’s maid was deft in her ministrations but jerky, with a tendency to pull at the roots of Frederica’s hair as she ran the comb through it. It seemed at once odd and breathtaking to be touched with such tenderness, and by the infamous Duncan Kirkwood.

  “You are ruining my disguise,” she protested without heat, for she could not summon even a drop of outrage. She wanted his touch. Welcomed it. Longed for it.

  “Your hair is too glorious to be bound and hidden beneath that monstrosity of a hat.” More pins fell to the floor until none were left, and still, he stared as if memorizing the sight of her, his hands stroking slowly over her locks. “Damnation, you are the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”

  His flattery made her cheeks go hot and started a queer fluttering in her belly. “Flattery,” she dismissed softly.

  “Nay.” He stilled, staring down at her with the gravest expression she had ever seen him sport. “Truth.”

  She fell into his brilliant gaze, headlong. Wishing this was not goodbye. Wishing she could see him one more time. Did it truly have to be? “May I come again tomorrow?”

  “I am afraid not.” His expression turned rueful, but his denial smarted nonetheless. “I am holding a masque tomorrow, and I shall be distracted by my duties as host. The guests will be unsuitable company for you, and these affairs tend to get rather…ribald.”

  “Oh,” was all she could manage to say, hurt bubbling up at the reminder he was not her suitor, and prolonging their interactions would only prove fruitless and reckless should she continue on this path.

  When she would have extricated herself from him, he held firm, forcing her to remain. His eyes glittered. “I will not be the man who ruins you, Lady Frederica. We are dancing perilously close to your fall from grace, and I will not be the one who forces you over the edge.”

  His hands were warm and large on either side of her head, caressing her hair in soft, soothing strokes that did nothing to take away the sting of his rejection. He was being honorable, the last thing anyone would have expected of the infamous Duncan Kirkwood. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and fuse their mouths. Wanted him to take her innocence so she would not have to surrender it to the Earl of Willingham.

  His half-brother.

  A man who was nothing like him.

  “What if I wish to be ruined?” she asked boldly. Desperately.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and then lowered his mouth to hers for a slow, soft kiss that was over before it had even begun. And then he released her, taking a step back. “You do not want to be ruined, Lady Frederica.”

  But she did. Only by him. Only if he wished to. Here was her answer, however unwanted; he did not wish it. She stood before him, hair falling to her waist, clad in her brother’s thieved clothes, and the pain inside her chest was so fierce and unexpected, she nearly doubled over. He was telling her goodbye. She was a burden he did not wish to bear, and how could she blame him?

  “I must go,” she said, blinking back the tears threatening to fall and humiliate her.

  He startled her then by taking her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “My carriage will deliver you safely home.”

  His voice was flat. Final.

  She nodded, feeling as emotionally drained as he sounded. “Goodbye, Duncan.”

  He released her and bowed with an elegant formality that would have been at home in any ballroom or drawing room. “Goodbye, my lady. I’ll not forget you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Earl of Willingham had sent her a bouquet of lustrous white lilies.

  They did not bear a scent, being solely for viewing pleasure, and when Frederica gazed upon them, she was struck not by their beauty but by their transience. Groomed for cutting, the hothouse flowers had been tended to and raised in their isolated world, fit only for a display. Trapped in a vase before they wilted, their petals falling.

  She saw herself in those lilies, and she wanted to have them removed.

  She wanted them cast away before they had the opportunity to wilt and die. She wanted to escape before the same happened to her. One day soon, she would be culled, sold, and kept, much like the lilies. The thought of being the earl’s inanimate object of beauty, his to display or ill use, made her shiver with revulsion as she looked upon the flowers.

  Predictably, her mother thought they were glorious, for she adored anything new. “Such a beautiful token of his lordship’s affections,” she had clucked upon their arrival. “How fortunate you are, Frederica, to be the recipient of an earl’s attentions so many years after your comeout.”

  Frederica narrowly resisted the urge to crush one of the blossoms in her fist, or to send the entire affair flying to the floor with one vicious swipe of her arm.

  She pressed her lips together, staring at the immense white blossoms, which somehow seemed garish despite their lack of color. “It seems such a shame they do not bear a scent. What is the result of merely being beautiful to look upon for a handful of days before fading?”

  “The result is being admired, for however long a span of time that may be,” her mother said. “You do not look as if you have been getting enough rest, dearest. Your eyes appear tired. I shall get you a pot of cream whilst I am shopping later. It will not do for Lord Willingham to think his bride mature.”

  In Frederica’s mind, it would not do for Lord Willingham to think of her as his bride. Ever. She shivered, wishing the lilies would disappear. Wishing she could return to The Duke’s Bastard the night before and take the reins into her own hands.

  She did not bother to feign a smile. “That would not do at all.”

  “Three pots,” her mother decided, smiling. “One can never have too many. Perhaps a new fan as well? When Lord Willingham asks your father for your hand tomorrow, we will go immediately to Madame Ormonde for your trousseau. Oh! It shall be wonderful.”

  Wonderfully awful.

  Sickness coiled in Frederica’s stomach. Though he had informed her himself he wished to speak to her father, she had somehow been hoping he would delay. “How do you know the earl will ask for my hand tomorrow?”

  Her mother traced the delicate shape of one petal admiringly. She was a lovely woman, though lines marred her visage. With white streaks shooting through her raven tresses, she often tucked them beneath a turban, and today’s choice was deep red, ornamented with pearls. “Lord Willingham was good enough to indicate his intentions to Benedict in order that His Grace may make haste back to town.”

  One day remaining.

  Tomorrow she would be betrothed to Lord Willingham when all she could think about was his illegitimate h
alf brother. How cruel was fate? Icy tendrils closed over her heart. “What if I do not wish to wed the earl, Mother?”

  Her mother turned her attention back to her. “Dear heavens, Frederica do not be silly. You will make a fine countess.”

  “But I do not wish to be a countess,” she persisted, pressing the matter as she had never before dared. The last few days had left her feeling liberated. “I want to write novels.”

  Her mother shook her head, an expression of ill-concealed disgust pinching her features. “Nonsense. You are the daughter of a duke, and you shall be a countess. In time, you will forget your childish yearning for ink-stained fingers.”

  Her mother’s careless dismissal of Frederica’s writing never failed to hurt her, regardless of how many times it was issued. “It is not a childish yearning, Mother.”

  “Ladies do not waste their talents in needless endeavors,” said her mother with a sniff.

  “Such as shopping?” she could not resist asking.

  “Shopping is a lady’s art,” her mother snapped in an uncharacteristic show of ire. “I despair of ever making a proper lady of you, Frederica. When you become Lady Willingham and assume all the duties associated with that noble title, you will understand just how trivial and foolish your old yearnings were. Nothing shall make you happier than being a wife and mother. It is your greatest obligation in life.”

  Frederica knew she ought to refrain from pursuing the matter further, as arguments with the Duchess of Westlake were akin to spinning in a circle too many times. It made one terribly dizzy. “Are you happy, Mother? Is that why you spend most of your days buying fans and creams and gewgaws?”

  Her mother’s gaze was inscrutable. Her shoulders stiffened, the feather on her turban bobbing comically. “Of course I am happy.”

  “Perhaps I want to seek my own happiness,” she said softly. “If Father would only grant me my dowry—”