Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  He had already judged her. His disgust for her was palpable, permeating the air of the carriage with a familiar sense of dread. She did not require his approval, but a part of her nevertheless wished for his understanding, if nothing else.

  “You may believe what you wish of me, Benedict.” Her agitated fingers, yet ungloved, twisted in her skirts. “But I entered into my sins willingly, knowing exactly what I was doing.”

  Benedict paled. “It would have been better if he had ravished you.”

  His lack of concern for her wellbeing appalled her, though she knew she ought not to be surprised. She was not cut from the same cloth as her family, and never had that sad truth been more apparent than now. “For whom? Surely you would not wish for your sister to be taken by force.”

  Her brother’s dark gaze glittered, his lips compressing. His tone was cruel, lashing. “I would rather my sister be ravished than know she willingly played the whore for Duncan Kirkwood. You are all but betrothed to the earl. How could you have done something so heedless and selfish?”

  She flinched beneath his stinging scorn and the knowledge he would have rather her be taken against her will if it meant preserving his own pride. Had he ever cared for her at all? They had never been close as some siblings were, but neither had she supposed Benedict loathed her as he must.

  “I do not wish to marry Lord Willingham,” she said baldly. “He is a cold and unctuous man. If anyone were to ravish me, it would be his lordship and not Mr. Kirkwood.”

  Of that, if nothing else, she was certain. Duncan, at least, had been tender and gentle. He had made her body and her heart sing with his reverent touches and kisses. Willingham made bile climb in her throat. His touch was meant to incite fear rather than pleasure, and he enjoyed the knowledge of the hurt he inflicted. She had seen the malice in his eyes. There was no mistaking it.

  “You do not know of what you speak,” Benedict said dismissively. “The earl is a gentleman, the legitimate heir to a duchy. Kirkwood is a baseborn bastard with a doxy mother who thinks he can ape his betters and become one. You have allowed your foolishness to distort the manner in which you view him, but allow me to assure you that Duncan Kirkwood is not a gentleman. There is no good in him. He ill uses all the lightskirts at his club. You are no different to him, Frederica. Is that what you would become? Another harlot in dampened skirts, plying her wares for Kirkwood and the lords who line his pockets?”

  Her brother’s venomous diatribe had its intended effect, piercing sensitive parts of her she would have preferred to remain unscathed. Something inside Frederica toppled and fell. The last thread of hope she’d been clinging to snapped as she thought of Tabitha, the lovely golden goddess who had seemed to wear her heart on her sleeve for Duncan. Had he bedded her as well? Was Frederica one in a sea of so many, each with her purpose, used and then set adrift?

  But she refused to reveal her doubts or concerns to her brother. This evening had proven to her, beyond a doubt, where his loyalties lay, and they were most assuredly not with her. Indeed, in that moment, ruined, abandoned, and denounced by her own brother, Frederica could not help but feel no one else in all the world was loyal to her.

  Not her brother who detested her.

  Not Father or Mother who found her a burden they could not wait to rid themselves of.

  Not dear Leonora, who would have her conform to society’s strictures.

  Not Duncan, who had traded her for the fires of revenge burning bright within him.

  No one.

  But she still had herself. She had always had herself, and that would suffice. She raised her chin, pinning her brother with a cold stare. “The Earl of Willingham has forced kisses upon me. He has left finger marks upon my arms, along with the promise I shall endure more and learn to enjoy it as his wife. Forgive me, brother, if ruining myself seemed a more preferable option.”

  Benedict returned her stare. “I know Willingham, Frederica. He would never ill use a woman. I do not believe he hurt you. He is not capable of it. The earl is a prince among men, and a man I am honored to call friend. You could ask for none better.”

  None better? Surely, he was jesting.

  Frederica searched her brother’s countenance and his gaze both, and that was when she knew with heart-sinking certainty. Benedict was aware of Willingham’s penchant for cruelty. Nothing she had said surprised him in the least. But he would rather her marry a man who would deliver her physical harm than ruin her reputation with a man who had been born a plain mister.

  She inhaled deeply, wishing she could not still smell the lingering scent of Duncan upon her, haunting her like a ghost she could not escape. “None better,” she repeated bitterly. “If that is what you truly believe, then heaven help you.”

  “No.” Her brother’s jaw tensed, harsh and angular and angry. “Heaven help you, dear sister. For you shall need it after this night. I fear not even the intervention of a band of angels would aid you.”

  She swallowed against a fresh rising tide of bile. It was not a band of angels she wanted as the carriage lumbered homeward, taking her to her fate. It was Duncan Kirkwood’s reassuring embrace. His lips on hers. His hands caressing her body. The worship and reverence in his expression.

  His apology returned to her.

  I am sorry, angel. So very sorry.

  Yes, and so was she. So very, very sorry.

  The carriage creaked on, carrying her to her fate.

  *

  Duncan called upon the Duke of Westlake’s residence at three o’clock in the afternoon. He gave his card to a stone-faced butler and waited in the antechamber, his mind flitting to Frederica. Was she somewhere within the same edifice? And then he shook the unwanted question from his mind, for it did not matter whether or not she was. His ties to her would necessarily be severed after this visit to her darling Papa.

  His body went cold, a fine sheen of perspiration breaking out on his brow. He told himself it had nothing to do with the notion of cutting her out of his life forever. He told himself he never again needed to see her midnight hair, her pink lips, her lush hips, the petals of her sex…

  Bloody, brimming hellfire. Last night, she had given herself to him. He was not proud of his weakness where she was concerned, a vulnerability that seemed to overrule everything. He swallowed. After today, this whirlwind, tumultuous infatuation would be over.

  Because today, he would betray her.

  For his mother, he reminded himself sternly. And if all went according to plan, Frederica would never be hurt. Her innocence and her reputation would never be called into question. It was small comfort, but all he had to grasp.

  Recalling the final sight of her pale, beautiful face, stricken and etched with naked hurt, made his fists clench at his sides and his jaw clamp down so hard his teeth ached. She had seemed so sad and alone, far from the daring minx who had infiltrated his club and kissed him with abandon.

  At last, the butler returned, inviting Duncan to follow his lead. Down a hall, past two doors, stopping at the third. A fine thing it was, to be welcomed, albeit reluctantly, in the home of a duke. Whilst he was good friends with the Duke of Whitley, not even Cris had invited Duncan to sup at his table. The butler stood at the threshold, announcing Duncan as if he were the bearer of an august title rather than plain old Mr. Duncan Kirkwood.

  He entered the spacious chamber. The door closed with a barely audible click.

  Westlake stood, tall, gray-haired, and forbidding. He bore an aura of one who did not appreciate levity, his brows low over his eyes, mouth a thin, tight line of disapproval.

  “Kirkwood.” He did not bow.

  Duncan did, determined to exact his revenge in the most gentlemanly fashion possible. He had no doubt the duke expected him to be a crude, filthy-tongued scoundrel. And though he felt like the lowliest of creatures for the sins he was about to commit against Lady Frederica, he would not be cowed by her father.

  His actions had been necessary, he reminded himself, both for the lady and fo
r himself. He had provided the means by which she could avoid a hateful union, and she was the means by which he would finally have his retribution against the soulless bastard who had sired him.

  With great effort, he kept his expression carefully composed. “Your Grace. I trust Lord Blanden alerted you of the necessity of this meeting,” he said with a coolness he did not feel.

  “Indeed, my son has regretfully informed me of your egregious conduct.” His lips curled. “I ought to call you out, you ignorant puppy.”

  He did not flinch, for he had prepared himself for any outcome, and there was not a word Westlake could utter or an action he could take that would surprise Duncan. “Then do so, Your Grace.”

  “You know I shall not in an effort to salvage what I may of Lady Frederica’s reputation.” The duke’s tone was frigid, his disgust for Duncan palpable.

  In that moment, he could not blame him, though he harbored a disgust all his own for a father who would force his daughter to wed any scoundrel with a title so he could be rid of her. But he had come for a purpose, and it was not to berate the Duke of Westlake. It was to get what he had wanted. To hold in his hand the power to lay Amberley low.

  If he closed his eyes, he could still see the bruises on his mother’s throat, her dead eyes. Yes, he knew what he must do.

  “I am prepared to ruin her.” He issued the threat with great difficulty.

  Westlake’s expression pinched. “How much for your silence?”

  He did not hesitate, for he had envisioned this confrontation, too. Had practiced what he would say, had known what he would ask for. He was a gambler at heart, and he excelled at bluffing. “Ten thousand pounds and the Duke of Amberley’s debts.”

  “You are mad,” Westlake snapped. “That is a fortune and you know it, Kirkwood.”

  Indeed, it was, which was why it was also his initial offer. He remained calm, raising a brow. “One would think a father would pay a fortune to maintain his daughter’s reputation.”

  “A fortune hunter would think so.” Westlake pinned him with an assessing green stare, and though his eyes were the same deep hue as Frederica’s, they were cold and hard. “Is that not what you are, Kirkwood? A duke’s bastard who has somehow wagered his way into fleecing the finer portion of London?”

  “I am a man who has forged his own path in the world,” he said calmly, though inside he seethed. He was accustomed to lords looking down their supercilious noses at him. More than accustomed to men who believed in their superiority by the mere virtue of their birth and no other reason. But that did not mean he accepted it or tolerated it well.

  “How many other peers’ daughters have you ruined, Kirkwood, in your quest for revenge?” Westlake dared to ask.

  Duncan’s fists clenched, but he took great care to keep his face devoid of any emotion. “None, Your Grace. But then, no other daughters have repeatedly forced their way into my club, dressed as gentlemen, without the knowledge of their families.”

  He could not resist the last jibe, though after it left his lips, he instantly regretted it, for it would likely only make her father even angrier with Frederica than he already was. Duncan cursed himself for his rashness, his quick temper, his fool tongue. The last thing he wished to do was cause her any hurt or any more trouble.

  “You could have turned her away, Kirkwood,” Westlake pointed out, his tone biting. “There was no need for you to ruin her save to gain what you wished.”

  The duke was correct in his assertion, but he was also wrong. Yes, Duncan could have turned her way. But from the moment he had first seen her, his need for her, his raw, base want had been inevitable and undeniable. However, she had fast become far more to him than the sum of her loveliness and her luscious body’s ability to bring him pleasure. Far more than her ability to bring him, quite literally, to his knees.

  Could he have gained his revenge, the possession of Amberley’s vowels, without ruining Frederica? It was entirely possible. Duncan had been prepared to pay handsomely. He had intended to use the possibility of her ruination as a means of bargaining rather than her actual deflowering. He could take no pride in what he had done. She created a weakness in him, the likes of which he had never known.

  He stared down Frederica’s father, wishing he could impart what he saw in Frederica. Wishing he could make the man see how vital, rare, and wonderful his daughter was. How she possessed a light that should not be doused.

  In the end, he could not say anything he wished, for it would do him no favors in garnering what he wanted. Nor would it benefit Frederica in her efforts to obtain her freedom. But perhaps there was something he could do.

  “Seven thousand pounds, Amberley’s notes, and your promise that Lady Frederica will not be forced into a marriage that is not of her choosing,” he said suddenly.

  “I propose instead your silence in exchange for mine,” the duke returned bitterly. “You will not speak a word concerning Lady Frederica’s lapse of judgment, and in return, I will not let it be known that you are a despoiler of innocents, a villain whose club ought to be avoided at all costs.”

  Ah, there it was. The threat Duncan had anticipated. “I am afraid such a bargain has nothing to offer me.” He strode toward the duke with a mocking air calculated to goad, hands behind his back. “Six thousand pounds, Amberley’s debts, and your promise concerning Lady Frederica. That is my final offer.”

  “Damn you, Kirkwood.” Westlake slammed his fists on his desk and unlocked a drawer, extracting a tidy pile of vowels. “Amberley is my friend.”

  “My sympathy, Your Grace,” he said, forcing himself to remain cold and unshakeable. “My final offer stands. Accept it, or I shall leave here and wag my tongue all over town. By this afternoon, all London will know that your darling daughter was bedded by the lowly bastard you sneer at now.”

  “Very well,” Westlake said, capitulating, just as Duncan had suspected he would. “Five thousand pounds, the notes, and my promise Frederica shan’t be forced into a marriage that is not of her choosing. Are you happy now, Kirkwood? Was ruining an innocent girl worth it?”

  He met the duke’s gaze, unflinchingly. “No. It decidedly was not.”

  Duncan left with all Amberley’s debts in his hands, five thousand pounds richer, and assured of Frederica’s freedom. He left assured of his vengeance, and it was everything he had ever wanted, the culmination of all the hatred and fury burning in his belly from the time he had been but a lad standing over his dead mother.

  But the victory was not a cause for celebration, for he had betrayed Lady Frederica by mere virtue of his visit, and he knew it. Beelzebub, he felt sick. Not just in his guts but somewhere deeper. In his chest. In his heart. This was not right. Ruining Frederica was wrong. Hades was not meant to leave Persephone behind. He was meant to take her with him, back to his underworld. Duncan could not resist one final glance at the Mayfair residence of the Duke of Westlake as he left, and as he did, he saw her pale face in a window, watching.

  Every instinct inside him screamed to go back inside, to demand Frederica in addition to the vowels tucked inside his coat. But he knew he could not. He was not selfish as Hades had been. He would not consign her to his fate. She deserved better than a man who would use her for his own gain. She deserved better than a duke’s bastard, a gaming hell owner who daily tread the line between heaven and hell, a man who was more darkness than light.

  And so, he turned his back to her, stalked to his brougham, and stepped inside. As it lumbered onto the street, he refused to allow himself to look back a final time. She was gone from his life forever, as she must be.

  The documents he had traded for her innocence burned his chest like a brand. For the entirety of the ride to The Duke’s Bastard, he choked down the bile rising in his throat. When he reached his club, he stalked past Hazlitt and a host of others, speaking to no one. Not a damned word.

  He went to his chamber, the chamber where he had taken her, where he could still smell violets and the musky perfume of t
heir lovemaking from the night before. With not a moment to spare, he found the chamber pot, dropped to his knees, and retched.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Frederica stepped over the threshold of her father’s study, back straight, bearing stiff, prepared to accept her fate. A week had passed since the night she had attended the masque at The Duke’s Bastard. A week of forced isolation, during which she had not been permitted to leave her chamber. Her writing implements had been taken, as had the pages of her manuscript.

  Mother had visited her once, armed with the spoils of her most recent shopping expedition: a dozen new fans. And she had come with an admonishment as well. You ought not to have made such a grievous mistake, Frederica. His Grace is settling your future now as he must.

  Though she had begged her for more information, Mother had offered her nothing. She had, however, left Frederica the gift of a fan fashioned of bone and silk, embroidered with roses and embellished with spangles. As if the fan would cure her broken heart or soothe the worry gnawing away at her. She would have far preferred her mother’s love and reassurance, perhaps some intervention on her behalf, to the fan.

  But her mother had given her all she was capable of giving, and Frederica knew it. She had waited in her chamber, trapped in the purgatory of not knowing what would become of her. She had no funds of her own, and nowhere to go, else she would have attempted to run. Fleeing was not the answer to her woes, but she was hopeful her inevitable banishment would be.

  She had no doubt Benedict had related the entire, sordid tale to their father, and even if he had not, Duncan would have. From her window, she had watched him departing, inwardly pleading with him to glance her way. As if he had heard her, he had stopped and looked back. And then he had turned away, climbed into his carriage, and disappeared from her life. She had never known such a sickening sense of finality. The cold burst of grief in her breast. The sinking stone of dread.