Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  Then an uglier, even more insidious question rose. What if she was not being forced? What if she had chosen Willingham? Worse, what if she had done so to spite him?

  “Perhaps the girl’s name is Lady Frances. Westlake has but one daughter. I cannot recall now her name for certain now, but it begins with an f,” Cris said, oblivious to the manner in which Duncan hung on his every word.

  “It is Lady Frederica.” He shot to his feet, the chamber swirling about him and seeming to tilt. His gut lurched. Why in the hell had he consumed so much of the devil’s elixir? He planted his palms flat on the surface, attempting to regain his balance and keep the room from spinning. “I know her name with the same certainty I know my own.”

  “Christ, Duncan. Shall I have Pretty fetch you a chamber pot in addition to the tray? You look fit to cast up your accounts.”

  He closed his eyes, but that only made the dizziness worse, so he opened them again, taking a slow, deep breath. “I don’t need a chamber pot, Cris. But I do need your help. Badly.”

  Cris nodded. “Of course, you shall have it, my friend. Anything you ask.”

  Duncan dropped back into his chair and told his friend everything.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Because all London was abuzz with talk of the Duke of Whitley’s recent nuptials, the Whitley ball was quite a crush. Frederica sat with Leonora in their customary seats on the periphery of the festivities. She focused on the revelers, hands clasped tightly in her lap, and tried to ignore the ever-growing knot of dread inside her. The knot that said she was running out of time.

  A fortnight was all that remained. A mere fourteen days, and then she would become the Countess of Willingham as her father had wanted all along. Whenever she thought of the earl, bile rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. Thankfully, he had not had the opportunity to further press his unwanted, amorous attentions upon her, but her freedom from his punishing, wet mouth and forceful grip was soon at an end.

  “You have not heard a word I have said, have you, Freddy?” Leonora asked, her soft voice shaking Frederica from her despondent musings.

  “Forgive me.” She attempted a smile, but she had such little cause for levity in her life that even the act of turning the corners of her mouth up seemed too great a burden to bear. “I have much on my mind.”

  “I am so sorry your father has forced your hand,” her friend said. “After all the efforts you went to…”

  She had confessed everything to Leonora in the devastated aftermath of what had occurred. No one else knew the truth, save her family. No one else ever would.

  Frederica winced. “Yes, after all the efforts.”

  She did not like to speak of Duncan Kirkwood. Six weeks had passed since he had turned his back on her, and yet not a day passed when she did not think of him. When she did not wonder where he was, what he was doing. Who he was kissing. The notion of him with another woman was akin to a knife in her heart, a blade she could only hope would dull with time.

  “You could go to those same efforts again.” Leonora snapped her fan idly. “Did you ever consider it?”

  “I have not seen him in a month and a half.” She exhaled slowly, willing away the mountain of hurt lodged inside her. “More importantly, I do not think he truly cared for me at all. I was a means to an end for him. He got what he wanted.”

  She, on the other hand, had not. Instead, she had lost her heart.

  “I did not mean him,” Leonora murmured quietly. “You could choose another.”

  Frederica’s cheeks went hot. Of course he had been her first thought. Her only thought. Duncan was at the edge of every thought, hovering in each moment, like a splinter lodged deep inside her heart. One she could not remove no matter how she tried.

  She fanned herself with one of Mother’s castoffs—a bone handle, silk affair embellished with rose embroidery and sequins. “No, I cannot do it, Leonora. Once was enough.”

  The notion of kissing any other man—of allowing him to touch her and take liberties—made her ill. She knew if she did not take action soon, she could not be able to avoid such a thing. She would become the Countess of Willingham, the earl’s chattel to do with as he wished.

  “What shall you do, Freddy?” Leonora’s tone was mournful. “You are running out of time.”

  “I do not know.” She attempted to keep the misery from her voice and failed. “I truly thought my father would send me away. I was hoping for my freedom though not depending upon it. I never imagined, however, that he would force me to endure the union regardless of my actions.”

  These last few sennights had been intolerable. The only slight comfort she found was in the foolscap, ink, and quill she had smuggled into her chamber. She kept all carefully hidden beneath her bed, writing into the early hours of the morning each night. It was what sustained her, and she nearly had a completed manuscript for her efforts, though she bore purple smudges beneath her eyes as well.

  “I wish there was something I could do to assist you.” Leonora sighed.

  “Thank you for fretting over me, my dear,” Frederica said, a rush of affection making her throat go thick. If she had not had her friend during the last month and a half, she did not know what she would have done. “I shall find a way just as I have always done.”

  Leonora frowned. “I do hope you are right, Freddy.”

  Before she could respond, the Duchess of Whitley approached, ethereal in a yellow gown with silver net and embroidery. Her flaming hair was artfully styled, and she was undeniably lovely. It was said she and Whitley had a great love match, and watching the duke and duchess earlier, Frederica had been stabbed by a pang of envy.

  To love so openly and to be loved in return.

  “Lady Frederica, Lady Leonora,” the duchess greeted warmly. “I hope you do not mind if I seat myself here with you both for a moment? My feet are positively aching, and everywhere I turn, someone else is asking me to dance or holding me captive for dialogues and diatribes. Wellington’s latest victory is grand to be sure, but I would prefer to discuss it when my heels are not numb.”

  “Of course not, Your Grace,” Frederica said. “You have found just the place to hide. Leonora and I have perfected the art of being wallflowers.”

  The duchess seated herself with a sigh of contentment, but with rather a lack of grace. The punch she had been holding splashed from her cup and all over Frederica’s ivory skirts. “Oh, how dreadful of me! Lady Frederica, I fear I have ruined your dress, and the ball is only just underway. Pray forgive me, my lady.”

  Frederica looked down at the growing stain, dark and red and ruinous. Rather a metaphor for her life at the moment, she decided. “Do not worry on my account, Your Grace. I shall use this as an excuse to avoid dances.” With my betrothed, she added silently, for it would not do to air her grievances before a woman she had only just met, regardless of how lovely and modest Her Grace seemed to be.

  “I must make amends,” the duchess continued, her beautiful countenance pinched with concern. “Come with me, if you please, and I shall fetch my lady’s maid. She is a dab hand at removing all manner of stains, and I do believe she will have this problem solved in a trice.”

  Frederica began to demur, but the duchess was insistent. “I must. I shall feel guilty all evening if you do not grant me this favor, my lady.”

  She looked to Leonora, who was her usual, amiable self. “Do not worry over me, my dear Freddy. You know how I love to observe. I shall be most entertained.”

  “Very well,” Frederica agreed.

  “Splendid.” Her Grace rose to her feet. “Follow me. We shall find a discreet exit, and I will have you back in no time at all.”

  Here, too, was another means of escaping Willingham, at least for the time it took for her stain to be removed. The allure was too tempting to resist. Frederica followed the Duchess of Whitley into the crush.

  *

  Duncan waited in the hall outside the chamber where the Duchess of Whitley had led Frederica. For th
e last fortnight, waiting was all he had damn well been doing. Plotting, waiting, biding his time. He was not a patient man, and everything in him now screamed with anticipation.

  His body.

  His soul.

  His heart.

  Seeing her tonight—her midnight hair in such stark contrast to her porcelain skin, her lush lips, the elegance of her throat, those curves generously accentuated by her prim gown—had robbed him of breath. She was more beautiful than he remembered. But it wasn’t just her fairness of face and form that called to him. It was her. As he watched her slip into the chamber behind the duchess, his heart and his cock had sprung to life in unison.

  She was his. And he would be damned before he allowed her to become shackled to the Earl of Willingham, a sadistic bastard he shared half his blood with and none of his proclivities. The earl did not like pleasurable pain. He liked to inflict violence. Duncan had heard the rumors, had spoken with women who had suffered his intolerable cruelty. The notion that Frederica would be subjected to the same as his wife—hell, the notion of her as anyone’s wife but his—filled him with a mad frenzy. A need to spill blood.

  At last, the door opened, and the duchess emerged alone. She hastened to him, frowning. “Duncan, I will have your promise you will not upset, harm, or ruin her.”

  He grinned at his friend’s wife. She was precisely the woman he would have picked for Cris, had he chosen, the perfect foil for him. “I cannot promise the first, though I most assuredly can the second, and the last has already occurred.”

  “You understand what I am saying, you vexing man,” she warned. “I have done as you asked, playing my part in bringing her here so you may speak with her. But I expect you to behave with honor.”

  His heart felt lighter than it had since the moment he had whispered his apology to Frederica before opening the door to her brother. “Always, Your Grace.”

  At least as much honor as he possessed, but he wisely kept that afterthought to himself.

  The duchess fixed him with a pointed glare. “Promise, Duncan.”

  Cris approached them then, his arm sweeping about his wife’s waist as he drew her to his side. “He promises, my love. Now allow them their privacy. We have a ball to attend.”

  Duncan met his friend’s gaze, and an understanding passed between them. “Thank you, Cris, Your Grace.”

  “Jacinda,” the duchess corrected softly. “We wish you happy, Duncan. Your lady awaits you.”

  Yes. She did. But there was one small flaw in the otherwise immaculate fabric of his plans; she was not yet his lady. A flaw which would be repaired soon, he hoped.

  He bowed to them both and strode to the chamber, opening the latch and letting himself in quietly. Frederica stood by the hearth where a fire had been lit, holding up her skirts to inspect the damage.

  “I think perhaps some boiled milk or a slice of lemon would do,” she said, spinning about to face him. Shock froze her for a beat as she took him in, her green eyes blazing into his with the heat of a thousand suns. “You.”

  Not the welcome he would have hoped for, it was true.

  Her beautiful voice fairly vibrated with emotion, anger, outrage, loathing.

  He could not blame her. Duncan flicked the lock into place, ensuring there would be no interruptions, and moved toward her, helplessly drawn. “My lady.”

  “What are you doing in here?” she demanded, gathering her ruined skirts in her hand and retreating, eyes wide. “You must go, Mr. Kirkwood. At any moment, Her Grace will return with her lady’s maid, and they will find it strange indeed if the door is locked.”

  He stopped where he was, a good five paces between them, shaking his head slowly. “No one will be returning. Her Grace spilled her punch on your skirts for my benefit, I am afraid.”

  Her brows snapped together. “How do you know the duchess?”

  “Whitley is my good friend, and Her Grace took pity on me, offering me her assistance for this one instance only, and even then with great persuasion on my part,” he explained gently, his eyes devouring her. He realized it was only the second occasion upon which he had seen her in a gown. She was stunning. Little wonder Willingham wanted her for his own. The reminder sickened him, spurred him on. “Do not think poorly of Her Grace, I beg you. She would not aid me without my repeated promise you would be safe with me.”

  “But we both know your word is good for nothing, and I would be safer with a pack of wild, slavering dogs than in your presence,” she snapped, her shoulders rigid, chin going high.

  “You are safe with me, Frederica.” He dared to take another step, hungering to be near her. To breathe her in. To touch her.

  Her eyes went even wider. “Do not come any closer to me, sirrah. I shall scream and bring the entire ball upon us.”

  Her threat was moot, and they both knew it. “No one would hear. We are far enough away from the din, my lady.” He had made certain of it.

  She skirted a chair and hid behind it, her delicate hands resting on the back. “What do you want, Mr. Kirkwood? What is the purpose of this meeting you have manipulated?”

  Beelzebub’s blood, he loved her. She was so proud and fierce and glorious, taking her stand against him. He wanted to applaud her. To sink to his knees before her like a supplicant, beg her forgiveness. Kiss her hem. Pledge his loyalty to her forever.

  “To see you,” he said honestly. “To speak with you. That is all I want.”

  To make you mine. To marry you. To love you forever. To hope that one day you will love me in return. That you can forgive me for being a blind arse.

  But he would not reveal all to her. Not just yet. Not until she was ready and the time was right. If indeed there ever proved such a time.

  “What need could you possibly have to speak to me after all this time?” she asked, her voice vibrating with passion. “After what you did?”

  “I was wrong,” he said simply. Truthfully.

  “You were wrong,” she repeated, her tone one of disbelief. “You planned, from the moment you first realized who I was, to do what you did. You seduced me. Tricked me. You used me to gain Amberley’s debts, and once you had them, you left me to suffer the consequences. Tell me why I should remain in this chamber, why I should even entertain another word you utter.”

  “You are marrying my half-brother,” he gritted. “I would think that reason enough.”

  She stiffened, her bearing going rigid. “If that is the sole reason for your interest, you can leave me in peace now, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  He ground his jaw, stalked closer to her, not stopping until he stood before the chair she was using as a shield against him. Violets, the scent he had hungered for all this time and missed, assailed him in sweet remembrance. “Tell me, my lady. Do you wish to wed him?”

  She paled, her nostrils flaring. “Who I marry, and whether or not I wish to marry him, is no concern of yours, Mr. Kirkwood. Indeed, I ceased being a concern of yours the moment you traded me for the vengeance you so desperately longed to obtain.”

  Guilty.

  He had done that. Yes, he had. But it had been because he had supposed he had garnered her the freedom she wished. It had been because he had been hopelessly torn between atoning for the past sins of Amberley against his mother and his need for Frederica. Because he had known there wasn’t a chance of snow in Hades that her father would ever allow her to wed him.

  He had believed he was providing her with the best chance for happiness. That, given the proof of her ruination, her father would send her away, and she would find herself ensconced in some cottage by the sea, happily scratching her pen upon a stack of foolscap, writing The Silent Baron.

  Foolishness, he realized now. Complete and utter foolishness. There was no simple, happy resolution in life. There had not been for his mother, not for him, not for Frederica. Fighting was a way of life. But he would fight for her. For them. He had gained his revenge, but he had lost something far more important. Her. But from this moment forward, he was willing to
do anything to right the grievous wrong he had done her.

  “There is something I never told you,” he began haltingly. “Something I do not speak of often…my mother was not always a whore. She was a simple country girl. She came to London and was instantly swept into a world of sin. Amberley plucked her from that world and made her his mistress. But when she became with child, he tossed her into the streets. She was forced to sell herself to any man she could, just to keep food in my belly.”

  Her expression softened. “Oh, Duncan.”

  But he did not want her pity. He wanted her to understand. He needed to explain his actions, if indeed he could. Mere words would not excuse them, but it would be a beginning. “It was Amberley’s duty to aid her, to give her some manner of restitution, and yet he cruelly turned his back. Just as it was Amberley’s fault, she was killed by one of the men to whom she sold herself, strangled and discarded as if she were no better than an old pair of stockings. I wanted revenge upon the duke for my mother’s sake. For the suffering she had, for the life of fear and worry and pain. And I am sorry, endlessly sorry, to have allowed you to become caught up in my need for vengeance.”

  “I had not realized your mother was murdered, Duncan,” she said, her tone gentling with sympathy. With something else, too, but he could not define it.

  “I found her,” he blurted before he could stop himself. Something about her wide eyes comforted him, something about her lulled him in a way no one else ever had. “She was cold and bruised, and all I could think about was how scared she must have been. I wondered if she thought of me, called out for me. She had sent me off with some coin to gather buns, and when I returned, she was dead.”

  He relived the horror of that day once more, allowing it to engulf him. Only this time, he had Frederica Isling before him. This time, he did not feel as if he was drowning in an icy sea. Instead, he felt as if he had risen to the surface, as if he could swim to shore at last.

  “I understand your desire to gain your revenge,” she said. “I always did, even before I knew what you have just revealed to me. But you walked away from me. Left me as if I meant nothing at all to you.