He moved to the sideboard where he kept a decanter and glasses. Whilst he did not often imbibe, he had long ago learned that any discussion—be it friendly or decidedly the opposite—was best conducted with a bit of fire to round off the hard edges. He poured two fingers for himself, hoping to quell his ardor, and one for her before spinning on his heel.
If his eyes settled first upon her thighs, partially visible thanks to her ill-fitting coat, it could not be helped. And if they next settled upon the area where he knew her breasts hid, how could it be his fault? He could detect only the faintest swell beneath her waistcoat and shirt. Were her breasts large and full as her hips suggested they might be, or were they small and rounded? Perfect little handfuls? Did her nipples match the delicate pink of her mouth?
Lord God, he had to stop himself. He strode to her, distractedly offering the glass with two fingers of whisky in error. Before he could catch himself, she accepted the glass, her dainty fingers curling around the tumbler.
“I am honored by your presence this evening, my lord,” he managed, hoping to distract her with dialogue. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Pink tinged her high cheekbones. “I would like admittance to the…viewing area once more, if I may, Mr. Kirkwood.”
He could not have been more surprised had she punched him in the gut. Indeed, the breath fled his lungs in that moment as if she had. He raised his glass, taking a fortifying sip, measuring his response. Allowing her to view once had been reckless and foolish—a whim to sate his own wickedness. But to sanction her return, admitting her once more into the privileged world of secrecy, spoiling her innocence even further…he risked far too much.
But granting her another chance to view the revelers in the club’s pleasure chambers appealed to him. It intrigued him. It made his cock stiff and painful, prodding the fall of his breeches.
“I was under the impression the viewing area left you rather shocked, my lord,” he hedged, grinding his jaw.
“Shocked but intrigued, sir,” she corrected, lifting her own glass to her lips and taking a ladylike sip.
She coughed, blinking, as the bite of the whisky hit her tongue for the first time. But instead of abstaining from drinking further, she shocked him by lifting the glass to her lips once more and taking a long draw. Her eyes closed, and she scarcely suppressed a shudder as she swallowed before exhaling through her mouth.
Beelzebub, this woman had audacity, raw and real and true. He had never witnessed the like. That an innocent, sheltered lady—the daughter of a duke—would dare to infiltrate his club, dressed as a gentleman, two days in a row, watch the unprincipled coupling of his patrons, and sample whisky with such daring seemed an impossibility. But here she was, brave and beautiful and brash, defying logic and reason and wisdom.
Here she was in his office, wearing breeches and ugly boots and an unbecoming hat, the most breathtaking creature he had ever seen. She frightened the ballocks off him in ways he could not begin to comprehend.
Unless…it was possible she was not as innocent as he presumed. Perhaps she had already been ruined, and her taste of the forbidden had led her here to his club. Perhaps she had been compromised by Eversley, the pompous prig with the insatiable appetite for cunny and the small cock.
If she had,by God, he would…
His fingers flexed at his side impotently. What was he thinking? That he would lodge his fist in Eversley’s jaw to avenge Lady Frederica’s honor? He was fit for Bedlam. First, he had no knowledge of whether or not the lady possessed honor, or if the viscount had indeed besmirched it. Besides, she had seemed shocked last evening, and he did not fancy her a great actress. Second, he needed more head-clearing Scottish whisky. Immediately.
“Delightful whisky, Mr. Kirkwood,” she rasped in an eerie echo of his thoughts, tipping her glass back and downing the remaining contents. She gasped and coughed, bending forward, swaying on her feet. “Simply delightful. I shall have another, if you please.”
Another?For all her luscious curves, she was still a lady, her frame smaller and more delicate. He could not believe she had ever sampled a spirit so strong. The effects of her first glass had yet to settle in, but they would, and when they did, he did not wish to be the man tasked with scooping her off the floor.
Even if holding her in his arms held an infinite amount of appeal.
Especially because it did.
He frowned at her. “I do not think it wise to have another glass at this early a juncture in the evening. Do you, Lord Blanden?”
Lady Frederica blinked at him. Her eyes traveled down his body in a slow, maddening perusal that somehow managed to leave him more frustrated and hungrier for her than he already was.
“Yes, I do. Of course, I do. I’ve never had whisky before. Er, that is to say, I have never before imbibed a whisky as delightful as this. I am loath to carry on without another glass.”
Duncan tossed back the remnants of his own glass before snagging hers and taking both back to the sideboard. He poured a generous amount into each. To hell with caution. To hell with attempting to listen to his own dwindling sense of honor. If Lady Frederica wished to view the pleasure chambers once more, she would. And if she wished to get soused on his whisky, she would. Who was he to stop her?
“Here you are, my lord.” He offered her the glass, their fingers brushing as she accepted it from him. The brief contact sent desire shooting through him.
She seemed similarly affected, swaying on her feet toward him. Her pupils were large and obsidian, dilated discs in the centers of such green opulence. “Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood.”
Suddenly, he longed to hear his name in her husky, silken voice. “Call me Duncan, if you please, Lord Blanden.”
“Duncan,” she said softly, smiling. “Thank you.”
For a moment, he could almost forget who and what they were. He had lived thirty years as the Duke of Amberly’s bastard, knowing he would never be a lord. Knowing his sire would never acknowledge him. Understanding he had siblings who had been raised to a life of unimagined privilege, wealth, and cosseting. Siblings who would attain the respect of their peers by mere virtue of their birth, without ever having to earn it. And he had never, not once, been envious of the quality. He had never wished to be one of them.
Yet here and now, he wished—futilely and foolishly, and just for a moment—to be one of them. He wished he was a lord. He wished he was her equal instead of her inferior.
But he had learned from the time he was a lad that wishes were nonsense, and nothing he could ever do would earn him a place in the peerage. All that was left to him was making his fortune and buying his respect, and it was precisely what he had done.
