He raised his glass to her in a mocking salute, taking another long draw of the liquor. “Thank me later, my lord. Come along, then. If you wish to view this evening’s wickedness, I shall not detain you a minute longer.”
*
Good heavens.
What could she have been thinking?
Her mind and body were at war. Frederica brought the glass to her lips, trying her best not to inhale the pungent scent of the spirits Mr. Kirkwood had poured her. She swallowed, exhaling through her mouth to avoid tasting the whisky, for it was a dreadful elixir. One she would not wish to ordinarily consume save for the pleasant hum it had begun in her veins.
She felt, quite suddenly, warm. Overly warm. And relaxed. Lazy. Her pulse pounded, and her head seemed strange. Was it too large for her body? Too heavy for her neck? And why did Mr. Kirkwood—nay, Duncan—seem suddenly taller? More brooding? More handsome? Why did his chest look so broad and strong?
Why did she long to touch it once more?
“…I shall not detain you a minute longer,” he was saying.
Frederica was too intent upon his lips, watching the sculpted, beautiful fullness of them moving. His chin too was lovely, a small dimple marking the tip, his jaw long and hard and dappled with the shadow of golden whiskers he must have shaved that morning. His entire countenance was not just alluring but…arresting. He was handsome, and yet there was more to him. He was intriguing. A bit of a mystery.
“My lord?”
His voice, steeped with a sliver of irritation, cut through her musings. She hoped she had not been staring. Why did she feel so odd? It was as if her mind was fashioned of clouds, and she could not make sense of anything or anyone. For a moment, she forgot what she was about. Forgot to keep her voice deep, to maintain the pretense she was her brother. The mustache she had affixed to her upper lip—a prop from some silly parlor game she had resurrected to assist in her disguise—itched. Her fingers longed to pluck it from her skin. When she opened her mouth to speak, the thing tickled her.
How irritating.
It had also gotten thoroughly steeped in spirits, part of it lying wetly against her skin. She wanted to say something, to answer Mr. Kirkwood, but she could not force her tongue to obey her command. It was as if she had lost all control of her body. As if she were…
Nay, it could not be. Or perhaps it could.
Was she…soused?
She brought the tumbler back to her lips, taking another long draught. Perhaps it would calm her. Yes, it must calm her, or at least imbue a sense of clarity. Or certainty? Which was the correct word?
“Lord Blanden?” His voice cut through her thoughts yet again, this time as demanding and sharp as a whip on her skin.
She jumped. The glass fell from her fingers, slipping to the floor. It landed on the thick carpet with a dull thud, the remainder of her whisky sloshing onto her thieved boots and the rug in equal measure. She glanced down at the mess she had unintentionally created. “Oh, dear.”
At Westlake House, she never cleaned up after herself. Ladies did not do so, and the legion of staff her father employed oversaw the granting of her every whim. If she so much as upended her teacup, two maids were on hand to tidy up the spill. It was not so here at The Duke’s Bastard. She knew twin, slashing stabs of guilt, for first sneaking her way into his club and then for making a mess of his lovely carpet.
“You mustn’t fret over it, Blanden. Servants will see to it.”
She ignored him, her guilt overwhelming her every other sense. She sank to her knees, reaching into her jacket for a handkerchief. What a treasure that gentlemen could go about with such a convenience secreted upon their person, she thought.
And then she realized Duncan was upon his knees as well, his large hand blotting the stain with his own handkerchief, and she forgot to think about anything but him. Their eyes met. Clashed. Her heart hammered.
He was so near to her she could touch him. Could reach out and trace the bow of his upper lip. Run her thumb along the seam, cup his wide jaw. Lean forward, falling into him, their lips colliding.
Frederica meant to apologize for her startling lack of grace. For soiling his fine carpets. But instead, it was as if her body was obeying her fantasy. She lost her balance, teetering forward. There was nowhere to land but onhim.
Her shameful descent unfolded with a hideous torpidity. Her hands flailed. Her eyes went wide. Her spectacles—a replacement pair since he had neglected to return hers yesterday evening—slid off the end of her nose. She fell into him. His hands, large and warm even through her layers, caught her about the waist, and they moved as one.
He landed on his back.
She landed atop him, colliding with his chest, her legs tangling in his. Her hat flew from her head, taking some hairpins along with it. A long, perfectly formed black curl fell across her face. She stared down at him, the evidence of her subterfuge on full display, aghast.
“My, but your hair is singularly long and lustrous for a gentleman, Blanden,” he said, his bright-blue gaze burning two holes straight through her.
“It is an unusual vanity, I know,” she attempted to explain, before realizing she had neglected to lower her voice.Drat.
“Perhaps not so unusual after all, Lady Frederica.” He rolled suddenly, moving them so she was on her back on the carpet, and he was atop her instead.
