She was dizzy, and it was a combination of the whisky she’d imbibed, his big body pinning hers to the floor, the scent and feeling of him invading her senses like a rampaging army, the unexpected reversal of their positions.
The sinking realization he knew who she was.
He had called her by name.
NotBlanden. Notmy lord. ButLady Frederica.
The breath left her in a rush. Her frantic mind absorbed fragments of facts. He was atop her, settled intimately between her thighs. His arms bracketed her head. He was so near, the warmth of his breath skated over her chin like a caress. She ought to be alarmed by their position, the inappropriateness of it.
She could not have ruined herself more thoroughly if she had tried. This was disastrous. She had been caught by Duncan Kirkwood himself, deceiving him, trespassing within the hallowed walls of his club. One word from him to her father—to anyone—and all would be lost.
However, she could not seem to summon even a shred of remorse. All she felt was heat. Languorous licks of something wicked and delightful and altogether wrong, singeing her from the inside out. Beginning in her belly, sliding lower, to the forbidden place between her thighs, and radiating everywhere. Was it the spirits she had consumed? Or was it merely him?
“Have you nothing to say for yourself, my lady?” he asked softly, his voice a delicious rumble, fashioned of sin and seduction and everything she had been taught to avoid at all costs.
Everything she wanted.
She pressed her lips together, struggled to find her wits. Perhaps it would be best to make one more attempt to convince him he was mistaken. For the sake of her reputation, if nothing else. “I am the Marquess of Blanden. Would you be so kind as to remove yourself from my person, Mr. Kirkwood? I daresay this is highly irregular.”
“Mmm.” He flashed her a wicked grin that sent a fresh wave of need unfurling within her. “Highly irregular indeed. It is not every day that a lady, and the unmarried daughter of a duke at that, infiltrates my club by assuming the identity of her brother. What is your purpose?”
How was she meant to think or form a proper answer with his body in such distracting proximity? She had never had occasion to be in such intimate contact with a gentleman before. Not even when Willingham had forced his kiss upon her. It had been a cold, slimy peck, his lower body held away from hers, and she had been left swimming in a sea of revulsion. She had certainly not imagined how forbidden and delightful it could feel to have a gentleman atop her.
Not a gentleman, she corrected herself.
The prince of London’s most infamous gaming hell. A man who ruled over his sinful kingdom with dashing aplomb. A man who was feared and revered. Duncan Kirkwood. The last man she ought to ever have known.
The only man she wished to know.
There it was, foolish but true.
She was a lady who had lived her life above reproach, who had followed all the rules, learned all the arts expected of her, who had been dutiful and good. A lady who had grown weary of balls, expectations, halfhearted suitors, and above all, propriety. A lady who was curious.
A lady who wanted to be debauched.
“I am conducting research,” she told him at last, honestly. There seemed no further purpose in attempting to deceive him when he had already caught her out.
“Research,” he repeated. He caught the curl that had worked itself free of her pins between his thumb and forefinger. Tugged it gently. “What manner of research?”
She blinked up at him, trying to comprehend his reaction. He did not seem angry. Not precisely. Rather, he seemed…intrigued. “I am writing a novel.The Silent Baron. The baron gambles away his entire fortune inside an establishment similar to The Duke’s Bastard. I required an accurate recounting of the sights, sounds, and smells, the patrons, the games, the furnishing, any and all details.”
“A novel.” He frowned down at her, his full lips thinning together, brow furrowing. “You are penning a novel?”
Did he think her incapable because she was female? All the naughty feelings bursting to life inside her shriveled. Her hands found his shoulders—broad, hard, delightful shoulders, drat him—and shoved. “Yes. I, a female, am writing a novel. Now if you do not mind, you are hurting my back with your hulking form, and I would greatly appreciate the removal of your person from mine.”
It was a lie, of course, for he was not putting undue pressure upon her. Indeed, there was no part of his weight settled upon her, his arms bearing the brunt.
But he did not move, disagreeable fellow that he was. Rather, his eyes narrowed. “You are one of those troublesome sorts, are you? If you think for one moment I will allow you to write maudlin drivel painting my club in a negative light, you are thoroughly wrong, my dear. Just as wrong as you were when you fancied you could flit about a gentleman’s club without anyone noticing you were female.”
That gave her pause. “When did you know I was a female?”
“From the first bloody moment I saw you.” His lip curled. “No gentleman has an arse like that. It’s unmistakable.”
He rolled off her at last, gaining his feet with an effortless fluidity of motion she could not help but admire. When he offered her his hand, she took it with great reluctance, allowing him to help her to her feet as well. The connections of their bare palms sent a strange, new flutter skittering through her. She stared at him, swaying on her feet, feeling the effects of the whisky continue to burn through her.
“Will you allow me to continue to conduct my research?” she asked, feeling bold. And shaken. And all manner of things.
“Research?” He raised a questioning brow. “Do you mean will I continue to allow you to avail yourself of the privilege of viewing my club members in the pleasure chambers?”
