Nearer still she ventured, unaware or uncaring of the danger she was in. “You did not shock me, as you can see. I must observe everything I can. Spare me from nothing. Show me all, Mr. Kirkwood. I need to learn. I must know if I am to accurately portray the baron and the netherworld he occupies.”
“No,” he denied her. Denied himself. No good could come of her lingering a moment more within his domain, the two of them alone, her delicious curiosity making his blood hum. “Remain where you are, my lady. I will go send for the carriage and have it brought discreetly to the back entrance so you may safely return home.”
He forced himself to turn away, leaving her to watch him as he stalked to the door leading to his office. It was done. He had the willpower to leave her alone. Gaining his retribution upon the man who had sired him had nothing to do with him taking the innocence of a sheltered young lady. He would find someone else—anyone else—to slake the hunger she had kindled within him.
Trouble was, something told him no one else would quite do.
*
He was goingto make her leave his club after a mere hour.
Frederica stared at Mr. Kirkwood’s broad, retreating back, trying not to notice the ripple of elegant strength beneath his perfectly cut coat as he stalked away. His shoulders were so large, larger than those of most gentlemen of her acquaintance. His entire air was a combination of primitive, dark, and debonair that left a quivery feeling in her stomach whenever he was near.
Or even when he was in the act of leaving her, as he was currently doing.
She had to stop him.
She needed more time.
“Mr. Kirkwood,” she called out, her feet moving toward him. She could not chase in the shoes that dwarfed her feet—as it was, she’d needed to wedge several pairs of stockings inside the toe to render the things wearable—but she managed well enough.
He stopped just short of the door, stiffening, keeping his back to her. “Lady Frederica, it would not be wise of you to encourage me to linger in this hall.”
The subtle implication of his words thrilled her. Sent heat blossoming in her, settling in the forbidden flesh she could not seem to ignore. The unspoken suggestion that she tempted him ought to frighten her, but she was reveling in her newfound freedom whilst it was still hers. When her father returned to town, she would not dare to be so bold in her escapes. And with his arrival would come a fresh wave of urging her to wed. Willingham would not wait long.
But it wasn’t just her fleeting freedom making her heart pound and an ache pulse between her thighs. It washim.This man.He was not the sort of gentleman she would have ever been allowed to know. Mr. Kirkwood was scandalous. Dangerous. Even if his club was frequented by the peerage’s loftiest lords, he was still the bastard son of a duke and a doxy. He worked to earn his living.
Polite society shuddered at such a plebian notion.
Frederica found it intriguing. Admirable. Attractive.
Hewas attractive. Frightfully so. He was forbidden, and it only made her long for more time in his enigmatic presence.
“Why should I not encourage you to remain here?” she asked, inwardly cursing herself for the breathless quality of her voice.
He already thought her a pampered, witless duke’s daughter. She did not need to further his opinion. She was still speaking to his back. His head was bowed, almost as if he attempted to cling to his restraint.
She had seen the raw glint in his beautiful eyes. For a perfect moment, she had read his confusion. He, too, felt the connection between them—odd and unexpected yet so perfectly natural, as if it had been preordained. She knew it.
And he had not yet left. Or moved.
Temptation burned through her, along with an unaccountable boldness. Frederica scarcely recognized herself. The meek wallflower who was content to remain on the periphery of society was nowhere to be found. It was as if she had shed her old self in favor of her new identity. Here and now, she found herself in the midst of the most interesting bustle of people and vice and sin she had ever imagined. She found herself just a step away from the man she had only read about in scandal sheets.
One more step forward. She took it.
Frederica placed a palm on his back. She’d shucked her gloves, which had only hindered her ability to properly take notes, and the heat of him through his coat seemed to singe her skin.
“You did not answer me,” she prodded, fancying her hand absorbed the steady, fast thuds of his heart.
He was rigid beneath her touch. Strong and male and lean. His scent washed over her, and the pulse in her core turned into a throb. She felt suddenly as she had when she had pressed her eye to the viewing slot and witnessed the most shocking acts imaginable. Hot. Achy. As if she needed something but did not know precisely what that something could be.
Only this time, it was magnified by one hundred.
“You should not touch me, my lady.” His voice was rough and low, a decadent rake over her senses.
Naturally, his warning only made her bolder. She flattened her left palm to his shoulder as well, daring to slowly move her hands. The slope of his bones and sinew, the cords of his muscle, the solid strength of him—she learned it all, for the first time. She had only danced with gentlemen in ballrooms, driven with them in the park. So proper, a necessary degree of separation at all times. But this—Duncan Kirkwood—was real, and she could not deny how much she adored exploring his virility.
“Why should I not touch you, Mr. Kirkwood?” She continued her perusal of his back, unashamedly. It felt far too good. All of it.
