Her companion giggled, natural color appearing in her round cheeks, heightening the pigment she had already applied there with her own hand. “You may call me Tabitha, if it pleases you, my lord. I was not speaking of something as decidedly boring as reading. I rather hadsomething elsein mind.”
She frowned at Tabitha, wishing she was not so willowy of form and fair of hair. So lovely. This woman worked for Mr. Kirkwood. In his club. She did…unsavory, unspeakable things. A twinge of something she refused to call envy cut through her.
Frederica belatedly realized Tabitha was looking at her expectantly, running a tongue along one lower lip that seemed unnaturally red. She frowned. Was the woman hungry? Perhaps she had been inquiring after the sort of fare Frederica desired to eat.
She blinked, remembering to keep her voice suitably gruff. “I do like young rabbits, though I suppose that isn’t the thing.”
Tabitha’s lips parted. “Youngrabbits, my lord? How tender must they be?”
Foolish question from a tiresome woman. Frederica was growing weary of her company as it distracted her from her opportunity for unfettered observation. Why would she not simply go away?
She frowned. “Does anyone truly like meat that is old, tough, and dry?”
Surely that subtle chastisement would deter the woman from additional questions.
But Tabitha leaned closer, her scent tickling Frederica’s nose, her golden curls, partially unbound and brushing against Frederica’s shoulder. “What else do you like, my lord? Perhaps I can accommodate you. I may not be young, but I am not yet old.”
Did she intend to cook Frederica a meal? This made no sense. Frederica had only just witnessed Mr. Kirkwood’s man urging him to soothe the chef’s irritation. Tabitha did not resemble a cook at all. “Oysters are tolerable as well if in patties à la Française.”
“How wicked of you, my lord.” Tabitha tittered, draping herself on the arm of Frederica’s chair.
Good heavens, what was wicked about such a commonplace dish?Why did the creature insist upon crowding her so? She cast a glance about the sumptuous chamber, searching for a glimpse of a tall, blond gentleman before she realized what she was about.
Her frown deepened. “Wicked?”
Did Tabitha lack intelligence? Frederica felt unaccountably itchy in her brother’s pilfered shirt and coat. For a moment, she longed for the comfort of her chamber, her books, her quill and ink and papers, the writing desk she loved. But then she forced herself to recall this was one of her final opportunities to investigate Mr. Kirkwood’s club.
After this evening, she had only two visits remaining. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the disappointment surging through her at the realization.
“Very wicked.” Tabitha’s warm breath and warmer lips grazed Frederica’s ear, startling her.
She swallowed. This was rather untenable. The other woman’s hand landed on her thigh, stroking over her borrowed breeches. Stiffening, she thrust the hand away in haste, ignoring her companion’s disapproval.Blast.Despite her best intentions, she’d managed to find herself in asituation.
She had wandered from Mr. Kirkwood’s office in the wake of his abrupt departure, partially to irritate him and partially to answer her own curiosity. After all, she had research to conduct. He had closeted her away inside his office and hidden corridor, and she had yet to further experience the bustling atmosphere of the club. She required more time on the floor, mingling, overhearing snippets of conversation, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells.
Her innocuous observations of the gentlemen gathered to indulge their vices had been going precisely according to plan. No one had even paid her any heed. Until she had been pulled aside by Tabitha, that was, who seemed intent upon the mauling of Frederica’s person. Was this what gentlemen preferred, to be boldly pawed at by tittering females garbed in dampened dresses with their bosoms on garish display? Little wonder Frederica was still unmarried.
Her brows snapped together and she fixed Tabitha with a fierce, disapproving frown. “I do think I find myself famished, Tabitha.”
But her words seemed to have the opposite effect of her intent, for Tabitha’s errant hand returned, nearly grazing the apex of Frederica’s thighs in search of Lord knew not what. Frederica bolted from the chair, in her haste, knocking into Tabitha, who nearly tumbled to the floor. Alarmed and sensing she was well out of her depths—fearing discovery or worse, more overtures from the persistent female—Frederica spun on her heel, prepared to bolt.
And promptly slammed into a male chest.
Hands steadied her. The familiar scent of musk and its accompanying notes enveloped her. She looked up into the eyes of Mr. Duncan Kirkwood. Her hands settled on his biceps, and not without noting how firm and strong they were. How they flexed and tightened beneath her touch. That brilliant gaze of his glittered with a combination of promise, menace, and something else…
Remembrance.
She could not help but look at his finely molded lips then, recalling how they had felt against hers—firm, hot, coaxing, and knowing, gentle yet devouring all at once. Her ears went hot at the reminder of his bold kisses, her response.
“My Lord Blanden,” he said at last, the decadent rumble of his voice striking a ripple of sinful want inside her that refused to settle.
She bit her lip hard enough to distract herself. It did nothing to alieve the furious riot of sensation inside her. Duncan Kirkwood had taken her in his arms. He had kissed her. His tongue had been inside her mouth, his hands on her breasts. How could she ever look upon him again without wanting more of the same? Withoutneedingit the same way she needed to breathe?
“This is a different manner of hare than I supposed.”
The tart female voice broke Frederica from the spell of Mr. Kirkwood’s eyes and lips and the haunting ghost of his kisses. She released her hold on him, taking a discreet step backward.
Mr. Kirkwood quirked a brow, settling his gaze upon the other woman. “Have you something to say, Tabitha?”
