“Who?” She blinked, her cheeks going warm at his scrutiny. He was still staring, the cad, and it made her belly quiver in a strange and unwanted fashion.
“The manservant tending your poor, dear mother, of course.” He flashed her a grin that was neither pleasant nor menacing but somehow predatory instead. “What is the fellow’s name? I feel certain I may know him. He sounds so familiar. There cannot be many in London who share such a tendency toward ill fortune.”
“Oh, no, sir.” She gulped, shaking her head. “You cannot possibly know him. His name is Arnold, but given his delicate health, he does not venture far from my mother’s side.”
Mr. Kirkwood’s lips twitched. They were truly fine lips, she noted in spite of herself, fuller than a man’s ought to be, sculpted as if by a master. Lord Willingham’s lips, in contrast, were thin and wet and cold. The kiss he had pressed upon her during a ride in his phaeton had been as pleasant as she imagined setting her lips to a slimy fish would be. As had been his hard, almost punishing grip.
Surely, two men more disparate in appearance and manner did not exist. Where one was ice, the other was scorching flame.
“There is no invalid mother,” Mr. Kirkwood insisted then. Correctly, drat him. “Nor is there an Arthur or an Arnold, and you will accompany me to my office.Now.”
Bother.Had she confused names again? It was her curse, ever plaguing her.
He did not wait for her response. He simply turned and began hauling her once more.
No. No. No.
She had to do something to halt this madness. Dressing as her brother—after pilfering the trunk-bound wardrobe he had outgrown—and sneaking away from her chamber garbed as a gentleman was scandalous enough. As was blustering her way into The Duke’s Bastard, London’s most infamous and exclusive club, by posing as a lord. But cloistering herself inside a chamber with the wicked establishment’s equally wicked proprietor would be a social death knell.
Something inside her reminded her that perhaps a social death knell would be preferable to becoming the Countess of Willingham.
But then she banished such unworthy thoughts. After all, Duncan Kirkwood shared blood with the earl. Surely they were cut from the same cloth in more ways than not. Moreover, he was a sinner and a blackguard. A rakehell and a cad. He had built his immense fortune upon the misfortune and misguided greed of others. He had destroyed gentlemen, ruined families, and beggared lords. He was not to be trusted.
She had to fight him. Stop him. Frederica was no delicate miss. Indeed, she oft bemoaned her full hips, waist, and bosom. She would never be referred to as willowy. She was not slim. But even she was no match for the superior height and brawn of Mr. Kirkwood. She could not wrest her arm from his grasp. Nor could she stay their forward motion.
There was no means of escape, short of screaming and announcing to the assemblage of rakes and rogues that she was in fact Lady Frederica Isling, daughter to the Duke of Westlake. And as tempting as facilitating her own ruination was, it would also put an end to her aspirations of finishing her novel.
For she could not finishThe Silent Baronif she was not able to properly conduct her research. Veracity required firsthand knowledge.
But as Mr. Kirkwood propelled her over the threshold and into his private domain, she could not help but shiver. He released her, slanting a searching look in her direction, and closed the door, muffling the sounds of the den of vice he ruled.
She blinked, wishing she had not chosen to wear the dratted spectacles, for they forced her to peer over them if she wanted to see anything. The writer within her instantly flared with excitement. The chamber was paneled in dark wood, lit by mirrored gilt sconces crowned with lions and acanthus.
Tapers flickered, half spent. A sturdy, elaborately carved desk dominated one end of the chamber. The chair behind it was as large as a throne, depicting Hades and Persephone. The carpets were red, thick, and plush beneath her feet. The entire chamber possessed an unexpected aura of refinement. Until…
A glance at the ceiling made her gasp. Lewd and lascivious murals abounded. Nymphs cavorting. Females kissing each other. Naked breasts and bottoms. A man’s long, erect…
Oh, dear Lord in heaven.
She lowered her gaze, cheeks hot, to find Mr. Kirkwood standing disturbingly near, watching her once more. She wet her lips. His office was the personification of sin. Her heart thudded. When she had dreamt up this mad scheme with Leonora, she had never imagined she would even be noticed at The Duke’s Bastard. She had never imagined she would find herself alone in a chamber rife with licentious illustrations, the club’s notorious, disturbingly handsome owner bearing down on her.
“Have a second look,” Mr. Kirkwood invited, grinning. “The first was far too cursory.”
Her face flamed hotter. He had taken note of her perusal, and her shock entertained him. The man was depraved.
She cleared her throat, forcing her voice to unnaturally low octaves once more, for it was essential she maintain her disguise. “I do not think I shall, sir. Please, what is it you wish of me? I have already tarried here far too long as it is. My ailing mother requires me.”
He had seen through her fictions. But that did not mean she was ready to surrender or admit to subterfuge. If she did not have her deceptions to cling to, she had nothing at all. For then, she was just a disgraced lady standing before the most libidinous gaming hell owner in town, with no defenses, no more excuses, and no hope of escaping this scrape with her reputation intact.
If you wish it to be intact, taunted that awful, unwanted voice.
The truth was murky. And conflicted. Ruination remained a tempting sin she had not yet entirely ruled out.
“For shame, my lord.” Mr. Kirkwood cocked his head and raised his brow. “You cannot still be clinging to your lies, can you?”
“I told you no lies, sir,” she denied, for she did not like to think of her fictions as lies. Rather, they were embellishments. No different than the worlds she created with her quill, ink, and paper, except they had been spoken aloud. They had been spoken to him, and with an aim to save herself from his unwanted scrutiny.
It would seem she had failed abysmally on that score.
