She pursed her lips. “I do not like you either, sir, so perhaps we can dispense with formality and you may simply leave me in peace. Where is Mr. Kirkwood, and when might I expect his return?”
His gaze narrowed. “You’re a cunning baggage, aren’t you? I’ll not be telling you where he’s gone or why. You can wait here as you’re told, or I will have you removed. The choice is yours,my lord.”
Ah, yes.There it was again. The bitterness lacing his voice as he exaggerated her address. “I am perfectly happy to remain here, awaiting Mr. Kirkwood.Alone.If you will excuse me, sir, I would appreciate some quiet.”
She had already spied ink, sheaves of foolscap, and a pen awaiting her at Mr. Kirkwood’s desk. If she must wait, she would make use of her time and Mr. Kirkwood’s supplies. There was something about using his personal writing implements that seemed somehow intimate. Fitting.
“At the slightest hint of trouble from you, I’ll have you tossed on your arse,” Mr. Hazlitt warned, a hard edge to his voice.
“Noted, sir.” She flashed him a smile she little felt. “Good evening to you.”
“Nay, good evening to you. Tabitha may well occupy Mr. Kirkwood’s entire night.” With a mocking bow and a dark-eyed glare, he added, “I predict you shall be wishing for that supper.”
Tabitha.
Her mind traveled instantly to the beautiful, bold woman she had met the previous day. Tabitha with the lovely face, goddess-like form, and wandering hands.Shewas what had kept Mr. Kirkwood from this appointed meeting with Frederica? An unwelcome stab of jealousy pierced her at the thought. Only yesterday, he had been dismissive and cool. It made no sense, and yet it also made dreadful sense all at once. Men like Mr. Duncan Kirkwood were not gently bred. They were wild and unpredictable, uncivilized in their pursuit of pleasure.
With great effort, she kept her expression as serene as possible, showing nothing of her tumultuous thoughts. “Rest assured, Mr. Hazlitt, if I grow hungry, I shall call for you. You are dismissed, sir.”
Hazlitt made an exaggerated bow and left the chamber, the door closing with more force than necessary at his back. Frederica winced, every bit of fight in her suddenly drained. She plucked her spectacles from her nose and tossed them against the wall, not caring if they smashed. Her hat was the next victim, torn from her head. Followed by a handful of leather-bound volumes atop his desk.
She rather hoped she cracked a spine or two.
Still fuming with pent-up irritation she had no wish to feel, she devoted herself for a time to reviewing the titles of the books in his office. Poetry volumes, all of them save one, which was entitledViews of the Seats of Noblemen and Gentleman. Perhaps he studied the locations, architecture, and priceless artwork on display in the country homes of his patrons, all the better to know whom to fleece.
The unworthy thought reminded her of just how much a stranger Mr. Kirkwood was to her. Today marked the fourth since he had appeared in her life, and already she was throwing tantrums, kissing him in hidden halls, and spying on lords engaged in shocking acts of depravity. There was also the matter of costuming herself as a gentleman and sneaking about London.
Butthe kiss. The kiss had altered everything.
A shiver trilled through her. What had become of her? Where was the sensible wallflower who was keener to devote herself to books and her secret passion for writing than anything and anyone else?
She has awakened from a long sleep.
Frederica approached his carved chair, noting the depiction of what was undeniably Hades on one half and Persephone on the other. Life and death, darkness and light, come together. She traced a lone finger over the intricate carvings, absorbing this small manner in which she could make sense of Duncan Kirkwood.
The man who had kissed her as if she were his life’s breath.
The same man who had abandoned her the next day.
A fierce urge to write overcame her then. Words crept into her mind. Scenes and emotions unfurled. She had come here to be near her characters, their world, to bask in it and understand it in some small measure. Here was her chance.
Despite her misgivings and the tumult at work within her, she settled in Mr. Kirkwood’s chair. Her fingers, still stained with midnight ink, itched to write more. She dipped his pen into the inkwell, trying to ignore the scent of him that seemed to permeate everything, especially her resolve.
Her quill scratched over the paper. The owner of the gaming hell appeared before the baron, and he rather resembled Mr. Kirkwood, much to her consternation. But she quickly became swept away by the characters and the plot. There was a mystery afoot as well, one she had not previously conceived.
She wrote furiously, caught up in the scene, in the emotions, in the intrigue of it all. Losing herself in her writing could be so easy some days, and others, she arrived at passable sentences with great difficulty.
With a sigh, she dropped the pen back into the well and took a moment to read what she had written. To her surprise and delight, it was quite good. The thoughts were well formed, the plot growing in intrigue and strength. Even the dialogue had flowed exceptionally well, despite her irritation at Mr. Kirkwood’s abrupt abandonment of her.
She had one more evening.
Perhaps she would not see him again before returning to the despicable monotony of her life as Lady Frederica Isling. The acknowledgment and the accompanying pang it sent through her fell into the recesses of her mind for a moment when her eyes unintentionally landed upon a packet of correspondence. The missive on top of the stack bore her father’s name.
What business could Mr. Kirkwood have with her father? Her fingers hovered over it, the wicked urge to snatch it up and break the seal dashed abruptly when the door to his office swung open.
There he was, clad in black as always, his brow knitted into a frown that did nothing to diminish his beautiful features as he stalked into the chamber and carelessly flicked the door shut once more at his back. She stood, sending some of her frantically written manuscript pages flying to the plush carpet like sad little birds too soon fallen from the nest.
“Oh, bother,” she muttered, hastening to scoop them up lest he offer to help and attempt to read her words. Lest he see himself in the debonair, rakish gaming hell owner.
