“Lady Frederica.”
Her name drawled in his deep rich voice made her skin pebble into gooseflesh and an answering surge of yearning blossom in her core. She did not look up at him, ignoring his greeting as she attempted to concentrate upon the recovery of all her pages.Blast it, why had she not thought to number the pages of her scene? Now they would be a hopeless jumble until she spent time collecting them back into their proper order.
Gleaming black shoes, in the height of fashion, approached her, stopping alongside a sheaf of paper that was beyond her reach. She surged forward, crawling on hands and knees, but he was too quick, and his long fingers descended, closing on the sheet.
“No,” she cried out, scrambling to her feet and making an unladylike lunge toward him in an effort to recover her stolen manuscript page. “That is private material, Mr. Kirkwood.”
It was certainly not ready for anyone else’s eyes, having only been written. Moreover, with her rotten fortune, she was sure the page he held captive would also be the one bearing his description. She could hear her words, almost aloud.
He was a handsome man with a devilish air and a careless demeanor that hid a sharp, cunning mind. He bore an intelligence that belied his crude beginnings, a persuasive manner that could not fail to enamor all in his charmed presence…
Her ears went hot once more as he held the paper aloft and out of her reach, his frown deepening as his eyes settled upon the page. “What is this, my lady? You have been making free use of my ink and paper? This foolscap is quite dear, I will have you know.”
“I shall recompense you.” She made another ineffectual swipe through the air, rising on her toes to no avail.
He was taller, his arms longer, his reach well beyond hers in more ways than merely one. “In what manner?”
Her cheeks burned, too, her gaze flitting to his. Was he ungentlemanly enough to refer to the stolen kisses of yesterday? The kisses that were scorched into her memory forever? Did he dare suggest she pay for the pages she had used by kissing him again?
“If it is kisses you wish, perhaps you ought to request them from another,” she bit out, horrified she could not recall the undignified outburst once it had been released. Why, she sounded horridly jealous. Which of course, she was not.
“Kisses.” He lowered the paper, hiding it behind his back as he pinned her with his intense gaze. “An intriguing means of remuneration. I confess, it was not what I had in mind. But why should anyone other than you pay for the paper you have ruined without my leave?”
She pursed her lips, considering her response. “The paper is not ruined. I was passing the time by writingThe Silent Baron.”
He quirked a brow, not appearing any further inclined to relinquish the page to her. “Ah. I might have known. Tell me, why the devil is the unfortunate fellow silent?”
“He loses the ability to speak,” she grudgingly offered, hating revealing her plot aloud so simply, for it did not sound nearly as majestic as her mind rendered it. “His country seat burns down, and he rushes inside to save the woman he loves. He fails, though he escapes with his own life. After, the baron is never the same.”
“How grim, Lady Frederica.” His countenance remained unsmiling, his gaze assessing as ever. The missing page of her manuscript was still being held for ransom behind his back.
“Life is grim,” she countered, for it was the bitter truth. Though she had been born to a world of privilege, it was not the world she would have chosen for herself. She had never truly felt as if she belonged. Societal constraints and expectations made her itch. The thought of marrying Lord Willingham made her ill. “The baron must do penance for his sins in one fashion or another, and the injuries he receives in the flames steal his capacity for speech.”
“And what would a cosseted duke’s daughter know of the grimness of life?” he asked, a mocking undercurrent to his delicious voice she did not like.
How she resented him for that question, for the assumption that wealth and rank necessarily brought happiness along with them. “Being forced into matrimony is rather grim, would you not agree, Mr. Kirkwood?”
“Forced?” His eyes seemed to burn into hers, so unnaturally light and bright.
She could not look away. “Forced, Mr. Kirkwood. Just as I said.”
He curled his upper lip in obvious disgust. “To the unwanted suitor you previously mentioned?”
He had remembered. True, the revelation had not been made many days prior, but it struck her that her reference to her would-be betrothed had remained imprinted upon his memory.
She grimaced. “Yes.”
“This suitor,” he began, saying the word as if it tasted sour on his tongue, “has he ill-treated you?”
Though his tone was calm, she detected an undercurrent of barely leashed savagery. She thought of Lord Willingham’s deft maneuvering on their drive so he could find a part of the park with enough privacy that he could force his suit. His hands had gripped her with a painful violence, his forced kiss as unwanted as his touch and courtship both.
For a brief, wild moment, she wondered what Mr. Kirkwood would say if she revealed the identity of her suitor. Lord Willingham had certainly never spoken of Mr. Kirkwood, and nor had the gaming hell owner ever mentioned his lineage, though the name of his club said it eloquently enough. She still could not reconcile the two men sharing blood.
“He has kissed me when I did not wish it,” she admitted softly.
Something indefinable flashed in his eyes. “Does your father not care for your opinion in the matter?”
She thought of her father’s ultimatum before he had left for the country. “He wishes to see me settled as soon as possible. I am afraid his choice for me is not my own, and having grown impatient, I must say no. He does not particularly care.”
