His purple coat and emerald breeches were an affront to the senses, in keeping with his usual attire. His thinning brown hair was untamed, the ends reaching skyward as if pleading for the intervention of a higher power. His cravat nearly touched his chin. It had been precisely six days since she had last laid eyes upon this preening rooster of a man, and his appearance before her now was far too soon.
She curtseyed. “My lord.”
“Would you care to take a turn about the room, my lady? We shall fetch some lemonade if you prefer.” He turned to Leonora, condescending. “Pity you cannot accompany us, my lady. Shall we bring a glass back for you as well?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” said her friend, not showing a hint of insult at Willingham’s thinly veiled reference to her limp.
Frederica narrowly resisted the urge to stomp on his instep in retribution. Instead, she allowed the earl to guide her on a meandering journey around the outskirts of the festivities.
“That was most unkind,” she snapped when they were beyond Leonora’s earshot.
He leaned toward her, and the scent of his cologne—cloying and spicy—tickled her nose. “Forgive me, but I have been in a dreadful state these last few days, missing you, my dear. I was most disappointed when you were not at home after I called to take you for a drive two days ago.”
With her father absent and her mother a flimsy guardian easily distracted by the beacons of Bond and Oxford Streets, Frederica had taken advantage of the opportunity to refuse Willingham’s overtures. She feared a ride with him would only mean more unwanted kisses from which there was no escape, and so she avoided him instead.
“I do believe the turtle soup I ate at the Farthingale supper was spoilt,” she lied blithely. “I fear I was far too ill for a jaunt.”
“Of course, my dear lady,” he said, but there was an ill-disguised note of disgust in his tone. “I am indebted to Blanden for bringing you to this ball at my request.”
Blast her brother. That explained his sudden desire to be in attendance this evening.Et tu, Brute?
“Yes,” she drawled, taking great effort to keep her irritation from her expression and voice, “it was lovely of him to intervene.”
Frederica’s gaze roamed over the earl’s face, searching for signs of resemblance to Duncan, and found none save the dimple marking the tip of his chin. How could one brother turn her body to flame whilst the other made her stomach curdle? Duncan was taller, broader, stronger. His was a lean, powerful grace cloaked in elegance and dipped in darkness. Lord Willingham was, by comparison, a court jester.
“I am hoping, my lady, to speak to your father when he returns from Oxfordshire,” Lord Willingham said then, stopping to retrieve a watery lemonade for Frederica, one for himself, and another for Leonora.
He wanted to speak with her father. As soon as he returned.
Why, that would be in just two days.
Two days until her freedom ended. How could it be? She tried to envision a life in which she was married to the earl. In which she was Lady Willingham. In which he could press his cool, flat lips to hers and do to her as he wished. Her gaze dipped to his mouth, which was unsmiling and glinting with saliva. Why were they always so wet?
Frederica took a lengthy sip of the lemonade, finding it far too tart. Nothing but bitterness, much like the emotions blossoming inside her. She felt as if she was going to be ill. Her stomach clenched, bile rising in her throat.
“My lady? Would it please you?” he pressed.
No, it would not please her. She thought of his hands on her, how tight his grip had been, the purple half-moons left behind by his fingers. His words.You will learn to enjoy it, my dear. I will make certain of it.More threat than promise, she feared.
She swallowed another sip of lemonade, wishing it was Duncan’s fiery whisky. Wishing she was there, at the Duke’s Bastard, trading wits and kisses. Wishing, for once in her life, she could be free.
But she was Lady Frederica Isling, daughter to the Duke of Westlake, soon to be married to the Earl of Willingham, and she could never be free. She forced a smile to her lips, stared into his flat brown eyes, wishing they were blue. “Nothing would please me more.”
*
She had notcome.
Duncan sat in his chair, gulping a whisky, rage burning through him like the fires of hell. But the whisky did not numb him. Nor did it do a damned thing to mitigate the fury scorching him alive. Around him, his club bustled, business as usual. The dice dropped. Cards shuffled. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of voices barely seeped into his awareness. All he could think was that she was not there.
It was to have been their final evening. The last time he would ever see her. He had attempted to resign himself to that unwanted reality ever since he had watched her delicious arse flounce out of his office the night before.Without success.And now, she was the only one in his thoughts. Plaguing him. Calling to him. Taunting him.
His name on her lips had been pure poetry. He could still hear it now, the throatiness of her voice.Duncan.And Christ if it didn’t make him hard, right then and there in the midst of all his patrons on a bustling evening, with not a woman in sight except for the one haunting his mind.
Bloody, blazing Beelzebub.
The carriage he sent for her at the arranged time had returned empty. His driver offered no explanation.His lordshiphad failed to appear, reported Marmot to Hazlitt. The conveyance had lingered for three-quarters-of-an-hour. Finally, needing to take a piss, Marmot had returned to the club.
Can’t take a piss on the street in Mayfair, wot?
