Hazlitt had guffawed as he related the last, expecting Duncan to laugh as well. On another day, in another time and place, had the empty carriage not been missing one Lady Frederica Isling—the woman he had brought to a deliriously lovely spend the night before—he may have been amused. As it was, he could still taste her on his tongue, could still smell the sweet, musky perfume of her slick flesh.
To say Duncan was in a foul mood would be an understatement. He was furious. Outraged. In the blackest humor of his life.
He could not remain in his office, for sitting at his desk reminded him of the sight of her upon it, legs spread, sex pink and glorious and ready for his tongue. He could not stalk the hidden hall with viewing slots, for her ghost was there as well. It was where he had first kissed her.
Even in the main gaming hall, she was there. It was where he had laid eyes upon her. And though it had been mere days before, she had already become an inextricable part of his world.
He was not sure how it happened. Christ knew he had not wanted to allow her to affect him, had not wanted to soften toward her. He, who had prided himself upon having no softness in his life. She was the means for his revenge, the retribution he had been seeking for twenty years as hatred and bitterness had eaten away at him.
Why?
The question, unbidden, surged. He could not tamp it down, no matter how hard he tried. Why did it have to be her? Why was the one woman who set him aflame also the one he needed to gain what he wanted, his worthless sire begging him on hand and knee?
He drained the remnants of his glass, about to signal for another, when his gaze lit upon a familiar figure. An arse, to be specific. Curved and full and high, ill obscured by the coat tails. Luscious calves beneath white stockings, trim ankles. No spectacles perched on her delicate nose because she had left her second pair in his office the day before, and those, too, he had scavenged alongside a forgotten manuscript page like a vulture, two more objects in a growing collection he would use against her. His prick went even more rigid, springing against the fall of his breeches. His body knew before his mind—it was elemental. Inevitable. Unavoidable.
There. She. Was.
And she had come without the benefit of the safety his enclosed carriage and driver would have provided her. He shot to his feet, his empty glass and need for another whisky abandoned. His body and his mind collided.Minesaid something deep inside him.Mine.Each footfall that brought him closer to her rang with finality.Mine. Mine. Mine.
Until she was close enough to touch. He wanted his arm sliding around her waist, her soft curves nestling into his hardness. Wanted to draw her against him, stake his claim, but at the last moment, he recalled she was dressed as a man.
Instead, he drew alongside her and lowered his lips to her ear, in such proximity his lower lip brushed over the delicate whorl. “Are you looking for someone,my lord?”
She stilled. Swallowed. “Yes, in fact, I am. The owner of this establishment.” She sent him a flirtatious glance that landed in his cock and ricocheted throughout his body. “Do you know him?”
He ground his jaw, lust for her rising so strongly within him he could scarcely maintain his focus. “Aye. Promise me something first?”
Her expression turned wary. “What promise would you have from me?”
“If you ever take it into your foolish head to traipse about London alone again, come to me first. You need but to send a servant. I will make certain my staff is aware Lord Blanden and Lady Frederica both have the use of any carriage they wish, on any day, at any time.” The notion of her gadding about in hired hacks made his skin break out in a cold sweat. Even if he would never see her again after this night, he would have the solace of knowing she was safe.
Her brows rose. “That is a generous offer indeed. One I cannot accept.”
Duncan was not in the mood for opposition. “You can and you shall. Promise me, or forfeit your final day of research, and I will send you home at once.”
Her lips compressed, and she was silent for a beat before giving a jerky nod. “Very well. I promise.”
Thank Christ.
A tiny measure of the disquiet inside him abated. “Excellent. Now come with me, if you please.”
That particular battle won, he stalked away from her, knowing she would follow. Trusting it the same way he trusted each new breath would rise and fall, filling his lungs, giving him life. The same way she did. He could not deny it. All the darkness in him had vanished the moment his eyes had lit upon her form. She was there after all, and though he fully intended to reprimand her for not arriving safely using his appointed carriage, he could not deny the delight—the sense of rightness—bubbling forth within him.
Through the din of drunken revelers they went. He did not stop until he burst inside his office, throwing the door wide and stalking inside. When he spun on his heel, she was there as he knew she would be, her countenance hesitant. Her eyes searching his. She closed the door behind her.
Wise lady.
He stalked toward her, unable to resist.Bloody hell, but he was in a frenzy. He did not stop until she was within reach, though he did not touch her. “Where were you?”
Duncan did not intend for his question to reverberate like a demand, but it did, snapping and humming in the air around them. He waited for her answer. For her excuse, certain nothing would be sufficient.
“My brother escorted me to a ball,” she said solemnly. “At the behest of the man who wishes to make me his wife, it would seem. I had no choice but to attend.”
The need to commit violence rose inside him, stark and strong and undeniable. His hands clenched into fists at his side. The reminder that she was not his, and that she would one day soon become another man’s, killed him. It hit him in a vulnerable part of himself he had not even been aware existed. He closed his eyes, counting inwardly to ten, willing his anger and resentment to abate.
To twenty when it did not.
Then to thirty after that.
