“Truly, my lord?” Mr. Kirkwood flashed her a grin that transformed his features from strikingly handsome to breathtaking.
It was an odd thing for a man to be so beautiful, but there was no other way to describe him. Gazing upon the full effect of him now, she could not seem to find her voice. Especially since his hot gaze had once more dipped to her breasts, as though he could see the fullness of them carefully hidden beneath the trappings of civility.
Frederica blinked.Oh dear.What had he asked of her? One gaze into the brilliant depths of his eyes—one perusal of his full, sensual lips—and her mind was as muddled as the pages of an unbound book that had been thrown aloft. Slowly drifting to earth, but no longer in the order it had once been.
No longer the same.
Thoroughly jumbled.
She had to leave. That was the answer to this madness, this impossible conundrum facing her. She spun on her heel, desperate to flee the chamber and run from Duncan Kirkwood, his club, and the improper sensations he elicited in her all at once.
A hand gripped her elbow. Superior strength stayed her and twirled her about. The quick, forceful motions took her by surprise. Frederica lost her balance and toppled forward.
Into Mr. Kirkwood’s chest.
Her splayed palms connected with his midnight superfine coat, absorbing the firm strength hidden beneath the layers of wool and linen. Her heart thudded. A queer sensation settled between her thighs. Frederica had never touched a gentleman so intimately before, and Mr. Kirkwood—well, he was surely not a gentleman. But he was of the male persuasion. And he was delightfully broad, large, and firm. Beneath her tentative hands, he was warm. He was…
“Are you feverish, my lord?” Mr. Kirkwood’s deep voice, sinfully amused, interrupted her wild musings.
“Perhaps I may have a touch of my mother’s ague.” She swallowed, the precise name she’d given for the illness disappearing from her mind, along with most other coherent thought.
Her hands, meanwhile, required no independent guidance. She was intrigued, and she could not help herself from indulging. She could not deny herself the details she sought.
This, too, was the reason why she had taken the great risk of infiltrating his club—for research purposes. How could she writeThe Silent Baronwith any degree of accuracy if she possessed no knowledge well from which to draw?
She could have guessed a man’s form was firmer than her own, for instance. But she could not have known how defined and hard his muscled torso felt beneath her questing fingers. She could not have experienced the steady beat of his heart, or inhaled his delicious masculine scent of lemon, musk, and amber. She could not have noticed the tiny flecks of green in his blue eyes, or the faint brackets alongside his full lips that suggested an inclination to smile and laugh often. She would not have noted the glint of candlelight in his golden locks, which were longer than fashion and tousled.
Her liberties were unprecedented and egregious, as was being alone with him in his office, nary a chaperon to be found. In his inner sanctum at the midst of a den of iniquity. Her hands, however, had a mind of their own, traveling beneath his cutaway to his waistcoat.
What was she thinking, mauling Duncan Kirkwood’schest? How shocking. The trouble of it was, now she had begun, she could not seem to stop. Surely it was her curiosity propelling her. Surely it was not that she…enjoyedthe illicit pleasure of stroking a strange gentleman’s chest. Specifically, of stroking the chest belonging to one of London’s most notorious men.
Nay.
He touched her forehead. Pressed the backs of his fingers to her skin for a brief moment, and the contact resonated in her core. “You do not feel feverish to me,” Mr. Kirkwood said then, interrupting the heavy silence that had fallen between them. “Do you, my lord, perchance possess a fondness for testing the quality of a man’s waistcoat with your hands?”
She swallowed again.Caught.How had she forgotten she was masquerading as a gentleman? She snatched her hands away from him at last, flushing. The sensation of his lean abdomen seemed imprinted upon her palms.
“No.” She blinked. “Er, yes.”
His lips quirked into a smile she could only describe as swoon-inducing. “Which is it, my lord? Yes or no?”
Neither.Frederica calculated the odds of successfully fleeing the chamber once more. Perhaps if she distracted him first, or if she was somehow able to douse the flames of the wall sconces, she could detain him long enough to make good her retreat. Or better yet, perhaps she could convince him she was ill.
“Forgive me my familiarity,” she said, taking care to keep her voice as gruff as possible. “I seem to have lost my balance. No doubt I have contracted the ague as well. For my dear mother, it began with her falling into things—just the furniture at first, mind you. Chairs. ALouis Quatorzetable. Then one day, she fell atop the Duchess of Blackwater during an at home, and it was the beginning of the end. The duchess gave my mother the cut direct after that occasion. Indeed, I fear it will not be long now before death claims me as well. I ought not to be near you, sir, lest the ague be catching.”
If Mr. Kirkwood did not allow her to leave after this embellishment, she knew not what would sway him.
His gaze seemed to burn into her. “This duchess…was she a friend of your mother’s?”
“The Duchess of Greywater,” she clarified, nodding. “Yes, of course. She and my mother were dear friends. No longer, I am afraid, and it is just as well, truly, for my mother could have infected her with the ague otherwise. I really ought to be on my way, sir. Not only does my mother require me, but I could make you ill. I would never wish for the ague to settle its curse upon you.”
“Greywater or Blackwater?” he snapped.
Frederica did not follow him for a moment. Perhaps because she had been rather preoccupied by watching his mouth. His lips were so firm and supple, the loveliest shade she had ever seen on a gentleman, dusky pink, full and so well-defined. Too pretty, almost, for a man’s mouth. The effect was startling and breathtaking all at once.
“I am afraid I do not understand, sir.”
And she didn’t. It was as if he spoke in riddles.
