He had donethe honorable thing.
Duncan stood on the periphery of the crush, watching men and women whirl and twirl. Throaty laughter rose above the din of the orchestra, which had just begun a sinful waltz. On any other evening, he would have been struck by the pageantry of it all, the notion that a lowly street urchin and duke’s bastard could create all that was before him from nothing. On any other evening, he would have felt like a king surveying his courtiers.
This evening, he raised a glass of champagne to his lips and drained it as he watched with a disinterested eye. Masked lords and ladies of the night surrounded him, bosoms on display, ripe and full and creamy, dampened skirts. Contraband whisky and the finest French champagne were being liberally served. The night would end with satisfaction for many.
But for Duncan, it would end as it had begun, with a hollow ache in his chest and the daunting fear he had made the greatest mistake of his life in allowing Lady Frederica to leave him. He had watched her from above, being handed into his carriage. Had pressed his palm to the cool pane of glass as the conveyance lumbered forward, disappearing into the London night. Had wished the smoothness of the glass was instead her hair, silken and luxurious, her face, soft and beautiful, her cunny, lush and wet.
He had not made a mistake, he reminded himself, hoping if he repeated it enough in his mind, he would believe it. Lady Frederica still maintained her virtue. She would go to her husband with an unburdened mind and a maidenhead intact.
He gritted his teeth, catching a servant bearing champagne and trading his empty glass for a full one and draining half its contents in one gulp. He needed to numb himself. To become mindless and uncaring. It was the only means by which he could fumble through the night.
“Duncan.”
The throaty voice at his side, uttering his name in a sultry tone, was as unwanted as the thoughts rampaging through him. He turned to find Lady Clifford. She was dark-haired and beautiful, a jewel-encrusted mask of ivory doing nothing to hinder the effect of her loveliness. Creamy complexion, rosebud lips, wide blue eyes, and a bosom a man could happily lose himself in.
Once, she had stirred him.
Now, he looked upon her and felt nothing. “My lady,” he acknowledged, his tone as stiff as his entire body felt.
She pursed her lips. “Do you dare to treat me as someone unfamiliar to you?”
He sent her a mocking smile. “Never. I am all too familiar with you, I daresay.”
Her nostrils flared, the only sign of her displeasure. She inhaled, the effort making her breasts rise higher above her tight bodice and indecent décolletage. “I have missed your cutting wit.”
Ah, but he was not flirting. He no longer had the capacity to be entertained by women of her sort. Something had changed inside him, and he could not help but to be disgusted with himself for ever allowing Lady Clifford to use him. He thought now of the things he had done to her, at her request, and he felt ill.
“I have not missed you at all,” he told her coldly, offering her a mocking bow. “If you will excuse me?”
He did not wait for her response before striding away. Thankfully, his gaze lit upon his friend Cris, the Duke of Whitley, with a flame-haired siren on his arm. Cris had been through hell, fighting against Boney in Spain, and he had returned to a mountain of responsibilities. It would seem his friend had found a distraction to make him happy, at least for the evening.
As he approached the masked pair, the strains of Cris’s conversation reached him.
“…wholeheartedly do not regret my decision.” His friend spotted him then and flashed Duncan a rare, welcoming smile. “There you are, old fellow.”
Cris’s lovely companion turned to face him, and even beneath her mask, Duncan could clearly discern she possessed a staggering beauty. He hoped to hell this was the governess Cris had been mooning over, and that his friend had finally won her affections.
“Miss Turnbow, Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, owner of this fine establishment,” Whitley introduced them.
Duncan bowed, and Miss Turnbow offered a well-practiced curtsy. He took her gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips, deciding to needle his friend. “A pleasure, Miss Turnbow, to make your acquaintance. Would you care to dance?”
Cris stepped forward, scowling. “I am afraid you are too late. I have already claimed this dance with Miss Turnbow.”
He muttered something else that sounded likeAnd every bloody other one.
Duncan grinned.Ah, yes, this would be the governess, and it would seem his friend was rather besotted.Good. “Perhaps the next dance, then.”
Cris’s gray gaze glittered with irritation behind his mask, his jaw clenching. “Haven’t you an unsuspecting patron in need of fleecing somewhere?”
His grin deepened, his improved mood untouched by Cris’s ire. He had never seen his friend so possessive of a woman before, and he could not quite temper his enjoyment.
“As a wise man recently said to me, if only everyone else thought you as droll as you find yourself, friend,” he said, repeating the words Cris had said to him not long ago. But all levity dissipated when his gaze traveled, as if by instinct, to a masked woman dressed in a diaphanous pink gown, dark hair styled artfully atop her head. His body reacted with a savagery he could not contain.Mine, it hummed. It simply could not be her. But then she turned and smiled at a masked gentleman, and recognition hit him like a fist to the gut. “What the devil isshedoing here?”
“She?” Cris asked, sounding concerned. “Is something amiss, Duncan?”
Duncan’s gaze remained fixed upon her, watching as she laughed. He was going to rip the man standing far too near to her limb from limb. Whoever the hell he was, his breaths on earth were numbered. “Nothing I cannot manage, Cris,” he forced himself to say, offering a bow. “Enjoy the evening, lovebirds.”
Without waiting for a response, he moved toward her, drawn as ever. Part of him wanted to kiss her senseless. Part of him wanted to throttle her. How had she managed to come to the club again tonight, and looking as she did, like a Venus risen from the sea?
