“The duchess your supposed mama fell atop,” he elaborated, his jaw hardening and his tone deepening, resonating with anger. “Upon first reference, you called her the Duchess of Blackwater. Thereafter, you referred to her as the Duchess of Greywater. The same woman cannot be both, can she?”
Oh, how dreadful this is.The longer she remained, the more of herself she gave away. Mr. Kirkwood seemed taller in that moment. More menacing. Perhaps it was his steadfast devotion to colorlessness—his entire wardrobe was midnight black, even his cravat, and she noted for the first time the ring he wore, emblazoned with a skull.
She had never seen another man as compelling in his singular appearance—or as frightening. “I misspoke,” she forced herself to say. “Do forgive me the error. It is the Duchess of Blackwater, of course.”
Frederica could only hope he was not knowledgeable enough to recognize her blatant falsehood, for there was no extant Duchess of Blackwater. How could her simple foray into The Duke’s Bastard have gone so miserably astray? When she and her friend and fellow wallflower Lady Leonora Forsythe had first settled upon the notion of infiltrating the gaming hell in disguise, neither of them had bargained for the madness unfolding now.
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
Too smoothly.
His expression shifted, taking on a predatory harshness. He moved forward, crowding her with his tall, broad body. She forgot to breathe.
“Tell me something, will you not?” he asked before she could garner a response.
She had retreated half a dozen paces, and with the last, her back met plaster. Her shoulder grazed a painting, sending it listing to the left. Her heart thumped. Her palms were sweaty. Misgiving blossomed inside her like a triumphant summer rose.
“What is it you wish to know, sir?” she asked as his eyes burned into hers. There was nowhere else for her to go, and pinned beneath his gaze, there was nowhere else she wished to be, anyhow.
“Your name.”
How dull.She could not stave off the wave of disappointment crashing down upon her.Ninny!She scolded herself.What did you think? That he would ask for your hand in marriage when you are posing as a gentleman?
There was the reminder she needed.
She straightened her shoulders, her gaze never wavering from his. “I am the Marquess of Blanden.”
“Blanden?” he repeated the name she had given him—her brother’s courtesy title, of course—his countenance shifting once more. Turning pensive. “Your father is the Duke of Westlake?”
She did not flinch, for her response to this question, at least, was true. “Yes, he is.”
“Bloody sodding hell,” he said lowly, his eyes scouring her.
It was decidedly not the response she had anticipated.
Chapter Two
Her name wasLady Frederica Isling.
And he wanted to devour her.
She was not a gentleman,thank Christ. Nor was she the Marquess of Blanden—also thank Christ, for the Marquess of Blanden was as interesting as a twig. Though she certainly did resemble him, from her raven-wing hair peeping beneath her hat to her wide green cat’s eyes. Nay, unless Duncan was wrong, she was Blanden’s sister.
It was his business to know every facet of the lives of the quality. He knew their sires, their friends, their sisters, and their mistresses, knew their debts and their properties and gambling habits. Knew their bedchamber preferences, knew which men were drunkards and which never drank a drop.He almost knew to a man how many times a day they pissed.
Which was why he knew the Marquess of Blanden possessed one near spinster sister his sire was attempting to marry off. Which, in turn, meant her appearance in his club, dressed as a gentleman, in direct opposition to all decency and propriety, was providential.
Lady Frederica was everything he required. The final ingredient necessary for vengeance upon the Duke of Amberly, a man who shared his blood but not his name. His plot could unfold according to plan thanks to the inquisitive and brash nature of one small, determined female.
And here she stood, defiant yet wary, giving herself away. She smelled of violets. Her hips were full and delicious. How he had ever mistaken her for a man—even for a moment—baffled Duncan as he looked at her now. Little wonder he had been attracted to her arse first. She was curved in all the proper places, and just thinking about her was enough to make him go rigid. He longed to pleasure her until she lost herself and her starch both.
But he could not devour her, for she was an innocent, and he was a bad man. A man she ought not to know. A man who had uses for her she could not possibly fathom.
He reined himself in. Forced himself to meet her bright, inquisitive gaze. He could gain what he wanted without debauching her. Without ruining her. She worried her lush lower lip with her teeth, biting it for just a moment as her wide eyes scanned the chamber, seemingly for a means of escape. She was a dichotomy of purity and sin—pale, creamy skin, delicious femininity, light and darkness, her hair black as a starless, midnight sky. As he studied her, all his good intentions fled, as insubstantial as unsown seeds blown away and scattered in the wind.
He could leave her entirely innocent.
But he was not going to.
