He hated himself for the hitch in her voice, almost undetectable. Caused by him.
“You will accomplish nothing with fists, Blanden.” He adopted a cool air he little felt, making himself recall what he truly wanted, more than anything. What he had almost lost sight of, so caught up in her. It was not Frederica’s soft skin or supple lips or the perfect way her body gripped and welcomed his. It was not anything he felt for her. Not stolen kisses or him on his knees, worshipping her as she deserved. It was none of those things.
It was avenging his mother.
The way she had looked that awful day returned to him: bruises on her neck, the broken, awkward splaying of her limbs. He would always wonder how painful her end had been. How many times had she been hurt before the last time? His mother had suffered to give him the best life she could afford, and how was he repaying her? By losing his head over the means by which he could at long last procure vengeance?
Nay. He could not grow weak now. Not with the promise of revenge in clear, beguiling sight.
“I will accomplish splitting open your smug face.” Frederica’s brother shook her off and stalked forward, nostrils flared, dark eyes almost obsidian. He resembled nothing so much as a bull on the rampage. “That will be enough.”
Lord Blanden did not seem the sort who would pull a blade or a pistol from his coat, but one could never be too certain. Duncan had once been shot by a man old enough to be his grandfather whilst at the green baize. He still bore the scar and the memory that anyone—regardless of how harmless he or she may seem—was a danger to him.
Either way, he was not afraid of the marquess and dodged the young lord with ease. “I do not recommend causing harm to my person in any fashion, my lord, as you will not like the consequences. As it is, I already have enough damning information to destroy your sister. I would hate to have to not only reveal everything I know but to beat you to within an inch of your life as well.”
The marquess roared, but Duncan’s words did have a staying effect upon him. As did Frederica, who rushed forward once more, placing a calming hand upon her brother’s arm. Mere minutes ago, Duncan had been the recipient of that calming touch, and she had stood by his side. Here was a visceral, brutal reminder of the changing of allegiance between them. In this war, he stood on one side, and she would necessarily stand on the other.
“I beg of you, Benedict, stop this madness,” she said with quiet persistence. “I alone am at fault for what has transpired here, and I will not have you suffering for my sins.”
“Do you not wish to know who the pretender is, my lord?” he forced himself to ask. “Are you not curious about the identity of the other Lord Blanden, the one who has been present here at my club, alone with me? The Lord Blanden I have personally escorted to the scarlet chamber?”
Frederica’s gaze swung back to Duncan, and he could not help but note the lone tear that had trickled down her cheek. The cheek he had kissed not long ago. “He is speaking of me, Benedict. I…I found some of your old coats, breeches, and shoes. I disguised myself as a gentleman and pretended to be you so I could gain entrance here.”
“Damn it, Frederica!” Blanden’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing in the chamber. “Why would you do such a witless thing?”
“I was conducting research forThe Silent Baron.” Her voice sounded small. Laden with regret.
Duncan hated himself more than he ever had.
“Father forbid you from writing that claptrap, Frederica.”
The marquess’s pronouncement, issued in such a snide, dismissive tone, had Duncan starting forward rethinking his intentions to avoid bloodying the whelp’s nose. “You will apologize to the lady, orIwill take great delight in splitting openyourface.”
Blanden’s eyes shot back to Duncan. “You dare to threaten me after you issue threats of ruining my sister and had her cloistered here in your chamber against her will? You have gall, Kirkwood. Do you truly think you can ruin the daughter to the Duke of Westlake without repercussions? One word from me, and every last one of your patrons would desert your black hide. Have no fear of that.”
Duncan was not frightened of the blustering of one arrogant lord. He took another step forward, challenging Blanden. He grinned. “On the contrary, my lord. One word from you, and everyone will know your sister has lost her innocence to me. Is that what you truly wish?”
Frederica rushed between them, her skirts rustling. The scent of violets assailed him.Hell, he could even taste her. She had been so responsive, all silken heat, all for him. He could have her a hundred thousand times and it would never be enough. But Lady Frederica Isling and his inconvenient, irrefutable attraction to her was not what this moment was about.
Rather, this moment was about vengeance.
It was about at long last delivering the death knell to the man whose indifference and cruelty had left Duncan and his mother to the miserable fate awaiting them, nary a backward glance. That was the thing about power and wealth, those who possessed it easily forgot how temporary it was, how quickly they could lose it. One card game. One poor investment. One night of wagers.
He had seen men gain and lose fortunes in hours.
No one knew better than Duncan just how much could be lost in the span of hours, minutes, seconds. Everything. Everything could be lost. He had lost his mother in much the same manner. Sent off for a bun, a pat on the head before he left. Returned to a corpse. Less than half-an-hour between his mother, rosy-cheeked with life and his mother, cold and dead on the floor.
“Please, Duncan, do not do whatever it is you are intent upon doing,” Frederica implored. Her gaze searched his.
Duncan ground his jaw. “He has yet to offer you his apology.”
“You cannot order me about, Kirkwood,” the marquess spat.
He opened and closed his fists, testing his knuckles. A great deal of time had passed since he had last engaged in boxing, but he would gladly do so again if it meant getting the apology Frederica deserved. “You will apologize for dismissing Lady Frederica’s novel, or I will bloody your nose.”
“Do not dare to tell me how to speak, you gutter-born mongrel.” The marquess snapped back, fearless.
The stupid sod ought to have known he had arrived at a duel where he would be outgunned and overpowered, left bleeding in the dirt. And yet, he continued on. Ignoring Frederica’s wild eyes and flailing hands, he grabbed Blanden’s cravat, giving it a threatening yank, uncaring she stood between them, a wide-eyed human wall attempting to keep her brother and her lover from decimating each other.
