None better? Surely, he was jesting.
Frederica searched her brother’s countenance and his gaze both, and that was when she knew with heart-sinking certainty. Benedict was aware of Willingham’s penchant for cruelty. Nothing she had said surprised him in the least. But he would rather her marry a man who would deliver her physical harm than ruin her reputation with a man who had been born a plain mister.
She inhaled deeply, wishing she could not still smell the lingering scent of Duncan upon her, haunting her like a ghost she could not escape. “None better,” she repeated bitterly. “If that is what you truly believe, then heaven help you.”
“No.” Her brother’s jaw tensed, harsh and angular and angry. “Heaven help you, dear sister. For you shall need it after this night. I fear not even the intervention of a band of angels would aid you.”
She swallowed against a fresh rising tide of bile. It was not a band of angels she wanted as the carriage lumbered homeward, taking her to her fate. It was Duncan Kirkwood’s reassuring embrace. His lips on hers. His hands caressing her body. The worship and reverence in his expression.
His apology returned to her.
I am sorry, angel. So very sorry.
Yes, and so was she. So very, very sorry.
The carriage creaked on, carrying her to her fate.
*
Duncan called uponthe Duke of Westlake’s residence at three o’clock in the afternoon. He gave his card to a stone-faced butler and waited in the antechamber, his mind flitting to Frederica. Was she somewhere within the same edifice? And then he shook the unwanted question from his mind, for it did not matter whether or not she was. His ties to her would necessarily be severed after this visit to her darling Papa.
His body went cold, a fine sheen of perspiration breaking out on his brow. He told himself it had nothing to do with the notion of cutting her out of his life forever. He told himself he never again needed to see her midnight hair, her pink lips, her lush hips, the petals of her sex…
Bloody, brimming hellfire. Last night, she had given herself to him. He was not proud of his weakness where she was concerned, a vulnerability that seemed to overrule everything. He swallowed. After today, this whirlwind, tumultuous infatuation would be over.
Because today, he would betray her.
For his mother, he reminded himself sternly. And if all went according to plan, Frederica would never be hurt. Her innocence and her reputation would never be called into question. It was small comfort, but all he had to grasp.
Recalling the final sight of her pale, beautiful face, stricken and etched with naked hurt, made his fists clench at his sides and his jaw clamp down so hard his teeth ached. She had seemed so sad and alone, far from the daring minx who had infiltrated his club and kissed him with abandon.
At last, the butler returned, inviting Duncan to follow his lead. Down a hall, past two doors, stopping at the third. A fine thing it was, to be welcomed, albeit reluctantly, in the home of a duke. Whilst he was good friends with the Duke of Whitley, not even Cris had invited Duncan to sup at his table. The butler stood at the threshold, announcing Duncan as if he were the bearer of an august title rather than plain old Mr. Duncan Kirkwood.
He entered the spacious chamber. The door closed with a barely audible click.
Westlake stood, tall, gray-haired, and forbidding. He bore an aura of one who did not appreciate levity, his brows low over his eyes, mouth a thin, tight line of disapproval.
“Kirkwood.” He did not bow.
Duncan did, determined to exact his revenge in the most gentlemanly fashion possible. He had no doubt the duke expected him to be a crude, filthy-tongued scoundrel. And though he felt like the lowliest of creatures for the sins he was about to commit against Lady Frederica, he would not be cowed by her father.
His actions had been necessary, he reminded himself, both for the lady and for himself. He had provided the means by which she could avoid a hateful union, and she was the means by which he would finally have his retribution against the soulless bastard who had sired him.
With great effort, he kept his expression carefully composed. “Your Grace. I trust Lord Blanden alerted you of the necessity of this meeting,” he said with a coolness he did not feel.
“Indeed, my son has regretfully informed me of your egregious conduct.” His lips curled. “I ought to call you out, you ignorant puppy.”
He did not flinch, for he had prepared himself for any outcome, and there was not a word Westlake could utter or an action he could take that would surprise Duncan. “Then do so, Your Grace.”
“You know I shall not in an effort to salvage what I may of Lady Frederica’s reputation.” The duke’s tone was frigid, his disgust for Duncan palpable.
In that moment, he could not blame him, though he harbored a disgust all his own for a father who would force his daughter to wed any scoundrel with a title so he could be rid of her. But he had come for a purpose, and it was not to berate the Duke of Westlake. It was to get what he had wanted. To hold in his hand the power to lay Amberley low.
If he closed his eyes, he could still see the bruises on his mother’s throat, her dead eyes. Yes, he knew what he must do.
“I am prepared to ruin her.” He issued the threat with great difficulty.
Westlake’s expression pinched. “How much for your silence?”
