He did not hesitate, for he had envisioned this confrontation, too. Had practiced what he would say, had known what he would ask for. He was a gambler at heart, and he excelled at bluffing. “Ten thousand pounds and the Duke of Amberley’s debts.”
“You are mad,” Westlake snapped. “That is a fortune and you know it, Kirkwood.”
Indeed, it was, which was why it was also his initial offer. He remained calm, raising a brow. “One would think a father would pay a fortune to maintain his daughter’s reputation.”
“A fortune hunter would think so.” Westlake pinned him with an assessing green stare, and though his eyes were the same deep hue as Frederica’s, they were cold and hard. “Is that not what you are, Kirkwood? A duke’s bastard who has somehow wagered his way into fleecing the finer portion of London?”
“I am a man who has forged his own path in the world,” he said calmly, though inside he seethed. He was accustomed to lords looking down their supercilious noses at him. More than accustomed to men who believed in their superiority by the mere virtue of their birth and no other reason. But that did not mean he accepted it or tolerated it well.
“How many other peers’ daughters have you ruined, Kirkwood, in your quest for revenge?” Westlake dared to ask.
Duncan’s fists clenched, but he took great care to keep his face devoid of any emotion. “None, Your Grace. But then, no other daughters have repeatedly forced their way into my club, dressed as gentlemen, without the knowledge of their families.”
He could not resist the last jibe, though after it left his lips, he instantly regretted it, for it would likely only make her father even angrier with Frederica than he already was. Duncan cursed himself for his rashness, his quick temper, his fool tongue. The last thing he wished to do was cause her any hurt or any more trouble.
“You could have turned her away, Kirkwood,” Westlake pointed out, his tone biting. “There was no need for you to ruin her save to gain what you wished.”
The duke was correct in his assertion, but he was also wrong. Yes, Duncan could have turned her way. But from the moment he had first seen her, his need for her, his raw, base want had been inevitable and undeniable. However, she had fast become far more to him than the sum of her loveliness and her luscious body’s ability to bring him pleasure. Far more than her ability to bring him, quite literally, to his knees.
Could he have gained his revenge, the possession of Amberley’s vowels, without ruining Frederica? It was entirely possible. Duncan had been prepared to pay handsomely. He had intended to use the possibility of her ruination as a means of bargaining rather than her actual deflowering. He could take no pride in what he had done. She created a weakness in him, the likes of which he had never known.
He stared down Frederica’s father, wishing he could impart what he saw in Frederica. Wishing he could make the man see how vital, rare, and wonderful his daughter was. How she possessed a light that should not be doused.
In the end, he could not say anything he wished, for it would do him no favors in garnering what he wanted. Nor would it benefit Frederica in her efforts to obtain her freedom. But perhaps there was something he could do.
“Seven thousand pounds, Amberley’s notes, and your promise that Lady Frederica will not be forced into a marriage that is not of her choosing,” he said suddenly.
“I propose instead your silence in exchange for mine,” the duke returned bitterly. “You will not speak a word concerning Lady Frederica’s lapse of judgment, and in return, I will not let it be known that you are a despoiler of innocents, a villain whose club ought to be avoided at all costs.”
Ah,there it was. The threat Duncan had anticipated. “I am afraid such a bargain has nothing to offer me.” He strode toward the duke with a mocking air calculated to goad, hands behind his back. “Six thousand pounds, Amberley’s debts, and your promise concerning Lady Frederica. That is my final offer.”
“Damn you, Kirkwood.” Westlake slammed his fists on his desk and unlocked a drawer, extracting a tidy pile of vowels. “Amberley is my friend.”
“My sympathy, Your Grace,” he said, forcing himself to remain cold and unshakeable. “My final offer stands. Accept it, or I shall leave here and wag my tongue all over town. By this afternoon, all London will know that your darling daughter was bedded by the lowly bastard you sneer at now.”
“Very well,” Westlake said, capitulating, just as Duncan had suspected he would. “Five thousand pounds, the notes, and my promise Frederica shan’t be forced into a marriage that is not of her choosing. Are you happy now, Kirkwood? Was ruining an innocent girl worth it?”
He met the duke’s gaze, unflinchingly. “No. It decidedly was not.”
Duncan left with all Amberley’s debts in his hands, five thousand pounds richer, and assured of Frederica’s freedom. He left assured of his vengeance, and it was everything he had ever wanted, the culmination of all the hatred and fury burning in his belly from the time he had been but a lad standing over his dead mother.
But the victory was not a cause for celebration, for he had betrayed Lady Frederica by mere virtue of his visit, and he knew it.Beelzebub, he felt sick. Not just in his guts but somewhere deeper. In his chest. In his heart. This was not right. Ruining Frederica was wrong. Hades was not meant to leave Persephone behind. He was meant to take her with him, back to his underworld. Duncan could not resist one final glance at the Mayfair residence of the Duke of Westlake as he left, and as he did, he saw her pale face in a window, watching.
Every instinct inside him screamed to go back inside, to demand Frederica in addition to the vowels tucked inside his coat. But he knew he could not. He was not selfish as Hades had been. He would not consign her to his fate. She deserved better than a man who would use her for his own gain. She deserved better than a duke’s bastard, a gaming hell owner who daily tread the line between heaven and hell, a man who was more darkness than light.
And so, he turned his back to her, stalked to his brougham, and stepped inside. As it lumbered onto the street, he refused to allow himself to look back a final time. She was gone from his life forever, as she must be.
The documents he had traded for her innocence burned his chest like a brand. For the entirety of the ride to The Duke’s Bastard, he choked down the bile rising in his throat. When he reached his club, he stalked past Hazlitt and a host of others, speaking to no one. Not a damned word.
He went to his chamber, the chamber where he had taken her, where he could still smell violets and the musky perfume of their lovemaking from the night before. With not a moment to spare, he found the chamber pot, dropped to his knees, and retched.
Chapter Fifteen
Frederica stepped overthe threshold of her father’s study, back straight, bearing stiff, prepared to accept her fate. A week had passed since the night she had attended the masque at The Duke’s Bastard. A week of forced isolation, during which she had not been permitted to leave her chamber. Her writing implements had been taken, as had the pages of her manuscript.
Mother had visited her once, armed with the spoils of her most recent shopping expedition: a dozen new fans. And she had come with an admonishment as well.You ought not to have made such a grievous mistake, Frederica. His Grace is settling your future now as he must.
Though she had begged her for more information, Mother had offered her nothing. She had, however, left Frederica the gift of a fan fashioned of bone and silk, embroidered with roses and embellished with spangles. As if the fan would cure her broken heart or soothe the worry gnawing away at her. She would have far preferred her mother’s love and reassurance, perhaps some intervention on her behalf, to the fan.
