“Duncan?”
His friend’s voice jolted him. He set the bottle down on his desk with a thump. His was a condition that could not be cured. No amount of whisky would right this wrong, though it may dull the insufferable ache. “I have made a grievous mistake.”
“I agree.” Cris raised a brow. “You ought to have called in Amberley’s debts already, but doing so before the wedding will cause an even greater stir, so perhaps all is not lost.”
Duncan frowned. “The wedding?”
“Have you not heard? Your beloved half brother Willingham is set to marry the Isling chit.”
Four words, and four words alone from the handful Whitley had uttered, sank into Duncan’s mind.
Willingham.
Marry.
Isling chit.
“Who?” he breathed, fire in his soul. Rancor in his heart. He must have misheard.Not her. Not her. Please, God, do not let it be her. Not her.
“Lady Frederica, I believe her name is.” Cris paused. “Christ, Duncan. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
He absorbed his friend’s words as he would a blow to the face. Or the gut. An act of war.By God, this was not meant to be the way of things.
He shook his head, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles stung. “Damn it, Cris. Are you certain?”
Westlake’s promise returned to him, echoing in his mind.Five thousand pounds, the notes, and my promise Frederica shan’t be forced into a marriage that is not of her choosing.Had the supercilious duke broken his word?
Then an uglier, even more insidious question rose. What if she was not being forced? What if she had chosen Willingham? Worse, what if she had done so to spite him?
“Perhaps the girl’s name is Lady Frances. Westlake has but one daughter. I cannot recall now her name for certain now, but it begins with anf,” Cris said, oblivious to the manner in which Duncan hung on his every word.
“It is Lady Frederica.” He shot to his feet, the chamber swirling about him and seeming to tilt. His gut lurched. Why in the hell had he consumed so much of the devil’s elixir? He planted his palms flat on the surface, attempting to regain his balance and keep the room from spinning. “I know her name with the same certainty I know my own.”
“Christ, Duncan. Shall I have Pretty fetch you a chamber pot in addition to the tray? You look fit to cast up your accounts.”
He closed his eyes, but that only made the dizziness worse, so he opened them again, taking a slow, deep breath. “I don’t need a chamber pot, Cris. But I do need your help. Badly.”
Cris nodded. “Of course, you shall have it, my friend. Anything you ask.”
Duncan dropped back into his chair and told his friend everything.
Chapter Sixteen
Because all Londonwas abuzz with talk of the Duke of Whitley’s recent nuptials, the Whitley ball was quite a crush. Frederica sat with Leonora in their customary seats on the periphery of the festivities. She focused on the revelers, hands clasped tightly in her lap, and tried to ignore the ever-growing knot of dread inside her. The knot that said she was running out of time.
A fortnight was all that remained. A mere fourteen days, and then she would become the Countess of Willingham as her father had wanted all along. Whenever she thought of the earl, bile rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. Thankfully, he had not had the opportunity to further press his unwanted, amorous attentions upon her, but her freedom from his punishing, wet mouth and forceful grip was soon at an end.
“You have not heard a word I have said, have you, Freddy?” Leonora asked, her soft voice shaking Frederica from her despondent musings.
“Forgive me.” She attempted a smile, but she had such little cause for levity in her life that even the act of turning the corners of her mouth up seemed too great a burden to bear. “I have much on my mind.”
“I am so sorry your father has forced your hand,” her friend said. “After all the efforts you went to…”
She had confessed everything to Leonora in the devastated aftermath of what had occurred. No one else knew the truth, save her family. No one else ever would.
Frederica winced. “Yes, after all the efforts.”
She did not like to speak of Duncan Kirkwood. Six weeks had passed since he had turned his back on her, and yet not a day passed when she did not think of him. When she did not wonder where he was, what he was doing. Who he was kissing. The notion of him with another woman was akin to a knife in her heart, a blade she could only hope would dull with time.
