Seeing her tonight—her midnight hair in such stark contrast to her porcelain skin, her lush lips, the elegance of her throat, those curves generously accentuated by her prim gown—had robbed him of breath. She was more beautiful than he remembered. But it wasn’t just her fairness of face and form that called to him. It was her. As he watched her slip into the chamber behind the duchess, his heart and his cock had sprung to life in unison.
She was his. And he would be damned before he allowed her to become shackled to the Earl of Willingham, a sadistic bastard he shared half his blood with and none of his proclivities. The earl did not like pleasurable pain. He liked to inflict violence. Duncan had heard the rumors, had spoken with women who had suffered his intolerable cruelty. The notion that Frederica would be subjected to the same as his wife—hell, the notion of her as anyone’s wife but his—filled him with a mad frenzy. A need to spill blood.
At last, the door opened, and the duchess emerged alone. She hastened to him, frowning. “Duncan, I will have your promise you will not upset, harm, or ruin her.”
He grinned at his friend’s wife. She was precisely the woman he would have picked for Cris, had he chosen, the perfect foil for him. “I cannot promise the first, though I most assuredly can the second, and the last has already occurred.”
“You understand what I am saying, you vexing man,” she warned. “I have done as you asked, playing my part in bringing her here so you may speak with her. But I expect you to behave with honor.”
His heart felt lighter than it had since the moment he had whispered his apology to Frederica before opening the door to her brother. “Always, Your Grace.”
At least as much honor as he possessed, but he wisely kept that afterthought to himself.
The duchess fixed him with a pointed glare. “Promise, Duncan.”
Cris approached them then, his arm sweeping about his wife’s waist as he drew her to his side. “He promises, my love. Now allow them their privacy. We have a ball to attend.”
Duncan met his friend’s gaze, and an understanding passed between them. “Thank you, Cris, Your Grace.”
“Jacinda,” the duchess corrected softly. “We wish you happy, Duncan. Your lady awaits you.”
Yes. She did.But there was one small flaw in the otherwise immaculate fabric of his plans; she was not yet his lady. A flaw which would be repaired soon, he hoped.
He bowed to them both and strode to the chamber, opening the latch and letting himself in quietly. Frederica stood by the hearth where a fire had been lit, holding up her skirts to inspect the damage.
“I think perhaps some boiled milk or a slice of lemon would do,” she said, spinning about to face him. Shock froze her for a beat as she took him in, her green eyes blazing into his with the heat of a thousand suns. “You.”
Not the welcome he would have hoped for, it was true.
Her beautiful voice fairly vibrated with emotion, anger, outrage, loathing.
He could not blame her. Duncan flicked the lock into place, ensuring there would be no interruptions, and moved toward her, helplessly drawn. “My lady.”
“What are you doing in here?” she demanded, gathering her ruined skirts in her hand and retreating, eyes wide. “You must go, Mr. Kirkwood. At any moment, Her Grace will return with her lady’s maid, and they will find it strange indeed if the door is locked.”
He stopped where he was, a good five paces between them, shaking his head slowly. “No one will be returning. Her Grace spilled her punch on your skirts for my benefit, I am afraid.”
Her brows snapped together. “How do you know the duchess?”
“Whitley is my good friend, and Her Grace took pity on me, offering me her assistance for this one instance only, and even then with great persuasion on my part,” he explained gently, his eyes devouring her. He realized it was only the second occasion upon which he had seen her in a gown. She was stunning. Little wonder Willingham wanted her for his own. The reminder sickened him, spurred him on. “Do not think poorly of Her Grace, I beg you. She would not aid me without my repeated promise you would be safe with me.”
“But we both know your word is good for nothing, and I would be safer with a pack of wild, slavering dogs than in your presence,” she snapped, her shoulders rigid, chin going high.
“You are safe with me, Frederica.” He dared to take another step, hungering to be near her. To breathe her in. To touch her.
Her eyes went even wider. “Do not come any closer to me, sirrah. I shall scream and bring the entire ball upon us.”
Her threat was moot, and they both knew it. “No one would hear. We are far enough away from the din, my lady.” He had made certain of it.
She skirted a chair and hid behind it, her delicate hands resting on the back. “What do you want, Mr. Kirkwood? What is the purpose of this meeting you have manipulated?”
Beelzebub’s blood, he loved her. She was so proud and fierce and glorious, taking her stand against him. He wanted to applaud her. To sink to his knees before her like a supplicant, beg her forgiveness. Kiss her hem. Pledge his loyalty to her forever.
“To see you,” he said honestly. “To speak with you. That is all I want.”
To make you mine. To marry you. To love you forever. To hope that one day you will love me in return. That you can forgive me for being a blind arse.
But he would not reveal all to her. Not just yet. Not until she was ready and the time was right. If indeed there ever proved such a time.
