“How dare you malign Lord Willingham?” the duke spat. “Your mother was a whore who spread her legs for half of London. You could have been anyone’s son.”
Duncan stalked toward him. “You will apologize for insulting my mother.”
“I don’t care if you call in all my debts, you insolent puppy,” the duke blustered. “I’ll not apologize for speaking truth. Nor will I claim you as mine. I have one son only. If you think I shall change my mind and acknowledge you, you are deadly wrong. I will lose everything I have first.”
He smiled without mirth. He had dreamt of this meeting, and he had always known how it would proceed. A man who had turned away a begging child would not become a saint as he aged.
“I want you to know one thing, Amberley.” He moved closer, crowding the old man with his larger, more muscled frame. “My mother was a good woman, forced by the ways of the world to earn her bread at the mercy of men like you. She died the same way, some fancy cove’s hands around her throat, squeezing the life from her. Her death is on your soul, and you will answer for it, one way or another.”
“Is that what this is about?” the duke’s lip curled into a sneer. “What would you have me do, Kirkwood? Kiss her tombstone to make amends? The world had one less whore on the day she died, and that is the truth. If she had lived, she would have made more like you—vile, greedy, insolent curs attempting to raise themselves from the gutter by any means. Name your price for my vowels, and you shall have it.”
“My price has just increased, I am afraid.” He tossed back the contents of his whisky and stalked away before he did something foolish, like slamming his fist into the duke’s face. “First, I demand an apology for the manner in which you spoke of my mother just now. Second, I demand Lord Willingham cry off his betrothal to Lady Frederica Isling.”
There was another price, but he would extract that directly from Willingham himself. With pleasure.
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “What else?”
“I want Willingham to cry off the betrothal today. Within the next hour.”The sooner the goddamn better.Every minute Frederica was promised to Willingham was like a blade in his gut. Waiting to make his move until Cris’s ball had nearly killed him, but he had known it was the best way to reach her. And he would gladly wait an eternity for the chance to call her his. “Carry out these requirements, and I will return all your vowels to you, unencumbered. Your debts will be canceled, and you will be saved from ruin.”
Amberley raised his glass to his lips at last, gulping the contents with practiced ease. “And if I do not?”
“I will call in all your debts immediately, of course. You will be beggared.” He smiled again, and this time it was with true elation, the unparalleled jauntiness of knowing he had bested his foe. “It may also interest you to know that I have recently acquired a press. One of my ladies here intends to write her memoirs, with a special section dedicated to the cruelty of one Lord W., and a great deal of details, all of which would prove quite shocking and damning to gentle society. I will be more than happy to publish this volume and see it distributed heavily throughout London.”
He had bought the press, it was true, but he had bought it for Frederica. A little bluffing never did a gambler wrong, however.
The duke paled.
It was all the proof Duncan needed that the elder man was aware of his other son’s proclivities. His gut tightened. To think Frederica would have been gifted to such a monster…it made him want to rage and rend.
“Will I need to take such drastic measures, Your Grace?” he prodded, for he needed his answer. And he needed it now. He had to have the promise Frederica would be freed. That she would be his.
“No,” spat the duke, flinging his empty glass to the carpet. It landed with a hollow thud but did not break. “I shall do as you demand, and I shall also see to it that Willingham does as well. But first, I will have your written acknowledgment of the exchange.”
Duncan strode to his desk and put his quill to foolscap, scratching out the agreement and signing his name with a flourish. Before it had even dried, he offered it to Amberley. “Yours, Your Grace.”
The duke took it in his gnarled fingers, but Duncan held firm. “Oh, dear me. There is one more stipulation I neglected to mention.” This one was for his own benefit, purely and simply. For his mother’s, too. “I require you to sink to your knees and kiss my shoes.”
“Never!” came the outraged bellow, almost instantly.
Duncan was not surprised. The desire to see the duke so humbled before him was strong. He made a motion as if to tear the paper. “Very well, Your Grace. If you wish—”
“No, damn you,” the duke bit out, cutting him off. “I will do it.”
Duncan nodded. “You may proceed.”
And as he watched, the Duke of Amberley lowered to his knees and kissed the tip of first his left, then his right shoe.That was for you, Mother.Unmoved, he watched as Amberley rose once more, slowly, grimacing, obviously in pain. His heart was unmoved, so, too, his pity.
Lady Frederica, however, is for me. All for me.
He relinquished the foolscap to the duke.
“Within the hour,” he repeated coolly as the man who had sired him—the man who would never acknowledge him—retreated from his office. Time had changed them both, and circumstances had been reversed. But in that moment, the only joy he could cling to was the realization that Frederica would soon be free.
Chapter Eighteen
The Earl ofWillingham handed Frederica into his curricle, seating himself beside her. The day had dawned cool and gray, a slight mist descending with occasional persistence. Not the sort of weather for a drive, it was true.
She settled her skirts into place, wishing herself anywhere but where she was. What a grim, unwanted situation. Had it been only yesterday that she had been back in Duncan’s arms, his mouth on hers, his body pinning her to the wall, his fingers working their magic upon her, bringing her to shuddering submission?
