One month later
Husband.
It was a new word for Frederica.
A beloved word. She wanted to say it over and over. Aloud. In her mind. She wanted to write it on foolscap a hundred times and then simply stare at it, absorbing the breathtaking beauty contained in seven simple letters.
“Will there be anything else this evening, my lady?” asked her new lady’s maid after giving a final stroke of her brush through Frederica’s unbound locks.
She looked at her reflection in the glass, scarcely recognizing herself. A cloud of dark hair rained down her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and vibrant, her skin pale in contrast to the robe she had chosen with her husband in mind. It was midnight-black silk, soft and wicked, just as he was.
“Mrs. Kirkwood, if you please,” she said with a smile. “And no thank you, Verity. That will be all.”
“Of course, Mrs. Kirkwood.” Verity curtseyed, and then hastily took her leave.
“Husband,” Frederica repeated to herself, her smile deepening.
At long last, Duncan was hers, and she was his. The wound on her arm, caused by the Earl of Willingham’s pistol, had almost entirely healed. Thankfully, in the melee which had ensued following her elbow to his midsection, his pistol had been sufficiently dislodged so that it had fired into the ceiling, merely glancing off the tender flesh of her upper arm in the process.
Two bullets—one belonging to Duncan and one belonging to Mr. Hazlitt—had found their mark in the earl. A shudder passed through her as she thought of that horrible day and all its terror and pain. In the end, the earl had found his absolution, dying on the floor of the tavern where he had spirited her, choking on his own life source.Penance, Duncan had told her calmly that day, and he had been right.He can never hurt another woman again now.
It was her only solace that day, along with knowing he could have hurt her far worse than he had. He had manhandled her, groped her, and torn her gown, and she thanked the Lord every day that Willingham had not forced himself upon her as he had intended. He had run out of time, thanks to Duncan’s swift arrival.
Not long afterward, she had learned the full truth from Duncan, that he had given up his revenge to wed her. Even after Willingham’s death, he had still returned the vowels to Amberley.I do not need revenge any longer, he had told her.You are all I need.
In the month following the tumult at the tavern, Duncan had convinced her father to allow them to marry. The scandal of Willingham’s death had created quite an outcry, and though Duncan had made every effort to keep her name from the scandal sheets, she remained the betrothed of a man who had died in salacious fashion, shot to death—as the story went—by his lover’s husband. Creating a new diversion—the love match between the gaming hell owner and the duke’s wallflower daughter—had proved a boon.
Suddenly, Frederica had found herself in the scandal sheets, depicted as a tiny maiden slung over the shoulder of an enormous beast of a man who carried dice in one hand and a bag of coins in the other. She did her best to ignore the intentionally hurtful caricatures. Some people relished being mean spirited and unkind, and ignoring them was the most effective ammunition against such miscreants.
If ever there was a time to push such trifles from her mind, it was tonight.
Her wedding night.
She awaited Duncan in her new bedchamber, an immense and luxuriously appointed room he had decorated with her in mind. From the elegant Aubusson to the exquisitely carved bookshelves and matching writing desk—complete with a plentiful supply of writing implements and foolscap—the chamber had taken her breath from the moment she had first crossed the threshold. Mother had given her hundreds of baubles and trinkets, but never had she received a gift that was so perfect for her. A knock sounded at the door adjoining her chamber to his.
Except for the man himself. He was the most perfect gift of all. The only one she would ever need for the rest of her days.
She smiled. “Enter.”
And there he stood, her husband. Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, notorious gaming hell owner, unrepentant sinner with a surprisingly gentle heart, and a thoroughly beautiful man. He, too, wore black, a banyan belted at the waist, and she drank in the sight of him, tall and lean and strong and hers.
Only hers.
Their eyes met from across the chamber, and a grin curved his lips, so wide his dimples appeared in a rare show. He made a full, elegant bow that should have seemed silly given his bare calves and feet peeping from beneath his robe. But Duncan could do anything, and with his singular, debonair grace, he never failed to make heat blossom inside her.
“My lady,” he said, still grinning as he ended his bow and strode over the handsome Aubusson to where she stood.
“Mrs. Kirkwood,” she corrected for the second time that evening, smiling back at him.
“Mrs. Kirkwood.” His large hands splayed on her waist, drawing her against him.
“I like the sound of that, Mr. Kirkwood.” Their betrothal—in spite of all the wagging of tongues it had produced—had been exceedingly proper. Her father had insisted upon it, and her mother had spent many a frustrating hour as an impediment to their time alone, detailing the spoils of her shopping expeditions in unwanted detail. Frederica had not even been alone with Duncan until today.
Twining her arms around his neck was a privilege she had been denied for far too long, and she did it now, her soft curves seeking out the unforgiving, masculine planes of his body. He radiated heat, his delicious scent of musk, amber, and lemon sending a trill of want to settle between her thighs.
“As do I, my angel.” Reverently, he settled his lips over hers.
He kissed her sweetly, coaxing her mouth open, his tongue dipping inside. He tasted of chocolate, sweet and bitter and exotic. And of Duncan, of everything her heart yearned for. His hand roamed from her waist to cup her face, and he withdrew, looking down at her, devouring her with his brilliant gaze.
