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Chapter One
“Never accept a wager to kiss a rogue. There is the danger of winning.”—Duchess of Hartford, mistress of 48 Berkeley Square.
Dare accepted.
With those two defiant and rebellious words scrawled on a wagering board at a secret ladies’ club at 48 Berkeley Square, Miss Frederica Emelia Williams had tormented herself with thoughts of how and when she would kiss Percival Charles Deveraux, Marquess of Wolverton, for three wretched weeks. It was supposed to have been a lark between ladies who had imbibed too much whisky. It had felt naughty, and daring, and quite unlike herself, a lady who found most of her adventures between the pages of a good novel. Especially the gothic ones.
Frederica had secretly laughed at herself for throwing her hat in the ring. After all, the marquess was her guardian and almost thirteen years older than herself. She did not own any serious tendre for his lordship. It was a lark, a wager, a dare. A refrain she had repeated several times to herself when she lay in her bed at night, unable to stop thinking about him.
Days had turned into weeks, and she was no closer to coming up with a plan to allow her mouth to accidentally touch his. She could explain away a trip that landed her in his lap or fall where he caught her, and her lips just happened to be near his. Frederica believed she had convinced herself that she had pushed the wretched dare from her mind, and she had absolutely no improper feelings or thoughts toward the marquess.
It was utterly absurd that right at this moment, she was infuriatingly jealous of the woman locked in a passionate embrace with Lord Wolverton. The bottom had fallen out of Frederica’s stomach and in its space was an endless pit of swirling, uncomfortable sensations. The knowledge she wanted to be the one kissing him fanned the flames of Frederica’s anger and mortification.
At some point, the idea of kissing the man had moved from an amusing lark to an actual desire. Her guardian was singularly inappropriate to be the object of her attraction and impossible fantasies. The man was a known libertine about town who took women to his bed frequently, and rumors often mentioned the marquess did not own the intention of ever marrying. Worse, he treated Frederica with the lazy indulgence one did with a child.
The wretched man.
The lady in the hallway clung to him like a vine, and he broke the salacious kiss and chuckled. The low laugh was filled with such carnal promise Frederica wanted to stab him with something sharp. A clear indication her thoughts were muddled, for she was not given to any sort of violence. The marquess moved with slow, sensual intent, flushing the fashionably dressed lady’s body to his and arching her neck.
“What a shocking display,” Frederica said, injecting the right blend of humor and mockery into her tone as she sauntered down the lower steps of the staircase of the palatial townhouse.
The lady wrenched from his arms, a gloved hand coming up to cover her lips in affected dismay. Lord, she was beautiful with a perfectly svelte form and bright green eyes. And her pale green gown was simply scrumptious with its plunging decolletage and seeded pearls at the hem.
“Percy,” she cried, stepping slightly away from his body.
Shamelessly, she still clung to his arm, appearing ready to swoon. To Frederica’s mind, if her sensibilities were so delicate, she would not have been mauling/ravishing the marquess in the hallway. A servant could have come upon their lascivious display.
“Who is this?” she demanded pertly when the silence lingered.
“His Lordship has not told you of me?” Frederica murmured, dramatically pressing her hand over her chest. “Darling, won’t you introduce us?”
Outrage darkened the woman's eyes. “Darling?”
Lord Wolverton pierced Frederica with those impossibly beautiful obsidian eyes, lifting a brow at her endearment. His tall frame was of powerful, lithe elegance, and how handsome he appeared in his black trousers and jacket, accented by a dark silver waistcoat. She winked, and his lips tugged, but a full smile did not form. In truth, his expression became inscrutable, and nerves fluttered in her belly. She could feel every nuance of his stare as it skimmed across her features, no doubt wondering at her audacity. Frederica admitted she had been outrageous just now.
A strangely quizzical expression darkened his eyes. “I do believe I mentioned my ward lives with me, and I am also certain I spoke of her often-improper sense of humor.”
The lady sucked in a harsh breath. “This is little Freddie?”
Little Freddie? The woman in her was offended. “I am heartened to know I was not forgotten in conversation,” Frederica replied mildly, her heart jerking too fast.
His lady friend’s expression smoothed into a blank mask. “I thought Little Freddie, a child of perhaps twelve years, Wolverton, not this…not…a young lady,” she said frostily, ire sparking in her lovely eyes.
“Did you?” he asked, with no measure of concern.
In truth, he was barely civil, his insouciance a bit…intimidating. Even his guest seemed to think so, for she paused, looking uncertain for a moment. She rallied, lifted her chin. “Yes, I thought her a child. Won’t you introduce us,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.
With a hand pressed against the lady’s spine, he urged her forward. “Lady Bartlett, may I introduce to you Miss Frederica Williams, my ward.”
Freddie had not met the widowed countess, but she had heard of her; she was rumored to have been left with great wealth from her departed husband. The lady was ravishing and did not need a protector. Hence she was the marquess’s lover for their mutual benefit. Swallowing down the tight feeling bubbling in her throat, Frederica dipped into a respectful curtsy that would make the marquess proud. “Lady Bartlett, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The lady nodded her head regally and stared down her pointed nose as if she expected Frederica to scuttle away. Worse, her expression implied she found her lacking. Barely preventing herself from rolling her eyes, Frederica smiled politely and said, “If you will both excuse me, I was heading to the library for a book to read.”
The countess smiled tightly. “Yes, run along dear; the adults require privacy.”
Frederica swallowed her growl of ire, started to turn away, and the marquess’s voice arrested her.
“I will join you, Freddie. Countess, I will escort you to your carriage. I have some matters to discuss with my ward that cannot be delayed,” the marquess said.
