Page 11 of Lady Frederica and the Scot Who Would Not
“Defend yourself?” He gave her an incredulous look. “What the devil are you even doing here?” He growled the question more than asked it.
“There’s no need to be rude,” Freddy snapped.
“Rude?” He growled at her again.
“Yes, rude. Put me down.” Her newfound irritation with him pushed away any fear that had lingered.
He did as she asked at once, then glared down at her. “Didn’t I tell you not to return after last time you got yourself into trouble here?”
She set her hands on her hips and met his glare with one of her own. “You did. But lucky for me, I’m not obligated to listen to you. Your sister and I are helping women, and we have a deal.”
A groan came from Blythe, and it occurred to Freddy that she’d just revealed what they were doing. But he’d riled up her temper! She gave Blythe an apologetic look, to which Blythe simply shook her head.
“You,” Mr. Beckford said, pointing at Blythe, “have a great deal of explaining to do, and you will do it when I return. For now, I want you to go back to the club and see to Belle’s needs.”
“Do you always order people about like this?” Freddy demanded, incensed that he was bossing Blythe around.
“Yes, yes, he does,” Blythe responded, looking at her brother. “Where are you going while you send me back to the club?”
“I’ll be taking this one home,” he said, not even bothering to look at Freddy. He simply hitched his thumb back toward her.
“Mynameis Freddy.” She glared at his shoulder and tried not to snip, though she did feel rather like he needed a good bite in the arse. “In case you’ve forgotten.”
He swung around to face her so quickly she gasped. He didn’t say a word for a moment, but he didn’t need to. His anger heated the space between them. She might as well have been standing outside with her face turned up to the bright sun. His gaze practically burned her, and it took a great force of will not to look away.
“I know your name, Lady Frederica Darlington,” he said, his words rough. His voice had dropped low and seemed to rumble from somewhere deep in his very broad chest. “And I know where you live in Mayfair.”
Her eyes widened at that pronouncement, and then her mind, fueled by her lusty imagination, imagined him imagining her, until she recalled that she’d given his coachman her address the night she’d been accosted. Mr. Beckford must have overheard it. Drat, she was the biggest of fools.
“And I know,” he continued, leaning his body toward hers, consuming every last speck of space between them so that they were almost—yes, by God—almost close enough to brush noses, “you don’t belong here.”
That hurt more than she would ever let this arrogant man see. “I most certainly do!” she protested, and that incredulous look he’d given her moments before reappeared.
“You do not,” he said, each word clipped. “You belong in Mayfair in your redbrick townhome with its twenty-six windows facing the nice, clean, safe, peaceful street and its high brick wall to keep out the likes of me.”
“How do you know how many windows my parents’ townhome has?” she asked, feeling rather breathless.
“I make it my business to know such things, Lady Frederica.” He drew out her name so that it sounded as if he were chiding her. “That is why I belong here, and you don’t. Now come along.” He grasped her arm and tried to pull her toward the door, but she dug in her heels.
He could have easily moved her had he wished. She knew that from seeing the power he had unleashed on Marco without seeming to expend much energy in the doing. But he faced her once more, a strained look upon his handsome face. “Either you can accompany me out of this townhome willingly or I’ll carry you over my shoulder. The choice is yours.”
“I’ll leave because I have to return home,notbecause you are ordering me to do so. I will be back to Covent Garden,” she said. “I intend to live here.”
“You wouldn’t survive the night.” He turned on his heel and stormed out the door.
Freddy stood there a moment, staring at his broad back and watching his long, sturdy legs carry him away. Beside her, Blythe said, “We better follow. Gabe’s hot under the cravat.”
“He wasn’t wearing a cravat,” Freddy murmured. She blinked, surprised to realize she’d noticed such a thing about him and surprised by what else she could recall about Mr. Beckford. He had, in fact, been in his dress shirt, which was loose at his neck to show a patch of tanned skin. The shirt had been partially tucked, as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry.
Blythe clicked her tongue and hooked her arm through Freddy’s. “It’s an expression.”
Freddy could feel Blythe staring at her, so she turned to look at her and found Blythe’s gaze full of surprising concern. “Are you all right?” It was almost a whispered question, as if Blythe feared the answer.
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
Blythe’s gaze wandered downward so Freddy glanced down, remembering then that her dress had been rent open at the bodice and the tops of her breasts, scandalously near the edge of her underclothing, were exposed. She tugged the material together as her face heated yet again.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to this bargain,” Blythe said with a shake of her head. “Gabe’s right. You don’t belong here.”
