Page 15 of Lady Frederica and the Scot Who Would Not
“Freddy.” She gave him a pointed look.
“You are not a Freddy. You are a gentle-bred lady, not a woman born to the streets. That’s a Freddy.Youare a Frederica.”
“I’m a Freddy, no matter where I was born. Just ask anyone who knows me. You are not the first person to wish me otherwise.” She shrugged, but it seemed forced to him, as if it hid a world of hurt. “God simply made me different, and you’ll have to take it up with Him if you have a problem with that.”
He shoved a hand through his hair. She was going to be difficult. And incorrigible, and it ought not to make him want to grin, but damned if it did, so he scowled as hard as he could. “Lady Fr—”
“I must insist you call me Freddy.”
“No.” If he relented to seeing her as she wanted to be seen, she’d be in the bloody rookery every night, risking herself each time she came.
“You just kissed me senseless, but you won’t call me Freddy?”
She had a right to sound exasperated. The kiss was tragic in that he’d initiated it, and his gut told him it was going to be damned hard to forget it. What had he been thinking? Oh, wait, he hadn’t.
“The kiss was to help you forget,” he said. “Nothing more.”
“It certainly felt like more when your tongue traced my—”
“Enough.” Good Christ, the woman didn’t know the tether of control to which he was clinging. What he wanted—what hereallywanted—was to lay her back, toss up her skirts, and introduce her to real passion. That would not, could not, happen. “Listen, Lady Frederica, there can be no more trips for you to Covent Garden. You don’t belong there.” He hated the hurt look that crossed her face, and he hated that his words had caused it, but they needed to be said. She needed to understand for her own safety and for him to stay as he was—detached.
Her brows dipped together in obvious consternation. “You don’t know me or where I belong.”
“I know Covent Garden, and it’s dangerous.”
“Maybe I want to live a risky life.”
“Then you’re a fool. Be glad for the pampered life you were born into, and stay out of Covent Garden. No more SLAR missions.”
Her eyes widened at that.
“Oh yes,” he said, feeling smug, “I know the abbreviation for the little society you’re in. No more nighttime jaunts into my territory for SLAR, nor do I want you meeting my sister to aid women there. If those women need help, I’ll aid them.”
“You cannot be everywhere at once, Mr. Beckford.”
“Call me Gabe.” They had kissed each other senseless, after all.
“Oh, I think not.” She glared at him. “Gabe doesn’t fit you in my opinion.”
“Are you trying to be difficult?”
“Not at all.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Gabe is short for Gabriel, yes?”
“Yes.” Hearing his given name on her lips made him feel a twinge of unexpected longing. No one had called him Gabriel since his mother had died.
“Well, Mr. Beckford, Gabriel is the name of an archangel, and I think you and I both know you’re no angel.”
“That’s true, but you’re being snippy because I refused to call you Freddy.”
“Perhaps, but I won’t call you GabeorGabriel if you won’t call me Freddy.”
“Then call me Beckford.”
“Then you will at least call me Frederica and drop the ‘lady.’ I hardly fit that mold.”
He didn’t like that she sounded like someone had made her feel bad about that, but he clenched his teeth on commenting. It was not his concern. Instead, he gave a nod of agreement, to which she smiled, and that smile warmed a spot in his chest that he’d forgotten existed. He frowned.
“When shall I call you Beckford?” she asked in an overly sweet voice. “When I see you in Covent Garden?”
