Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

“And all the others.”

“They were rich enough.”

Blood rushed through her ears. “I was to marry one of them.”

He nodded.

“And that marriage was to have filled the coffers.”

“That was the idea.”

They’d been using her for a year and a half. Making plans without her knowing. For a year and a half. She’d been a pawn in this game. She shook her head. “How could you not have told me the goal was marriage at any cost?”

“Because it wasn’t. I wouldn’t marry you to just anyone . . .”

She heard the hesitation at the end of the statement. “However?”

He sighed and waved a hand. “However.” She heard the unspoken words that followed. We needed the match.

No money. “What of the servants?”

He shook his head. “We’ve cut the staff everywhere but here.”

She shook her head and turned to her mother. “All those excuses—the myriad reasons we did not take to the country.”

“We did not wish to worry you,” her mother replied. “You were already so—”

Forlorn. Finished. Forgotten.

Felicity shook her head. “And the tenants?” The hardworking people who worked the land in the country. Who relied upon the title to provide. To protect.

“They keep what they make, now,” Arthur replied. “They trade for their own livestock. They mend their own homes.” Protected now, but not by the title to which the land was tethered.

No money. Nothing that would protect the land for future generations—for the tenants’ children. For Arthur’s young son and the second on the way. For her own future, if she did not marry.

We cannot afford another scandal.

Arthur’s words echoed through her again, unbidden. With new, literal meaning.

It was the nineteenth century, and bearing a title did not ensure the lifestyle it once did; there were impoverished aristocrats everywhere in London, and soon, the Faircloth family would be added to their ranks.

It was not Felicity’s fault, but, somehow, it felt entirely so. “And now, they shan’t have me.”

Arthur looked away, ashamed. “Now, they shan’t have you.”

“Because I lied.”

“What would possess you to tell such a stunning lie?” her mother called down, breathless with panic.

“I imagine the same thing that would possess you both to keep such a stunning secret,” Felicity said, frustration coursing through her. “Desperation.”

Anger. Loneliness. A desire to shape the future without thought of what might come next.

Her twin met her eyes, his gaze clear and honest. “It was a mistake.”

She lifted her chin, hot rage and terror flooding her. “Mine, as well.”

“I should have told you.”

“There are many things we both should have done.”

“I thought I could spare you—” he began, and Felicity held up a hand to stop his words.

“You thought you could spare you. You thought you could save yourself from having to tell your wife, whom you are supposed to love and cherish, the truth of your reality. You thought you could save yourself the embarrassment.”

“Not just embarrassment. Worry. I am her husband. I am to care for her. For them all.” A wife. A child. Another on the way.

A pang of sorrow thrummed through Felicity. A thread of empathy, tinged with her own disappointment. Her own fear. Her own guilt at behaving too rashly, at speaking too loudly, at making too much of a mistake.

In the silence that followed, Arthur added, “I should not have thought to use you.”

“No,” she said, angry enough not to let him off the hook. “You shouldn’t have.”

He gave another humorless laugh. “I suppose I’ve gotten what’s coming. After all, you’re not going to marry a rich duke. Or anyone rich for that matter. And you shouldn’t have to lower your expectations.”

Except now Felicity had told an enormous lie and ruined any chance of her expectations being met. And, in the balance, ruined any chance of her family’s future being secure. No one would have her now—not only was she stained by her past behavior, she had lied. Publicly. About marriage to a duke.

No man in his right mind would find that a forgivable offense.

Farewell, expectations.

“Expectations aren’t worth the thoughts wasted on them if we haven’t a roof over our heads.” The marchioness sighed, as though she could read Felicity’s thoughts from above. “Good heavens, Felicity, what would actually possess you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Mother,” Arthur interjected before Felicity could speak.

Arthur—always protecting her. Always trying to protect everyone, the idiot man.

“You’re right.” The marchioness sighed. “I suppose he’s disabused the entire ton of the notion at this point, and we are returned to our rightful place of scandal.”

“Likely so,” Felicity said, guilt and fury and frustration at confusing war in her gut. After all, as a female, she had a singular purpose at times like this . . . to marry for money and return honor and wealth to her family.

Except no one would marry her after tonight.

At least, no one in his right mind.

Arthur sensed her distaste for the direction of the conversation, and he set his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to press a chaste, fraternal kiss to her forehead. “We shall be fine,” he said, firmly. “I shall find another way.”

She nodded, ignoring the prick of tears threatening. Knowing that eighteen months had gone by, and the best solution Arthur had had was her marriage. “Go home to your wife.”

He swallowed at the words—at the reminder of his pretty, loving wife, who knew nothing of the mess into which they’d all landed. Lucky Prudence. When Arthur was able to find his voice, he whispered, “She can’t know.”

The fear in his words was palpable. Horrible.

What a mess they were in.

Felicity nodded. “The secret is ours.”

When the door closed behind him, Felicity lifted her skirts—skirts on a gown from last season, altered to accommodate changes in fashion rather than given away and replaced with something fresh. How had she not realized? She climbed the stairs, the dogs weaving back and forth in front of her.

When she reached the landing, she faced her mother. “Your dogs are trying to

kill me.”

The marchioness nodded, allowing the change of topic. “It’s possible. They’re very clever.”

Felicity forced a smile. “The best of your children.”

“Less trouble than all the rest,” her mother replied, leaning down and collecting one long, furry animal in her arms. “Was the duke very handsome?”

“I barely saw him in the crush, but it seemed so.” Without warning, Felicity found herself thinking of the other man. The one in the darkness. The one she only wished she’d seen. He’d seemed magical, like an invisible flame.

But if tonight had taught her anything, it was that magic was not real.

What was real was trouble.

“All we wanted was a proper match.” Her mother’s words cut into her thoughts.

Felicity’s lips twisted. “I know.”

“Was it as bad as it sounds?”

You didn’t escape us; we exited you.

Finished Felicity. Forgotten Felicity. Forlorn Felicity.

You are too late for the duke; I’ve already landed him.

Felicity nodded. “It was worse.”

She made her way through the dark hallways to her bedchamber. Entering the dimly lit room, she tossed her gloves and reticule on the small table just inside the door, closing it and pressing against it, finally releasing the breath she’d been holding since she’d dressed for the Marwick ball hours earlier.

She crossed to the bed in darkness, tossing herself back on the mattress. She stared at the canopy above for a long moment, replaying the horrifying events of the evening.

“What a disaster.”

For a fleeting moment, she imagined what she would do if she weren’t herself—too tall, too plain, too old and outspoken, a proper wallflower with no hope of wooing an eligible bachelor. She imagined sneaking from the house, returning to the scene of her devastating crime.

Winning a fortune for her family, and the wide world for herself.

Wanting more than she could have.

If she weren’t herself, she could do it. She could find the duke and woo him. She could bring him to his knees. If she were beautiful and witty and sparkling. If she were at the center and not the edge of the world. If she were inside the room, and not peering through the keyhole.