Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

If she could incite passion—the kind she’d seen consume a man, like magic. Like fire. Like flame.

Her stomach flipped with the thought, with the fantasy that came with it. With the pleasure of it—something she’d never let herself imagine. A duke, desperate for her.

A match for the ages.

“If only I were flame,” she said to the canopy above. “That would solve everything.”

But it was impossible. And she imagined a different kind of flame, tearing through Mayfair, incinerating her future. That of her family.

She imagined the names.

Fibbing Felicity.

Falsehood Felicity.

“For God’s sake, Felicity,” she whispered.

She lay there in shame and panic for a long while, considering her future, until the air grew heavy, and she considered sleeping in her gown rather than summon a maid to help her out of it. But it was heavy and constricting, and the corset was already making it difficult to breathe.

With a groan, she sat up, lit the candle on the bedside table, and went to pull the cord to summon the maid.

Before she could reach it, however, a voice sounded from the darkness. “You shouldn’t tell lies, Felicity Faircloth.”

Chapter Five

Felicity leapt straight into the air with a little scream at the words, spinning to face the far side of the room, cloaked in darkness, where nothing looked out of place.

Lifting her candle high, she peered into the corners, the light finally touching a pair of perfectly polished black boots, stretched out, crossed at the ankle, the shining silver tip of a walking stick resting atop one toe.

It was him.

Here. In her bedchamber. As though it were perfectly normal.

Nothing about this evening was normal.

Her heart began to pound, harder than it had earlier in the evening, and Felicity backed away, toward the door. “I believe you have the wrong house, sir.”

The boots didn’t move. “I have the right house.”

She blinked. “You most certainly have the wrong room.”

“It’s the right room, as well.”

“This is my bedchamber.”

“I couldn’t very well knock on the door in the dead of night and ask to speak with you, could I? I’d scandalize the neighbors, and then where would that leave you?”

She refrained from pointing out that the neighbors were going to be scandalized in the morning anyway, when all of London knew she’d lied.

He heard the thought anyway. “Why did you lie?”

She ignored the question. “I don’t converse with strangers in my bedchamber.”

“But we aren’t strangers, love.” The silver tip of the walking stick tapped the toe of his boot in a slow, even rhythm.

Her lips twitched. “I have little time for people who lack consequence.”

Though he remained in the dark, she imagined she could hear his smile. “And tonight you showed it, didn’t you, Felicity Faircloth?”

“I am not the only one who lied.” She narrowed her gaze in the darkness. “You knew who I was.”

“You’re the only one whose lie is big enough to bring down this house.”

She scowled. “You have the better of me, sirrah. To what end? Fear?”

“No. I don’t wish to scare you.” The man’s voice was heavy like the darkness in which he was cloaked. Low, quiet, and somehow clearer than a gunshot.

Felicity’s heart thundered. “I think that is precisely what you wish to do.” That silver tip tapped again and she turned her irritated gaze to it. “I also think you should leave before I decide that instead of fear, I shall feel anger.”

Pause. Tap tap.

And then he moved, leaning forward into the circle of light, so she could see his long legs, tall black hat on one thigh. His hands were uncovered by gloves, and three silver rings glinted in the candlelight on the thumb, fore and ring fingers of the right one, beneath the black sleeves of his topcoat, which fit his arms and shoulders perfectly. The ring of light ended at his jaw, sharp and clean-shaven. She lifted her candle once more, and there he was.

She inhaled sharply, ridiculously remembering how she’d thought earlier that the Duke of Marwick was handsome.

Not anymore.

For surely, no man on earth should be as handsome as this one. He looked remarkably like his voice sounded. Like a low, liquid rumble. Like temptation. Like sin.

One side of his face remained in shadow, but the side she could see—he was magnificent. A long, lean face all sharp angles and shadowed hollows, dark, winged brows and full lips, eyes that glittered with knowledge that she’d wager he never shared, and a nose that would put the royals to shame, perfectly straight, as though it had been crafted with a sharp, sure blade.

His hair was dark and shorn close to his head, close enough to reveal the round dome of it. “Your head is perfect.”

He smirked. “I’ve always thought so.”

She dropped the candle, returning him to shadows. “I mean it’s a perfect shape. How do you get your hair shaved so close to the scalp?”

He hesitated before he answered. “A woman I trust.”

Her brows rose at the unexpected answer. “Does she know you are here?”

“She does not.”

“Well, as she takes a blade to your head regularly, you’d best be going before you upset her.”

A low rumble came at that, and her breath caught. Was it a laugh? “Not before you tell me why you lied.”

Felicity shook her head. “As I said, sir, I do not make a practice of conversing with strangers. Please leave. Out the way you came in.” She paused. “How did you come in?”

“You’ve a balcony, Juliet.”

“I’ve also a bedchamber on the third floor, not-Romeo.”

“And a sturdy trellis.” She heard the lazy amusement in his words.

“You climbed the trellis.”

“I did, as a matter of fact.”

She’d always imagined someone climbing that trellis. Just not a criminal come to—what was he here to do? “Then I assume the walking stick is not to aid in movement.”

“Not that kind of movement, no.”

“Is it a weapon?”

“Everything is a weapon if one is looking for one.”

“Excellent advice, as I seem to have an intruder.”

He tutted at the retort. “A friendly one.”

“Oh, yes,” she scoffed. “Friendly is the very first word I would use to describe you.”

“If I were going to kidnap you and carry you off to my lair, I would have done it by now.”

“You have a lair?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, but I’ve no intention of bringing you there. Not tonight.”

She would be lying if she said the additional qualifier was not exciting. “Ah, that will ensure I sleep well in the future,” she said.

He laughed, low and soft, like the light in the room. “Felicity Faircloth, you are not what I expected.”

“You say that as though it is a compliment.”

“It is.”

“Will it still be one when I hit you squarely in the head with this candlestick?”

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” he said.

Felicity didn’t like how well he seemed to understand her bravado was just that. “You seem terribly sure of yourself for someone who does not know me.”

“I know you, Felicity Faircloth. I knew you the moment I saw you on that balcony outside Marwick’s locked conservatory. The only thing I did not know was the color of that frock.”

She looked down at the dress, a season too old and the color of her cheeks. “It’s pink.”

“Not just pink,” he said, his voice dark with promise and something else that she did not like. “It’s the color of the Devon sky at dawn.”

She didn’t like the way the words filled her, as though she might someday see that sky and think of this man and this moment. As though he might

leave a mark she could not erase.

“Answer my question and I will leave.”

Why did you lie?

“I don’t remember it.”

“Yes, you do. Why did you lie to that collection of unfortunates?” The description was so ridiculous that she nearly laughed. Nearly. But he didn’t seem to find it amusing.

“They aren’t so unfortunate.”

“They’re pompous, spoiled aristocrats with their heads shoved so far up each others’ asses, they haven’t any idea that the world is quickly moving on and others will soon take their place.”

Her jaw dropped.