Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

She’d never seen such a thing before—could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Arthur or her father without a cravat.

She’d also never seen anything so thoroughly male in her life.

She was consumed by that triangle of skin.

After a too long pause, Felicity realized she was staring, and returned her attention to the woman, whose brows were high on her forehead with knowledge of precisely what Felicity had been doing. Unable to face the other woman’s curiosity, Felicity’s gaze flew back to Devil’s—this time to his face. Another mistake. She wondered if she’d ever get used to how handsome he was.

That said, she could certainly do without him looking at her as though she were an insect he’d discovered in his porridge.

He didn’t seem like the kind of man who ate porridge.

He narrowed his gaze on her, and she’d had quite enough of that. “What do you eat for breakfast?”

“What in—” He shook his head as though to clear it. “What?”

“It’s not porridge, is it?”

“Good God. No.”

“This is fascinating,” the woman said.

“Not to you, it isn’t,” he replied.

Felicity bristled at the sharp tone. “You shouldn’t speak to her that way.”

The other woman grinned at that. “I completely agree.”

Felicity turned. “I think I shall go.”

“You should not have come,” he said.

“Oi! You certainly shouldn’t speak to her that way,” the woman said.

Devil looked to the ceiling as though asking for patience.

Felicity moved to pass him.

“Wait.” He reached out to stop her. “How did you get here to begin with?”

She stopped. “You gave me your direction.”

“And you simply marched over here from Mayfair?”

“Why does it matter how I arrived?”

The question agitated him. “Because anything could have happened to you on the journey. You could have been set upon by thieves. Kidnapped and ransomed by any number of ruffians.”

Her heart began to pound. “Nefarious sorts?”

“Precisely,” he agreed.

She feigned innocence. “The kind who might sneak into a bedchamber unannounced?”

He stilled. Then scowled.

“Oooh!” The other woman clapped her hands. “I don’t know what that means but it is delicious. This is better than anything you could see on Drury Lane.”

“Shut up, Dahlia,” he said, all exasperation.

Dahlia. It seemed the right name for her. The kind of name that Felicity could never carry.

When Dahlia did not reply, he turned back to Felicity. “How did you get here?”

“I took a hack.”

He cursed. “And how did you get here? Into my rooms?”

She stilled, keenly aware of the pins threaded into her hair. She couldn’t tell him the truth. “They were unlocked.”

He narrowed his gaze on her; he knew it was a lie. “And how did you get into the building?”

She searched for an answer that might make sense—something other than the truth. Not finding one, she decided to simply ignore him. Moving to leave once more, she said, “I apologize. I did not expect you to be here with your . . .” She searched for the word. “Friend.”

“She’s not my friend.”

“Well, that’s not very kind,” Dahlia objected. “And to think, you were once my favorite.”

“I was never your favorite.”

“Hmm. Certainly not now.” She turned to Felicity. “I am his sister.”

Sister.

A powerful wave of something she did not wish to name shot through her at the word. She tilted her head. “Sister?”

The woman smiled, bold and broad and for a moment, Felicity almost saw a resemblance. “His one and only.”

“And thank God for that.”

Ignoring Devil’s snide remark, Dahlia approached Felicity. “You should come and see me.”

Before she could answer, Devil leapt in. “She doesn’t need to see you.”

One red brow arched. “Because she’s seeing you?”

“She’s not seeing me.”

The other woman turned to face her with a knowing smile. “I think I see.”

“I don’t see, if that helps,” Felicity said, feeling as though she ought to interject to end the strange conversation.

The other woman tapped her finger to her chin, considering Felicity for a long while. “You will, eventually.”

“No one is seeing anyone! Dahlia, get out!”

“So very rude,” Dahlia said, coming forward, hands extended toward Felicity. When she set her own in them, Dahlia pulled Felicity close and kissed one cheek and then the other, lingering on the final buss to whisper, “72 Shelton Street. Tell them Dahlia welcomes you.” She looked to her brother. “Shall I stay and play the chaperone?”

“Get out.”

His sister smirked. “Farewell, brother.” And then she was gone, as though the whole scenario were perfectly ordinary. Which of course it wasn’t, as it had started out with Felicity sneaking out her back garden without a chaperone, walking three-quarters of a mile, and hiring a hack to bring her here, to the dead center of Covent Garden, where she’d never been before and for good reason—or so she imagined.

Except now she was here in this mysterious place with this mysterious man, and mysterious women were whispering mysterious directions in her ear, and Felicity could not for the life of her think of a good reason not to be there. It was all terribly exciting.

“Don’t look like that,” he said as he closed the door behind his sister.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s exciting.”

“Why not? It is exciting.”

“Whatever she told you, forget it.”

Felicity laughed. “I don’t think that is going to happen.”

“What did she tell you?”

“It occurs that if she wished you to hear what she told me, she would have said it so you were able to do so.”

He pressed his lips together in a thin line, his scar going stark white. He did not like that answer. “You stay away from Dahlia.”

“Are you afraid she shall corrupt me?”

“No,” he said sharply. “I’m afraid you shall destroy her.”

Felicity’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”

He looked away, toward a sideboard where a crystal decanter sat, full of deep, amber liquid. Like a dog scenting the hunt, he went for it, pouring himself a glass and drinking deep before turning back to her.

“No, thank you,” she said tartly. “I don’t drink whatever it is that you did not offer me.”

He drank again. “Bourbon.”

“American bourbon?” He did not reply. “American bourbon is prohibitively expensive for you to be drinking it like water.”

He leveled her with a cool look before pouring a second glass and walking it to her, extending it with one long arm. When she reached for it, he pulled it back, dangling it out of reach, the silver ring on his thumb glinting in the light. “How did you get in?”

She hesitated. Then, “I don’t want the drink anyway.”

He shrugged his shoulders and poured her glass into his. “All right. You don’t wish to answer that. How about this one? Why are you here?”

“We have an appointment.”

“I was planning to come to you,” he said.

The idea of him climbing her trellis was not unwelcome, but she said, “I grew tired of waiting.”

He raised a brow at that. “I am not at your beck and call.”

She inhaled at the cool words, not liking the way they stung. Not liking him, much, if she were honest. “Well, if you did not expect me to come here, then perhaps you should not have left me a card with your direction.”