Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

She considered the words and what she knew of this strange, wicked man’s life—the kind where betrayal might live behind every corner. She nodded. “It does not matter, does it? None of the men I’ve danced with care for me; there’s no reason to believe the duke shall.”

“They seemed to care for you when they swarmed you to hold your fan for whatever reason.”

She reached for the item in question, spreading it out to show the names written on each of the pine sticks there. “Dance card. And they only care for me because they think I’m to be a—”

“You have an unclaimed dance.” He had the fan in hand, and she was tethered to him.

Her breath caught as he tugged on it, pulling her a step closer. “I—I thought I should save one for my fictional fiancé.” She paused. “Not so fictional if you read my father’s correspondence. How did you do it?”

“Magic,” he replied, the scar down the side of his face white in the shadows. “As I promised.” She started to press him for a better answer, but he continued, refusing to let her speak. “He shall claim that dance soon enough.”

Her attention lingered on the empty slat in the fan, the way it seemed to shout her falsehood to the world. For a single, wild moment, she wondered what it might be like if Devil claimed it. She wondered what might happen if he wrote his blasphemous name across it in black pencil.

What might happen if he stepped into the ballroom with her, took her into his arms, and danced her across the room. Of course, a man like Devil did not know how to dance like the aristocracy. He could only watch from the shadows.

The thought inspired her. “Wait. Have you been watching me all evening?”

“No.”

It was her turn to say, “Liar.”

He hesitated, and she would have given anything to see his face. “I had to be certain you wore the dress.”

“Of course I wore the dress,” she said. “It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. I wish I could wear it every day. Though I still do not understand how you were able to get it. Madame Hebert takes weeks to produce a design. Longer.”

“Hebert, like most businesswomen, is willing to work quickly for a premium.” He paused. “That, and she seems to like you.”

Felicity warmed at the words. “She made my wedding trousseau. Or, rather, all the clothes I brought with me to win myself a husband last summer.” She paused. “To lose myself one, I suppose.”

A beat, and then, “Well, without those, you would not have this gown. And that would be a proper crime.”

She blushed at the words—the most perfect thing anyone could have said. “Thank you.”

“The duke could not keep his eyes from you,” he replied.

Her jaw dropped and she looked over her shoulder. “He saw me?”

“He did.”

“And what now?”

“Now,” he said, “he comes for you.”

She swallowed at the promise in the words. At the vision they invoked, of a different man coming for her. No kind of duke. “How do you know?”

“Because he shan’t be able to resist with the way you look in that gown.”

Her heart pounded. “And how do I look?”

The question surprised her with its impropriety, and she nearly took it back. Might have, if he hadn’t replied. “Are you searching for compliments, my lady?”

She dipped her head at the soft question. “Perhaps.”

“You look just as you should, Felicity Faircloth—the fairest of them all.”

Her cheeks blazed. “Thank you.” For saying so. “For the gown.” She hesitated. “And . . . the other things.” He shifted in the darkness, and she was keenly aware of this secret spot—so close to all the world and somehow private for them alone. She didn’t know what one was to say after thanking a virtual stranger for undergarments. “My apologies. I’m sure we should not be discussing . . . those.”

“Never apologize for discussing those.” Another pause, and then he said, wicked and soft, “Are they pink?”

Her mouth dropped open. “I don’t think I should tell you that.”

He did not seem to care. “You like pink.”

She’d never been so grateful for the shadows in her life. “I do.”

“And so? Are they?”

“Yes.” She could barely hear the whispered word.

“Good.” The word came on a ragged growl, and she wondered if it was possible that he was as moved by the conversation as she was.

She wondered if he had thought of her wearing the clothes he’d sent half as much as she had thought of wearing them for him. Of him kissing her in them.

“Men seem to like the line,” she said, her satin-covered fingers running along the edge of the gown even as she knew she shouldn’t draw attention to it. Even as she wanted him to notice it. What did this man do to her? Magic. “My mother thought it was . . . unsuccessful.”

Immodest was the word the Marchioness of Bumble had used before insisting Felicity fetch a cloak immediately.

“Your mother is far too old and far too female to be able to judge the success or failure of that frock. How did you explain its arrival?”

“I lied,” she confessed, feeling as though it were a thing she should whisper. “I said it was a gift from my acquaintance Sesily. She’s quite scandalous.”

“Sesily Talbot?”

“You know her?” Of course he did. He was a red-blooded human male and Sesily was every man’s dream. Felicity did not like the thread of jealousy that coursed through her with the thoughts.

“The Singing Sparrow is two streets from my offices. It’s owned by an acquaintance of hers.”

“Oh.” Relief flared. He didn’t know Sesily. At least, not in the biblical sense.

Not that it mattered whom he knew biblically.

Felicity didn’t care.

Obviously. It had nothing to do with her.

“At any rate,” she said, “the dress is beautiful. And I’ve never felt so close to beautiful in my life as I do wearing it.” The confession was soft and honest, and easy because she spoke it to his silhouette.

“Shall I tell you something, Felicity Faircloth?” he said softly, taking a step toward her. The words wrapped around them, making Felicity ache. “Shall I give you a piece of advice that will help you lure your moth?”

Will it lure you?

She bit back the question. She did not want to lure him. The darkness was addling her brain. And whatever his answer was . . . that way lay danger. “I think I should go,” she said, turning away. “My mother . . .”

“Wait,” he said sharply. And then he touched her. His hand came to hers, and she would have given anything to have her golden glove disappear. Just once, just to feel his touch.

She turned back to him and he moved into the light, taking care that they were not able to be seen. She could see his face now, the strength of it, the slash of scar down his cheek, his amber gaze gone black in the darkness, searching hers before he raised his hand to her face, running a thumb along her jaw, across her cheek, his silver ring a cool counter to the warmth of his skin.

More, she wanted to say. Don’t stop.

He was so close, his eyes raking across her face, taking in all her flaws, discovering all her secrets. “You are beautiful, Felicity Faircloth,” he whispered, and she could feel the breath of the words on her lips.

The memory of their kiss on the streets of Covent Garden rioted through her, along with the aching frustration he’d left her with that night. The way she’d dreamed of him repeating it. He was so close—if she went up onto her toes, he might.

Before she could, he let her go, leaving her wanting it. Wanting him. “No,” she said, hot embarrassment flaring in the wake of the exclamation. She shouldn’t have said it. But didn’t he want to kiss her again?

Apparently not. He took a step back, the irritating man. “Your duke shall find you tonight, my lady.”

Frustration flared. “He is not my duke,” she

snapped. “In fact, I think he might be closer to yours.”

He watched her for a long moment before saying, softly, “You can win every one of them. Any one of them. The aristocratic moth of your choosing. And you chose your duke the moment you pronounced him yours. When he is drawn to you tonight, you shall begin to win him.”

And if I do not want him?

If I do not want any aristocratic moth?

If I want a moth who belongs nowhere near Mayfair?

She didn’t say the words, instead saying, “How shall I win him?”

He did not hesitate. “Just as you are.” It was nonsense. But he did not seem to care. “Good night, my lady.”

And then he was moving, returning to the shadows, where he belonged. She followed him to the top of the stone steps leading down to the gardens beyond the house. “Wait!” she called, searching for something to return him to her. “You promised to help! You promised magic, Devil.”

He turned back at the bottom of the steps, white teeth flashing in the shadows. “You have it already, my lady.”

“I don’t have magic. I have a beautiful gown. The rest of me is entirely the same. You’ve sent a hog to the milliner. It’s a lovely hat, but the pig remains.”

He chuckled in the darkness, and she was irritated that she couldn’t see the smile that came with the sound. He didn’t smile enough. “You’re not a hog, Felicity Faircloth.”

With that, he disappeared, and she went to the railing, setting her hands to the cool stone to watch the gardens, angry and frustrated and wondering what would happen if she followed him. Wanting to follow him. Knowing she couldn’t. That she had made her bed, and if she or her family had any chance of surviving it, she must lie in it. Behatted swine or not.

“Dammit, Devil,” she whispered into the darkness, unable to see him and still somehow knowing he was there. “How?”

“When he asks about you, tell him the truth.”