Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

He raised a brow at her observation. “People like to keep things cold.”

“Of course,” she said. “However would they do that without—what is it they call you?—the Bareknuckle Bastards?”

He nodded.

“Why do they call you that?”

A memory flashed—his first night in London, after three and a half days without sleep—he, Whit, and Grace huddled together in a corner in the rookery, hungry and scared, with nothing but each other and the lesson their father had taught them—fight as dirty as you can. “When we arrived in the rookery, we were the best fighters they’d ever seen.”

She watched him from her seat. “How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

Her eyes went wide. “You were children.”

“Children learn to fight, Felicity.”

She thought for a moment, and he wondered if he was in for a soapboxing—a treatise on children’s rights and how he should have had a better childhood, as though he didn’t know all that already. He stiffened, preparing himself, but she didn’t give it. Instead, she said, “But they shouldn’t have to.”

God knew that was true.

She stood then, and his gaze went to her embroidery hoop. “Good God. Is that a fox mauling a hen?”

She tossed it to the bench. “I was angry.”

“I can see that.”

She stepped toward him. “So, you and Beast were young and you learned to fight.”

“We were young and we were already fighters,” he corrected her. “We fought for scraps on the streets for a few weeks before we were discovered by a man who ran a fight ring.” He paused. “The three of us owned it. And then we owned Covent Garden.”

“The three of you?”

“Beast, Dahlia, and me.”

“Dahlia fought?”

Devil smirked, the memory of Grace in her grimy dress and then in her first pair of beautiful, shiny boots—bought with her winnings. “She fought harder than the rest of us combined. Collected enough winnings to start her own business long before we started ours. We were Bareknuckle Babes in comparison. Dahlia . . . she was the original Bareknuckle Bastard.”

Felicity smiled. “I like her.”

He nodded. “You are not alone.”

“But now, you don’t fight with fists,” she said, her gaze lowering to where his bare hand held his cane sword. Her own hand moved, and he wondered if she might touch him. He wondered if he’d let her.

Of course he’d let her.

He tapped his stick twice against the toe of his boot. “No. Once you learn to use a steel, you don’t go back to flesh.” You did what you could to keep yourself safe. Your brother and sister. Your crew. And a blade was more powerful than a fist.

“But you do still fight.” Felicity was still staring at his knuckles, and he was growing more unsettled by the second.

He flexed his fingers. Cleared his throat. “Only when I need to. Beast is the one who likes the show.”

Her gaze flickered to his. “Did you fight the other night?”

He shook his head. “By the time we got there, the goods were gone.”

“But you would have.” She reached for him, and they were both transfixed as her fingers traced his knuckles, white under the tight grip he held on his cane, crisscrossed with scars and marks, badges earned in the rookery. “You would have put yourself in danger.”

Her touch was pretty poison, making him want to give her everything she wanted, everything he had. He should move. “I would have done what was necessary to keep mine safe.”

“How noble,” she whispered.

“No, Felicity Faircloth,” he said. “Don’t go painting me a prince. There’s nothing noble about me.”

Her beautiful brown eyes found his. “I think you’re wrong.”

Her thumb stroked back and forth over his knuckles, and it occurred to Devil that he’d never realized how sensitive the hand was. How powerful a touch there could be. He’d only ever felt pain in his knuckles and here she was, ruining him with pleasure, making him want to haul her into his arms and show her the same.

Except, he wasn’t supposed to want her.

He moved his hand from beneath her touch. “I came to tell you that you cannot summon me.”

Her rich brown gaze did not waver. “I cannot come to you, and I cannot summon you to me.”

“No,” he said. “There’s no need for either.”

She shook her head and spoke softly, her voice low and lush like a promise. “I disagree.”

“You can’t,” he said, as though it meant something.

It didn’t. In fact, it meant so little that she changed the subject, her gaze tracking over his face as though she were attempting to memorize him. “Do you know, I’ve never seen you in the sunlight?”

“What?”

“I’ve seen you in candlelight, and in the eerie glow of your ice hold, in the dead of night outside and in the evening starlight on a ballroom balcony. But I’ve never seen you in the sunlight. You’re very handsome.”

She was so close. Close enough that he could track her gaze as she explored his face, taking in all the faults and angles. Close enough that he could explore hers—perfection to his flaw. And somehow, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “It’s strange. All those times we’ve met in darkness, and I’ve only ever seen you in sunlight.”

Her breath caught, and it took all his energy not to touch her.

Which didn’t matter, as she reached up in that moment and touched him, her fingers like fire on his skin, coasting along his cheekbone and down to his jaw, where she traced the sharp angles of his face before finally reaching her goal—his scar. The tissue there was strange and sensitive, the nerves unable to distinguish pain from pleasure, and she seemed to know that, her touch remarkably gentle. “How did you get this?”

He did not move; he was too afraid that if he did, she might stop touching him. Too afraid, also, that she might touch him more. It was agony. He swallowed. “My brother.”

Her brow furrowed and her gaze flew to his. “Beast?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t know you had another brother.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me.”

She nodded. “That’s true,” she said, softly. “Is it wrong that I would like to learn them all?”

Christ. She was going to kill him. He took a step back, and the loss of her touch threatened the same. He looked away, desperate for something to say. Something that did not involve kissing her until neither of them remembered all the reasons they could not be together.

Reasons that were legion.

He cleared his throat, focusing on the strange shape of the bench behind her. “Why is this bench curved?”

For a long moment, she seemed too busy watching him to reply, her focus making him curse the daylight and wish there were shadows in which he could hide.

He should leave.

Except she answered him. “It’s a whispering bench,” she said. “The acoustics of it are designed so that if someone is whispering at this end, the person on the other end can hear them. It’s said to have been gifted to one of the ladies of the house by her gardener. They were . . .” She blushed, beautiful and honest, then cleared her throat. “They were lovers.”

That blush nearly killed him.

He considered the bench, then moved to the far end, leaning back, his thighs wide, draping one arm over the back of it, forcing himself to seem casual. “So if I sit here . . .”

She moved on cue, resuming her spot on the opposite end. She looked down at her lap. And then she spoke, the words in his ear as though she were next to him. As though she were touching him. “No one would ever know what we are to each other.”

It was rare that Devil was surprised, but the bench surprised him. Or perhaps Felicity’s words surprised him. Perhaps it was the idea that they might hold weight—that the two of them might be something to each other. He immediately looked to h

er, but she remained transfixed by her embroidery hoop.

“No one would ever know we were speaking,” he said.

She shook her head. “The perfect meeting place for spies.”

His lips twitched at that. “Do you notice a great deal of clandestine visits to your gardens?”

She was not so hesitant with her smile. “There’s been an uptick in the use of my rose trellis recently.” She looked to him and whispered, “One must be prepared for anything.”

He was transfixed by the shape of her—by the straightness of her spine and the rise and fall of her breasts, the softness of her jaw and the swell of her torso. She was Rubens’s Delilah, making him wish he were Samson, at her feet, draped over her sun-kissed skirts.

Willing to give her anything, even his power. “Do you know the story of Janus?”

She tilted her head. “The Roman god?”