Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

Whit grunted, and Grace turned to him. “What?”

“Devil’s mucked the whole thing up.”

Devil gritted his teeth. “I haven’t mucked it up. I’ve a plan.”

Grace looked to him. “What kind of plan?”

“Yeah, bruv.” Whit looked to him. “What kind of plan? We know you shan’t hurt the girl.”

He should thrash them both. “I’m getting her out of it.”

“Of the marriage?” Grace replied. When he didn’t reply, she added, “How? If he leaves her, she’s damaged. If she leaves him, she’s damaged. There is no scenario where the girl isn’t destroyed and you knew that going in.”

“She was damaged goods before he ever got near her,” Whit said.

Devil turned on his brother. “She was not.”

A pause. Then Grace said, “I heard the same. Something about being found in a bedchamber that was not her own?”

“How do you know that?”

Grace raised one red brow in his direction. “Need I remind you that I am the one with the network of decent spies? Shall I tell you what I’ve heard about you and Finished Felicity Faircloth?”

He ignored the taunt. “The point is, she’s not damaged. She’s—”

Perfect.

Well. He couldn’t say that.

“Oh, dear,” Grace said.

Whit removed his hat and rubbed a hand over his head. “You see?”

“See what?” Devil asked.

“You care for the girl.”

“I don’t.”

“Then throw her to the wolf. Get her to the edge of the altar and ruin her. Prove to Ewan that he’ll never marry as long as you live. Or, if he does, he’ll be as cheated of real heirs as his own father was. That you will eliminate the possibility of any heir he might find. Make good on your vow.”

He looked away from his sister. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she will be ruined in the balance. At my hands.”

“My girls on the ground tell me she’s ruined already, Devil. Half the Garden saw you kiss the girl on the night you told the world she was off-limits.”

He never should have touched her that night. Nor any of the nights since. But that wasn’t the kind of ruination he meant. Not the silly ruination that came with a clandestine kiss. A night of pleasure—stolen moments that meant nothing. For Devil’s plan to work, he would have had to have done it publicly. In front of all the world.

And Felicity would be exiled for it. She’d never be a jewel of the ton. She’d never return to a place of honor. Never be at the center of that world for which she longed.

Grace smirked at his lack of response. “Tell me again that you don’t care for the girl.”

“Fuck.” Of course he did. She was impossible not to care for. And he’d made a proper hash of it from the start, from the moment he saw her on the balcony. From the moment he veered from his plan to send his brother packing, and instead lingered with her . . . made promises to her he had no intention of keeping. Made promises he could not keep even if he wanted to.

“You’ve already thrown her to the wolves, Dev,” his sister said. “There’s only one way to save her.”

He turned on her, unable to keep the cold rage from his voice. “Ewan doesn’t get heirs. And he definitely doesn’t get them from Felicity Faircloth.”

She’s mine.

A red brow rose. “Not Ewan.”

His brow furrowed. “Who? Who do we know who is good enough for her?”

Grace smiled then, full and open and uncalculated. She looked to Whit. “Who, indeed.”

“Beast?” Devil thought he might lose his mind at the idea of his brother touching Felicity.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Whit growled. “You just might have the intelligence of a hedgehog. She means you, Dev. You marry the girl.”

For a heartbeat, emotion rioted through him, the force of it sending him back. Excitement and desire and something dangerously, impossibly close to hope.

Impossibly close, and impossible.

He closed out the emotions. “No.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t want me.” Lie.

Marwick isn’t my moth. You are.

“Do you want her?”

Yes. Of course. He couldn’t imagine how any man wouldn’t want her. His grasp tightened on the silver lion’s head in his palm.

Grace ignored the answer. “You could marry her. Save her from ruin.”

“It wouldn’t be saving her. It would be trading one ruin for another. What’s more ruinous for a highborn lady than life as a Mrs. in the Covent Garden muck? What sort of life would she have here?”

“Please,” Grace scoffed. “You’re rich as a king, Devil. You could buy her the western edge of Berkeley Square.”

“You could buy her the whole of Berkeley Square,” Whit added.

It wouldn’t be enough. He could buy her Mayfair. A box at every theater. Dinners with the most powerful men in London. Audiences with the king. He could clothe her in the most beautiful frocks Hebert could fashion. And she’d never be accepted by them. Never be welcomed back. Because she’d be married to a criminal. One with whom they happily consorted, but a criminal nonetheless. A bastard, raised in an orphanage and bred in the rookery.

If only he’d been the one to win the dukedom, it might be different. He shook his head, hating the thought—one he hadn’t had in two decades, since he was a boy, aching with hunger and desperate for sleep somewhere other than on the streets.

Behind them, footsteps clattered, fast and furious. A girl, no more than twelve, blond and reed-thin, stopped in front of Grace’s lieutenants. “One of mine,” Grace said, raising her voice and waving her forward. “Let her come.”

The girl approached, a square of paper in hand. Dipped a knee. “Miss Condry.”

Grace extended a hand to receive the message and opened it, her attention no longer on Devil.

Thank God. He’d already said enough to sound like a love-sick fool.

Perhaps it was an important enough message for her to stop asking him about Felicity.

She dug into her pocket, delivering a coin to the messenger, who was already turning for the darkness. “Off you go. Safely.” Grace returned her attention to him. “It occurs that the lady’s ruin should be her own decision, don’t you think?”

Perhaps it was not enough, and Grace would talk about Felicity forever, like perfect torture. “She’s already made the decision. She lied about marrying a duke to return herself to society. She chose Marwick, a duke she’d never met.”

I wanted to punish them, she’d told him. And I wanted them to want me back.

“I made a mistake bringing Felicity Faircloth into this battle.”

Whit grunted.

“God knows that’s true,” Grace agreed.

“I shall get her out of it, and save her future in the balance.”

Grace nodded, returning her attention to the slip of paper she’d been delivered. “I’m not so certain you’re in control of her future anymore.”

“I’m not so certain he’s ever been in control of it,” Whit said, bracing himself against the wind.

He scowled at them. “The two of you can go to hell.”

“Tell me.” Grace did not look up. “As part of your arrangement, did the lady ask to be schooled in the art of temptation?”

Devil stilled. How would Grace know that? “She did. Yes.”

His sister looked to him. “And you were unable to provide said instruction?”

“I instructed her fine.” Whit’s brows went up at that, and Devil had the distinct impression that the wheels were coming off the cart. “But it wasn’t about tempting just anyone. It was about tempting the untemptable. It was about tempting Ewan, for Christ’s sake. To get back into society. To rise to its full height. She wants her reputation restored, along with that of her family. Have you not been listening?”

“The girl doesn’t seem

to care a bit about her reputation, Devil,” Grace said. “I might go so far as to say she’s absolutely no interest whatsoever in what society thinks of her.”

“How would you know that?” he snapped. “You’ve met her one time.”

She brandished the note. “Because she’s at the club right now.”

He froze. “Which club?”

A perfectly arched red brow rose as she replied, all calm, “My club.”