Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

More of the space revealed itself, and Hattie discovered she was in the most decadent room she’d ever seen. The walls were covered in rich paisley silk in blues and greens, and it was filled with a collection of extravagantly stuffed furniture, each piece larger and more welcoming than anything she’d ever experienced—a burgundy loveseat that was double the depth of any other in London, a cream-colored high winged chair with a cushion that she ached to sit upon. Rich, sapphire satin covered a chaise in the far corner, laden with pillows in myriad colors to rival the collection of a king.

More cushions were scattered before the fireplace, as though they’d been dropped there for comfort by someone whiling away the hours warming their toes.

The colors were outrageous—the hues of summer and autumn, their lushness rivaling only the lushness of the textiles themselves. Hattie’s fingers itched to explore, to touch every inch of the room and revel in its pure decadence.

If he’d noticed her response, he ignored it. Or, perhaps, he angled for more of it, moving from the mantelpiece, match in hand, to light a dozen more candles, their flickering light setting the fabrics to shimmer. And then he stepped up onto a raised stool, setting the flame to a dozen more candles in a stunning brass wall sconce that climbed the wall like a vine, planted by the gods.

She took a step toward him, the softness beneath her feet drawing her attention to the floor, where a half-dozen carpets were overlapped throughout the room in a manner in which someone who did not know Whit would have thought haphazard. Hattie didn’t imagine for a moment she knew Whit—not well, at least—but she knew without question that there was nothing haphazard about this room.

It was, without a doubt, his lair.

He’d told the truth about it. There were no plants, exotic or otherwise. But there were books everywhere.

They were piled on end tables and next to the loveseat; a stack teetered by the fireplace. In the corner nearest the door, a heavy credenza held at least twenty of them, piled like teacakes next to a decanter of scotch or bourbon or whatever the amber liquid within was. She drew closer, reaching for one of the haphazard stacks, letting her fingers trail over the spines. Margaret Cavendish’s Philosophical and Physical Opinions, Jane Austen’s Emma, a biography of Zenobia, a collection of work by Lucrezia Marinella, and something called Dell’Infinità d’Amore. A handsome copy of Christine de Pizan’s City of Ladies topped the stack, along with a pair of spectacles.

This was not a library. There was no extravagant woodwork. No shelving, nowhere to display a book. These books were for reading.

And this man—this was where he read. With spectacles.

In her whole life, Hattie had never imagined spectacles to be tempting. But there she was, resisting the urge to ask him to put them on.

It was the most revealing peek into another person’s life Hattie had ever experienced. Revealing and delicious and so thoroughly unexpected that she wanted to spend the next week investigating every nook and cranny, until she understood the man who’d filled them.

Except she had a suspicion she’d never fully understand him.

“This room,” she said. “It’s—”

Perfect.

He was already gone—disappeared into the chamber on the far side of this magnificent space. She couldn’t see him, but still, he pulled her to him as though she were on a string.

“Whit?” she called out as she stepped through into the room beyond, an odd shape, longer than it was wide, with three enormous circular windows along the far wall, each turned into a mirror by the moonless night beyond and the firelight within.

The one farthest to the left reflected a massive copper bathtub, half full of water, set to one side of the fireplace, and Hattie’s attention was instantly drawn to the enormous piece—larger than any bath she’d ever seen. Heat rose from the water inside, hinting that servants had been there mere minutes earlier.

Inside the hearth, two large kettles piped happily, as though they’d been waiting all day for their master to return—as though they would continue to do so until he bathed.

She inhaled sharply, desire thrumming through her, chased by nerves. She’d been so proud of her bravery earlier, but now, faced with the wild intimacy of his rooms and now his bath . . . she was growing less so. She willed herself strong and said, “Do you intend to bathe?”

He was at a basin beyond, unraveling the strip of linen from his left hand, and for a moment, Hattie was transfixed by the movement, a deft hand-over-hand motion that revealed strength and size and dexterity. “I do,” he said, as he repeated his actions with his right hand before leaning over the basin and washing his hands, scrubbing them with meticulous care.

She swallowed, her mouth dry. Tried for casual indifference. “Oh.” The squeak was neither casual, nor indifferent, and she’d never been so grateful to be staring at another person’s back. She cleared her throat. “That’s good. You are bleeding.”

Was she reminding herself or him?

He looked over his shoulder at her. Was that humor in his gaze? “Not anymore. You shall have to aim truer during our next battle.”

Her brows shot together. “I never intended to—” She stopped. If she’d thought for a moment that he’d be hurt, she never would have taken the knife from her pocket. “I thought I might have to protect myself.”

He stilled, and she wondered what he was thinking even as she knew he’d never speak it.

She forced a little laugh. “I didn’t expect that you would protect me.”

He looked at her then, over his shoulder, his amber eyes like fire, and she imagined him saying something magnificent. Like, I’ll always protect you.

Which was mad, of course. Hadn’t he just stolen her business? Turned them into rivals? She cleared her throat. “It should be cleaned and bandaged, nevertheless.”

He dried his hands on a length of cloth and moved away from the table, heading for the hot water in the hearth. “The attacker becomes the nurse.”

She swallowed at the words, the vision they wrought. The way they made her fingers itch to touch him. The way they set her on edge—making her feel thoroughly in over her head. When she had implemented the Year of Hattie, intending to follow a simple step-by-step plan to take her life in her own hands, she’d been prepared and polished, ready to claim the world.

No longer. He’d run riot over that plan.

Now he threatened to run riot over the rest of her, as well.

And what was worse . . . she found she wanted it.

“I shall do my best to make amends,” she said, the words quieter than she intended, the room muting them.

He heard, hesitating as he reached for the second kettle—the pause barely noticeable if one wasn’t watching carefully. But Hattie watched more carefully than she’d ever watched anything, so when he gave a little grunt that she might have once thought was dismissive, she heard something else. Something categorical.

Desire.

It wasn’t possible, was it? He hadn’t touched her tonight. They’d been in the carriage for an age. Alone, in the darkness. And she’d ached for him to touch her. Been ready to scream for him to kiss her.

And he’d done nothing of the sort.

But now . . . Hattie’s heart began to race. Impossibly, he wanted her.