Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

“But you, Felicity Faircloth.” He tapped his stick on his boot twice. “No one is taking your place. And so I will ask again. Why did you lie to them?”

Whether it was the shock of his description or his matter-of-fact way of doing the describing, Felicity replied, “No one wishes my place.” He did not speak, and so she filled the silence. “By which I mean to say . . . my place is nothing. It’s nowhere. It was once with them, but then . . .” She trailed off. Shrugged. “I am invisible.” And then, because she couldn’t stop herself, she added, softly, “I wanted to punish them. And I wanted them to want me back.”

She hated the truth in the words. Shouldn’t she be strong enough to turn her back on them? Shouldn’t she care less? She hated the weakness he’d exposed.

And she hated him for exposing it.

She waited for him to reply from the darkness, strangely reminded of the time she’d visited the Royal Entomological Society and seen an enormous butterfly trapped in amber. Beautiful and delicate and perfectly preserved, but frozen in time, forever.

This man would not capture her. Not today. “I think I shall call a servant to come and take you away. You should know my father is a marquess, and it is quite illegal to enter a home of the aristocracy without permission.”

“It’s quite illegal to enter anyone’s home without permission, Felicity Faircloth, but would you like me to tell you I am duly impressed by your father’s title, and your brother’s, too?”

“Why should I be the only one who lies tonight?”

A pause, then, “So you admit it.”

“I might as well—all of London will know it tomorrow. Flighty Felicity with her fanciful fiancé.”

The alliteration did not amuse him. “You know, your father’s title is ridiculous. Your brother’s, too.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, for lack of anything else.

“Bumble and Grout. Good Lord. When poverty at long last ensnares them, they can always become apothecaries. Selling tinctures and tonics to the desperate in Lambeth.”

He knew they were impoverished. Did all of London? Was she the last to discover it? The last to be told, even by the family that intended to use her to reverse it? Irritation flared at the thought.

The man continued. “And you, Felicity Faircloth, with a name that should be in a storybook.”

She cut him a look. “I did so wonder about your opinion of our respective names.”

He ignored her set-down. “A storybook princess, locked in a tower, desperate to be a part of the world that trapped her there . . . to be accepted by it.”

Everything about this man was unsettling and strange and vaguely infuriating. “I don’t like you.”

“No, you don’t like the truth, my little liar. You don’t like that I see that your silly wish is false friendship from a collection of poncy, perfumed aristocrats who cannot see what you really are.”

She should be a dozen kinds of out-of-sorts with him so close and in the darkness. And yet . . . “And what is that?”

“Better than those six by half.”

The answer sent a little thrill through her, and she almost allowed herself to be drawn in by this man who she might be convinced was made of magic with more champagne. Instead, she shook her head and put on her best disdain. “If only I were that princess, sirrah—then you would not be here.” She moved to the wall, ready to pull the cord again.

“Isn’t that the bit everyone likes? The bit where the princess is rescued from the tower?”

She looked over her shoulder. “That’s supposed to be a prince doing the rescuing. Not . . . whatever you are.” She reached for the cord.

He spoke before she could pull. “Who is the moth?”

She whirled back to him, embarrassment flaring. “What?”

“You wished to be a flame, princess. Who is the moth?”

Her cheeks blazed. She hadn’t said anything about moths. How did he even know what she had meant? “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

“I shouldn’t be sitting in your dark bedchamber, either, love, but here I am.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I take it you are not the kind of man who pays attention to rules.”

“Have you known me to follow any of them in our lengthy acquaintance?”

Irritation flared. “Who are you? Why were you skulking about outside Marwick House like some nefarious . . . skulker?”

He remained unroused. “A skulking skulker, am I?”

This man, like all of London, seemed to know more than she did. He understood the battleground, had the skill to wage war. And she loathed it. She sent him her most withering look.

It had no effect. “Once more, love. If you are the flame, who is the moth?”

“Certainly not you, sir.”

“That’s a pity.”

She didn’t like the insolence in those words, either. “I feel quite satisfied with the decision.”

He gave a little laugh, a low rumble that did odd things to her. “Shall I tell you what I think?”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she snapped.

“I think your moth is very difficult to lure.” She pursed her lips but did not speak. “And I know I can get him for you.” Her breath caught as he pressed on. “The one whose wings you’ve already bragged to half of London about singeing.”

Felicity was grateful for the dimly lit room, so he couldn’t see her red face. Or her shock. Or her excitement. Was this man, who had somehow found his way into her bedchamber in the dead of night, actually suggesting she had neither ruined her life nor her family’s chances for survival?

Hope was a wild, panicked thing.

“Could you get him?”

He laughed then. Low and dark and barely humorous, sending an unwelcome thrill through her. “Like a kitten to the saucer.”

She scowled. “You should not tease.”

“When I tease you, love, you shall know it.” He leaned back again, stretching his legs out, tapping that infernal stick against his boot. “The Duke of Marwick could be yours, Felicity Faircloth. And with London never knowing the truth of your lie.”

Her breath grew shallow. “That’s impossible.” And still, she believed him, somehow.

“Is anything truly impossible?”

She forced a laugh. “Besides an eligible duke choosing me over every other woman in Britain?”

Tap tap. Tap tap. “Even that is possible, old, plain, opinionated, tossed-over Felicity Faircloth. This is the bit in the storybook where the princess receives everything she’s ever wished for.”

Except it wasn’t a storybook. And this man couldn’t give her what she wished for. “That bit typically begins with a fairy of some sort. And you do not seem at all spritely.”

A low rumble of a laugh. “There, you are right. But there are creatures other than fairies who dabble in similar trade.”

Her heart resumed its pounding, and she hated the wild hope there, that this strange man in the darkness could deliver on his impossible promise.

It was madness, but she advanced upon him, bringing him into the light once more, moving closer and closer, until she stood at the end of his impossibly long legs, at the end of his impossibly long walking stick, and lifted her candle to reveal his impossibly handsome face once more.

This time, however, she could see the whole of it, and the perfect left side did not match the righ

t, where a harsh, wicked scar marked him from temple to jaw, puckered and white.

When she inhaled sharply, he turned his head from the light. “A pity. I was looking forward to the set-down you appeared ready to deliver. I didn’t think you would be so easily put off.”

“Oh, I am not put off at all. Indeed, I’m grateful that you are no longer the most perfect man I’ve ever seen.”

He turned back, dark gaze finding hers. “Grateful?”

“Indeed. I’ve never quite understood what one does with exceedingly perfect men.”

A brow rose. “What one does with them.”

“Besides the obvious.”

He tilted his head. “The obvious.”

“Looking at them.”

“Ah,” he said.

“At any rate, I now feel far more comfortable.”

“Because I’m no longer perfect?”

“You’re still terribly close to it, but you’re no longer the handsomest man I’ve ever seen,” she lied.

“I feel as though I should be insulted, but I shall get past that. Out of curiosity, who has usurped my throne?”

No one. If anything, the scar makes you more handsome.

But this was not the kind of man one said that to. “Technically, he had the throne before you. He’s simply reclaimed it.”

“I’ll thank you for a name, Lady Felicity.”

“What did you call him before? My moth?”

He went utterly still for a moment—not long enough for an ordinary person to notice.

Felicity noticed. “I thought you would have expected it,” she said, her tone scoffing. “What with your offer to win him for me.”

“The offer still stands, though I don’t find the duke handsome. At all.”

“We needn’t debate the point. The man is empirically attractive.”

“Mmm,” he said, seemingly unconvinced. “Tell me why you lied.”

“Tell me why you’re so willing to help me fix it.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. “Would you believe I am a Good Samaritan?”

“No. Why were you outside Marwick’s ball? What is he to you?”