Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

“You don’t make errors in judgment. And we need an aristocratic chit under our protection like a dog needs diamonds.”

“She’s not under our protection for long.”

“No. Soon she will be your victim. Along with Ewan.”

“No heirs,” Devil said. “You remember the deal.”

Whit’s lips flattened into a straight line. “I do. I also know there are cleaner and safer ways of getting what we want than buying a wallflower a new fucking frock.”

Devil was growing irritated. “Like what?”

“Like slicing our brother’s face to match your own.”

Devil shook his head. “No. This way is better.” Whit did not reply, and Devil heard the tacit disagreement in the silence. “Fists are a threat. This way is a promise. This way, we remind Ewan that his future belongs to us. Just as ours once belonged to him.”

A pause, and then, “And the girl? What happens when you have to take her future from her?”

“I’ll pay handsomely for it. I’m not a monster.”

Whit gave a little huff of laughter.

Devil looked to him. “What does that mean?”

“Only that you’re mad if you think that paying for the girl’s ruination isn’t monstrous. She’ll not only care; she’ll come for you.”

The idea of Felicity Faircloth, plain, aging spinster, coming for a Bareknuckle Bastard was ludicrous. Devil forced a laugh of his own. “Let the kitten try to gut me, then. I shall keep my sword at the ready.”

“I heard she punched Reggie.”

Pride flared at the memory, chased away immediately by rage at the same. “She missed.”

“You should teach her to throw a punch.”

“As she’ll never be in the Garden again, it’s unnecessary.” Indeed, if the other evening in the dark streets of Covent Garden had done anything, it had convinced her to stay far away from the neighborhood.

Never mind that she’d thought those streets beautiful.

Good Lord—when she’d pointed at those gleaming cobblestones and expounded on their beauty, Devil had had half a mind to tell her they were just as likely to be soaked in rain as they were to be running with blood.

Even if she was right—they were beautiful.

Which he never would have noticed if she hadn’t said so, dammit.

Whit grunted, then, “I think you mean, as she now bears the protection of the Bastards, it’s unnecessary.”

“She’s not coming back,” Devil said. “Christ. I nearly killed a man in front of her.”

“But you didn’t.”

That man had touched her. That cretin had felt the silk of Felicity’s hair before Devil had. The hand on his cane itched to do damage. Best, because when it itched to do damage, it wasn’t itching to touch her again. It wasn’t itching to draw her close again. He wasn’t itching to kiss her again.

Lie.

He shook his head. “I should have killed him.”

Whit turned back to the ballroom windows. “But you didn’t. And that’s going to make ’em talk.”

“It’s certainly made you talk.”

Thankfully, that silenced him.

They watched in silence for long minutes, and Whit bounced on the balls of his feet lightly, the movement uncharacteristic for a man so often still and solid. Uncharacteristic, unless you knew what it meant. Devil said, “Is there a bout tonight?”

“Three.”

“Are you fighting?”

He shrugged. “If I’m tempted.”

There were two kinds of fighters—those who played by the rules and those who fought to win at all costs. Whit was the second kind, and he only ever sparred when he couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He preferred to run the bouts and train the fighters. But when he did enter the ring, he was near unbeatable.

It had only ever happened once.

Another memory flared—Whit on the ground, covered in dirt and blood, unconscious. Devil covering him with his own body, taking what felt like a dozen blows himself. A hundred. Protecting his brother.

Until they’d escaped.

“Grace has been asking about your girl.”

Devil looked to Whit. “You haven’t told her who she is.”

“No, but our sister’s no fool, and she has her own runners—every one better than ours.” Grace’s employees—save for precious few—were female, and the girls could move quickly and beneath notice through most of London.

Devil was saved from answering by a flash of golden fabric inside. Felicity. His gaze tracked her through the throngs of people, drinking her in, like sunlight. “She’s here,” he said, unable to keep the softness from his tone. “She’s wearing it.”

Whit grunted. “Then we go.”

No.

Devil swallowed the word and shook his head. “No. I have to be certain they meet.”

His brother’s gaze moved to the windows of the ballroom, and he let out a low whistle. “Ewan will lose his mind when he sees that dress.”

Devil nodded. “I want him to know I’m ahead of him. That I shall always be ahead of him.”

“I’ll say this. Lady Felicity tidies up nicely.”

“Bollocks off,” Devil said, tempted to put his fist into his brother’s face for the comment. But doing so would have required him to look away from Felicity, and he wasn’t interested in doing that. He wasn’t certain he could do it, if he was being honest.

She was impossible to ignore.

She looked as though she were dressed in liquid gold. He’d known the dressmaker would serve her well, but this was magnificent. The bodice was cut low, revealing a stunning expanse of skin—enough to make men around the room take notice. Which Devil supposed was the point, but he found he didn’t care for men around the room taking notice. “That line is too low.”

“You’re mad,” Whit said. “Even Ewan won’t be able to look away from it.”

Devil couldn’t look away from it, either. That was the problem. The sleeves were fitted to her shoulders, a perfect cap, leaving long, lovely arms too soon hidden away beneath gloves in golden silk that made him think thoroughly nefarious things.

Things like how a man might like to peel them off her.

Things like whether they were long enough to use to tie her wrists to the bedposts. Whether they were strong enough to hold her while he wrung pleasure from her again and again until they were both lost to sin.

And all that before Devil remembered what had been delivered with the frock and gloves. His heart pounded with twin threads of knowledge and curiosity, the thrumming made worse as Felicity was set upon by a collection of black-clad men—several of whom Devil recognized as young scoundrels who should not be allowed in a ballroom, let alone near a woman looking as much like perfection as she was.

A particularly impertinent one fingered the ivory-handled fan dangling from her wrist—hang on. The fan? Or was he touching her wrist?

Devil growled low in his throat, and Whit looked to him. “You’re right. There’s nothing at all wrong with this plan.”

Devil scowled. “Enough.” Felicity eased away from the touch, removing the fan from her wrist and passing it to the man in question. “Who is that?”

“How would I know?” Whit made it a point to stay as far from the aristocracy as possible.

/> “I intend to break his hand if he touches her again. She clearly doesn’t like it.”

The man inside was writing on her fan, then passing it to the next man in their circle, then the next, then the next. “What are they doing?”

“Some ridiculous aristocratic ritual, no doubt.” Whit yawned, loudly. “The girl is fine now.”

She didn’t look fine. She looked—surprised. She looked young and perfect and uncertain and surprised, as though she hadn’t expected the dress to change anything. As though she’d really believed that most men had brains in their heads enough to see a woman for her true value without a garment that cost a fortune. Or a cake of powder. Or a pinch of rouge. If they’d been able to do that as a gender, then Felicity Faircloth would not be on the shelf. She’d have been happily married long ago, to a proper man with a proper past and not a hint of revenge to be seen.

But men weren’t and so she wasn’t, and she was surprised and perhaps a bit unsettled, and Devil found he wanted to go to her, to remind her that she was there for a reason—to bask in the glow of this attention and find herself the place in society to which she so desperately wished to be restored.

To embrace the promise of a future with a man who might one day love her as she deserved.

“Ewan is here.”

A promise that would never be delivered.

Devil swallowed back guilt and, with difficulty, tore his attention from Felicity, finding the duke in the crowd. He watched as Ewan searched the throngs of revelers. Though he inclined his head in acknowledgment as an older woman with an enormous turban spoke to him, his search did not stop.

Ewan was looking for Felicity.

“Let’s go,” Whit said. “I fucking hate Mayfair.”

Devil shook his head. “Not until he sees her.”

And then the duke found his surprise bride, in her gown shot through with gold thread, and Devil watched as his brother—the handsomest man Felicity Faircloth had ever seen—did a double take, his gaze narrowing on her.

“There,” Whit said. “The message was received. The gold frock was inspired.”

It had been calculated to summon Ewan’s attention, and his memories. To remind Ewan of a promise made, long ago. One that he had never made good on. One that he would never make good on.