Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

She wondered if he realized how much she wanted to explore the darkness.

Except she couldn’t. Her desires were second to the needs of her family. She was their only hope—and it did not matter that she’d never be free of the yoke they wished for her. It did not matter that she’d just had a glimpse of the dark and she was losing her taste for the light.

It did not matter that she had no interest in summoning the duke to her flame. That she wished another moth. A different set of singed wings.

A moth that seemed to have no interest in flying near her.

And so she was left here: not flame. Merely Felicity.

Her family’s last chance.

She met her mother’s gaze. “The duke is here for me?”

“Well, he’s here to meet your father. And your brother. To sort the ins and outs of your marriage.”

“He is here to fill our coffers once more.”

Her mother inclined her head—tacit acknowledgment. “He’s rich as the devil, I’m told.”

Felicity refrained from telling her mother that she knew the Devil, and he was richer than anyone she’d ever known. It didn’t matter, of course, because Devil’s money would never be the saving grace of the Marquessate of Bumble. It would never rescue her brother from certain ruin.

And what of her? Could he rescue her?

No. Devil’s money wasn’t for saving Felicity. And neither was the man.

Don’t come back.

His words echoed through her, cold and clear.

So, she was left here, with the duke. The duke Devil had promised her. The duke he’d somehow delivered. Somehow . . . without telling her how. Without telling her why. Surely there was a reason, wasn’t there? But it wasn’t important enough for her to know, just as it hadn’t been important enough for her family to tell her their plans. To tell her their fears. To tell her how she was intended to save them.

Just as it wasn’t important to the Duke of Marwick to tell her why he was so willing to marry her in the first place.

Another locked door.

This time, she would unlock it.

Felicity sighed again. “I suppose I should go greet him.” She was out of the sitting room, her mother sputtering behind her, and in front of her father’s closed study door in moments.

She rapped firmly, already turning the door handle when her father barked out his “Come!”

Her brother came to his feet as she stepped inside. Her father remained behind his desk, but it took Felicity a moment to find the Duke of Marwick, standing at the long French doors on the far end of the room.

“Felicity—” Arthur began.

“No! No! Accident!” her mother sang from the hallway, a trio of dachshunds scrambling behind. “Accident!!” This as she pushed her way into the room with a wave of a hand. “Felicity did not realize men were meeting, Your Grace.”

The duke turned at that, finding Felicity’s eyes. “What did you think was happening?”

He wasn’t ordinary, this man. He didn’t seem dangerous—but rather . . . uncommon. “I thought you were here discussing our marriage and its relationship to my brother and father’s financial situation.”

He nodded once. “That is, indeed, what we are discussing.”

Was he inviting her in? Did it matter? “Then I’m certain you won’t mind if I join you.”

Her mother was nearly apoplectic. “You can’t do that. This conversation isn’t for women!”

“Girl,” her father warned from behind his desk.

Without looking away from the duke, Felicity said, “I rather think it should be for women, as its entire purpose is to put a price on one, is it not?”

“Watch it, Felicity,” her father cautioned, and it occurred to Felicity that in the past, she might have left at that cold, unmoved caution. For propriety’s sake. To retain the label of good and obedient daughter to a man who’d never paid much attention to her. Not even when she was his only hope for redemption.

But she found she wasn’t much for propriety at the moment.

Nor was she in the market to let her family make decisions about her future any longer. Not when she was their sole bargaining chip.

She was saved from having to say any of that, however, by the duke. “Of course you should stay.” And with that, the decision was made. He turned back to the window, and Felicity noticed that his hair gleamed gold in the room, as though the man traveled with his own light source.

She supposed another woman might find him beautifully handsome. She had, in the past, hadn’t she? Hadn’t there been a time when she’d called him the handsomest man she’d ever seen? It had been a lie, of course. Told to another, handsomer man.

A man who shouldn’t be so handsome, but was, in fact, so handsome it made her want to spit with how irritating he was.

“Where did you leave off?”

“We were discussing the terms of our marriage.”

She nodded. “Without me.”

“Felicity . . .” her mother said before turning to the duke. “Your Grace, forgive her. We raised her to be less involved.”

“That’s only because you preferred not to tell me anything about your plans for my future,” Felicity said.

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Arthur replied.

She looked to her brother. “Shall I tell you what worries me?” He didn’t reply, but she saw the guilt flash over his face. Good. “The fact that even after everything that has happened, you still cannot see beyond your own problems.”

“Dammit, girl. This is how it’s done,” her father interjected. “Women like to think marriage is about love. It’s not. It’s a business. We’re discussing business.”

She looked to her father, then back to Arthur. “Then you will surely understand that it worries me that you thought I was a commodity to be traded without my consent.”

“One might argue that you consented when you told half of London that we were to be married,” the duke pointed out—not incorrectly.

She started across the room, toward him. “Nevertheless, Your Grace will surely understand that I have a vested interest in the terms to which you’ve agreed?”

Her fiancé was calmer than ever, his attention fixed to a hedgerow in the distance. “I certainly do understand, as they are more the terms to which you’ve agreed.”

Felicity hesitated. Was it possible this man was an ally? It was difficult to imagine what he might be with how impenetrable he was. “Of course. I forgot that my father and brother speak with my voice.”

“Felicity—” Arthur began.

The duke cut him off. “I’m not certain anyone in the world speaks with your voice.”

“Is that an insult?” she asked.

“No, as a matter of fact.”

He was a strange man. “And so? To what have I agreed?”

“The banns will be posted immediately, and we will marry in three-weeks’ time. After which, you have agreed to live here in London, in the house of your choosing.”

“Have you more than one London home?”

“I do not, but I am very rich, and you are welcome to purchase another home should you find one you prefer.”

She nodded. “And you aren’t interested in where we live?”

“As we will not live there, I am not.”

The words surprised her. She looked to her father, jaw set in irritation, then to her mother, whose jaw dropped just slightly, then to Arthur, who appeared to be transfixed by the carpet. She returned her attention to the duke. “You mean, as you will not live there.”

He inclined his head and returned his attention to the gardens beyond the window.

She watched him for a moment. “You’ve no interest in marrying me.”

“Not particularly,” he replied absently.

So much for moths and flames. “But you will, nonetheless.”

He was silent.

Her gaze narrowed. “And what then?”

One side of his mouth kicked up in

a little wry smile. “You’ll be very rich, Lady Felicity. Surely you’ll find something to do with yourself.”

Her mouth opened. Her mother gasped. Her father coughed. Arthur was silent.

The words weren’t cruel. The duke wasn’t angry or bitter or punishing. He was simply forthright. And there was something in that truth that spoke to Felicity . . . just long enough for her to wonder what, precisely, he was planning. “This isn’t going the way I thought it would.”

“And how did you think it would?”

“I thought you would want—” She stopped.

“Did you think we would love each other?”

No. Love had never been a part of it. At least, not with him. With another man, perhaps, when she was younger. Another faceless husband. Tall and dark and with golden eyes and lips that had been forged in sin.

She pushed the thought aside. “No.”

He nodded. “I didn’t think so.” His gaze lowered to the embroidery hoop she continued to clutch in her hand. He tilted his head. “Is that a fox?”

She lifted the project, looking down at it, surprised. She’d forgotten what she’d been doing before he’d arrived here and everything had gone to pot. “It is.”

“With a hen?”

It was, indeed. The orange and white animal held a silky brown chicken in its mouth. “Yes.”

“Good Lord.”

She looked up to him. “I’m quite good at needlepoint.”