Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

But he’d never lost sight of her.

Not as she’d had two glasses of champagne in quick succession. Not as she’d dashed out to the balcony with her friend—a woman he now knew was Lady Eleanora, the reckless, carriage-racing daughter of a duke. And not when he’d found her father, deliberately moving them to a place where he could keep watch on Hattie, keenly aware of the possibility—the probability—that she would attempt an escape. Considering the myriad locales in which he’d found Hattie before, Whit wouldn’t put it past her to scale a wall, commandeer a carriage, and make her way to the nearest gaming hell where, if he had to lay odds, he’d find Lady Eleanora nearby as sidekick and second.

If they’d tried it, Whit would have followed.

He’d been in complete control.

And he’d retained that control when she’d reentered the room and come for him, tall and strong and determined, gaze locked on him as she approached without care for the dozens of eyes that watched, considered, judged. She’d come for him, her wine red gown the color of the sin into which he intended to lead her if only she’d let him.

And she would let him. He had no doubt.

Whit had finished with her father, knowing that once she reached them, he’d lose his chance at the earl—knowledge that bore truth when she did arrive, violet eyes blazing as hot as the irritated flush on her cheeks, and he hadn’t had to force the smile for that lady. It had come in earnest, and even then, he’d been in complete control.

But when they’d begun to dance, control had come tumbling down around him. He’d felt it the moment the steps had come to him, imprinted in the memory of his muscles, twenty years older but easily returning to the dance he’d once practiced, holding the darkness in his arms and imagining the beautiful woman who would fill them when he won the day and became duke.

He’d never imagined anyone like Hattie.

Hattie, who had somehow become a port in the storm of his thoughts—memories of his bastard of a father, of the competition he’d put them all through, of the sting of the duke’s switch on the backs of his thighs when he misstepped. Of the ache in his stomach on those evenings when he’d been sent to his bed without food. Empty stomachs shall make you hungrier for victory, the monster had liked to say. How many nights had they been hungry at his hands? And how many more after they’d escaped him?

The memory had been clear and cold, and his heart had begun to pound as though he were twelve years old once more, suffering a dance lesson, control beginning to slip. He’d tried to hold on. He’d focused on Hattie, mapped her face with his gaze, taking in her golden blond hair and her full cheeks, flushed with excitement at their dance. He’d catalogued the long slope of her nose, its rounded tip, and the fullness of her lips, wide and beautiful, the memory of them impossibly soft.

Her eyes had been closed, her face tilted up to him like a masterwork—and it had calmed him. She had three dark freckles, spaced evenly apart in a little triangle on her right temple, and he’d wanted nothing more than to set his lips there, to linger and taste them. He’d taken a deep breath, enjoying the solace that came with looking at her.

She’d turned away at one point, and Whit had become transfixed by the curve of her ear, with its soft, downy lobe and dips and curls. Another freckle teased him, a beauty mark just behind her right ear at the edge of her hairline. A secret, shared only with him. One she didn’t even know about—there was no way for her to ever see it herself. The woman had magnificent ears.

Eventually, she’d turned back and given him the best of all—her eyes. A wild, impossible color that was unreasonable for humans—but he’d already assumed Hattie was beyond human. Part sorceress. Part warrior. So beautiful.

And those stunning eyes—the proof of it.

A man could lose himself in those eyes.

A man could give himself up to them. Cede control. Just once. Just during the dance. Just until he could catch his breath and escape his memory.

And then she’d asked him how he’d learned to dance. And it had all come back. The memory, the discomfort. He’d tensed beneath her touch, struggling for control.

Losing.

He’d just needed a moment. A bit of air. The cool bite of the world beyond this ballroom. A reminder that his past was not his present. That he did not need that place, with its too many people and its too cloying perfume.

In that moment, however, he did need Hattie.

Because, in that moment, she saved him, taking his hand in her firm grip and leading him from the room before all London, like a hound on a lead. He’d let her. He’d wanted it. And she’d known it somehow—known that she should bring him not simply out onto the balcony, but farther, down the stone steps and beyond the light spilling from the ballroom, into the gardens. Into the darkness.

It wasn’t until they were there, under the cover of a large oak, that she let him go.

He hated that she’d let him go.

Hated, too, that the loss of her touch had him struggling for deep breaths again.

Hated, more than all that, that she seemed to understand all of it.

She stood there, soft and silent and still, for an eternity, waiting for him to restore himself. She didn’t push him to speak, seeming to understand that even if he wished to, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Instead, she waited, watching him until he returned to the present. To the place. To her.

Hattie, whose natural inclination was to fill silence with questions, did not ask any questions. Not about his conversation with her father or about his response to the waltz. She did not ask how it was he knew how to tie an impeccable cravat.

Instead, this woman he’d known for barely longer than a heartbeat and who already haunted his dreams said, “Thank you.”

The words were a shock. Should it not have been him doing the thanking?

Before he could reply, she added, “I haven’t waltzed in three years. The last time I did . . . it did not go well.” She laughed. He didn’t like the self-deprecation in the sound. “He was a baron with an eye for my father’s money, and I was nearly twenty-six and twenty-six might as well be eighty-six when London is in season.”

He did not move, afraid that if he did, she might stop speaking.

“I was grateful for him, honestly. He was handsome enough, and young—only thirty. And with a smile that made me think maybe it really was for me.” Whit found he had a sudden loathing for this young, handsome baron, even before Hattie added softly, “I didn’t know he was a terrible dancer.”

Confusion flared at that. She didn’t seem the type to care about one’s dancing ability. Hadn’t she just said she didn’t?

“There were whispers that he was after me in truth, which of course had my father satisfied—his earldom is a life peerage, you see, and Augie won’t be able to pass nobility on so marriage to a baron was a boon. My father was even more happy when the baron marked himself down for a waltz. Waltzes are golden treasure in Mayfair ballrooms.” She paused, taking a deep breath and looking up at the sky. “It’s a sliver moon.”

He didn’t want to look at the damn moon. He wanted to look at her. But he did, following her gaze to the brilliant crescent low over the rooftops.

“It’s setting,” she said, simply.