Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

“Yes.” Her eyes flew to his, her pretty mouth falling open in surprise at his speaking. To his absolute shock, his cheeks grew warm. Whit had never been more grateful for darkness, and he’d hidden in it from soldiers of the Crown on more than one occasion.

“I stepped on his foot,” she said, softly. “He wasn’t a good dancer, and I stepped on his foot, and he called me—” She stopped. Shook her head and looked back to the moon before speaking again, so quiet she could barely be heard. “Well. It wasn’t kind.”

Whit heard her. Heard her embarrassment. Her pain. Felt it like it was his own. He was going to find this baron and fucking garrote him. He’d bring her the man’s undeserving head.

The riotous pounding of Whit’s heart began to calm.

“So . . . thank you for the dance tonight. You made me feel . . .” She trailed off, and Whit realized that he would happily turn over the contents of the Bastards’ Rookery warehouse to thieves for the chance to hear the end of that sentence.

But she didn’t finish. Instead, she waved her hand, the dance card attached to it fluttering in the breeze. He reached for it, pulling her closer to him with a barely-there tug on the fragile parchment, already crumpled from her mistreatment.

He turned it over, looked at it.

She tried to tug it back, but he wouldn’t let her. “It’s empty. I told you,” she said defensively. “No one ever claims my dances.”

Whit ignored her, lifting the pencil that dangled from the card. “I claimed one.”

He could hear the smirk in her retort when she said, “As a matter of fact, I claimed yours.” He put the pencil to his tongue, licking the nib before setting it to the little oval paper. “It’s a bit late for claiming your waltz, don’t you—”

But he wasn’t claiming the waltz. He wrote his name across the whole card, claiming all of it. Claiming all of her, this woman who had rescued him, in one bold, dark scrawl. Beast.

Hattie looked down at the moniker, her pretty lips falling into a perfect little “Oh.” He didn’t respond, and she finally looked up at him and added, “That’s that then.”

He offered a little grunt, too afraid of what he might say if he spoke.

She filled the silence. “You’re very graceful. Like a falcon.”

“Like a bird?” Whit repeated, unable to stop himself. If Devil got wind of the descriptor, he would never hear the end of it.

She laughed, the low, rolling sound like a punch to the gut. “No. Like a predator. Beautiful and graceful, yes, but strong and powerful. And dancing with you, it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever done before. You made me feel graceful.” She gave a little laugh, and he could not miss the self-deprecation there. “By association, of course. As though my movements were an extension of yours. As though I, too, was a falcon, dancing on the wind.” She looked to him, the lights of the distant ballroom a barely-there reflection in her eyes. “I’ve never felt that way. I’ve never had that. And you gave it to me, tonight. So th—”

He moved, finally, coming for her with the speed of the damn bird she’d compared him to. Diving for her, collecting her up in his grasp. He couldn’t bear her thanking him again. Not for what had happened inside. Not for the dance he hadn’t finished. He hadn’t given her the dance she deserved.

Her gratitude dissolved into a pretty gasp. Good.

He didn’t deserve her thanks. He wasn’t worthy of it. Not with the plans he had for her family. For her father’s business.

Not with the plans he had for her.

So he caught her words with a kiss, thieving them with his hands at those pretty, rounded cheeks, his thumbs rubbing over her cheekbones as he tilted her face up to his and kept taking, her gratitude, then her surprise, then her pleasure, licking at her full, lush bottom lip until she opened for him, welcoming him inside as though she’d done it a thousand times before. And for a moment, as he tasted her sigh, it seemed as though she had.

Whit would have sworn they’d barely begun when Hattie pulled away, but their breath, coming heavy and desperate, suggested it had been longer than he thought—never long enough, though. Her gloved hands came to his, clutching them on her cheeks, and he wanted to tear the fabric from their hands, to feel her heat.

He almost did. Might have, if she hadn’t whispered at his lips, her tongue coming out in a little maddening lick, as though she couldn’t stop herself from taking another taste of him. “You always taste of lemon—even when there are no candies in sight.”

He groaned, going hard as steel and pulling her tight to him, aching for her to be closer, loathing her voluminous skirts and the cage of her corset beneath the fabric of her gown—if he had his way, she’d never wear a corset again. She wouldn’t wear anything that kept him from her softness, from her curves. In frustration, he lifted her up onto her toes. “You’re wrong. It’s you who tastes sweet.” He caught her tongue and gave it a suck before releasing it and adding, “Everywhere.”

He kissed her deep, rewarding the way she slid her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, exploring him. Her fingers traced over the leather straps of his knives down the quartet of blades like stays over his ribs and she pulled back, just enough for her eyes to meet his in the darkness. “You came armed.”

He grunted. Then, “Attacks come from everywhere.”

One of Hattie’s blond brows arched. “Even in Mayfair ballrooms?”

He hauled her closer, knowing it was mad. “Especially in Mayfair ballrooms. Seeing you in this dress was an assault.” His fingers curled at her back, clutching the edge of the wine silk, and for a wild moment, he considered what might happen if he ripped this dress from her and laid her down in the crisp leaves at their feet and gave her everything she’d asked of him.

His cock throbbed its approval as she said, uncertain, “You like it?”

I like you.

The thought shattered him, as devastating as the dance had been, and he released her as though he’d been singed. Her eyes went wide, and he loathed the surprise and fleeting disappointment in them as they backed away from each other, extricating themselves from the touch.

He watched as she shook out her skirts, pretending not to notice the swell of her breasts, even as he felt like a proper ass.

After a long while, he said, “I owe you another waltz.”

She shook her head. “I think I shall be done with waltzes for now.” She paused. “And it seems, perhaps, you should be, as well.”

It wasn’t a question. She didn’t expect him to answer. He didn’t expect to answer. And still, for reasons he would never understand, he did. “The man who sired me insisted I learn to waltz.”

She straightened slowly, carefully, as though she had just discovered she was in the presence of a rabid dog. And perhaps she was. “The man who sired you.”

“I didn’t know him,” he said, knowing he couldn’t tell her everything and wanting to tell her everything just the same. “Not for the first twelve years of my life.”

Hattie nodded, as though she understood. She didn’t of course. No one did. No one could—except the two other boys who had lived the same life. “Where were you—before?”