Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(45)

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Hattie looked up at the ceiling and lowered her own voice. “Might we speak about this somewhere else?”

“Certainly,” Nora replied as though they were discussing the weather. “But no one is listening. I merely think you should consider the fact that finding a man who cares for your bits before his own is rare indeed. Or so I am told.”

“Nora!” Hattie’s cheeks had gone crimson, and the high-pitched cry did summon shocked and disapproving glances from those around them.

“At any rate, I know the duchess because the duke likes to race carriages and, as it happens, so do I.” Nora accepted two dance cards from a nearby footman with a delighted laugh. “Look at how clever these are. Little paint palettes. I assume we’re to write the name of our dance partner in the paint wells.”

She extended one to Hattie, who shook her head. “I don’t require one.”

Nora sighed. “Take it.”

Hattie did, even as she said, “I don’t dance. I haven’t danced in years.” Certainly not with anyone who hadn’t been forced into the situation with some kind of pity. “I don’t even like to dance,” she said to Nora’s back as the other woman waved a hand and pushed through the door to the ballroom beyond.

The ballroom was degrees warmer than the hallway, a wall of doors opened wide to the night on one side of the room unable to combat the crush of bodies within. The chandeliers high above bathed the revelers in warm, wonderful light that flickered with the breeze from outside, strong enough to send drops of hot wax to the floor below. Not that anyone would notice. The orchestra was loud and the refreshments bountiful, and the massive duke and the stunning duchess—already in each other’s arms on the dance floor and far too close for propriety—were very much in love, which would draw attention from anything else.

Hattie watched them for a moment, the way the duke, a Scotsman who had to duck through doorways and towered above the rest of the room, held his wife in his arms, tucking her close, as though she might need protection. The duchess, flame-haired and beautiful—once named the most beautiful woman in all London—lifted her gaze and met her husband’s eyes with a bright, loving smile, and the man’s stern face went soft and loving. The expression did damage for its honesty.

Hattie wondered what it might feel to receive such a look.

To be held so well.

To be loved so much.

She swallowed around the knot in her throat, raising a hand to her chest when they reached the top of the half-dozen steps leading down to the ballroom. Nora turned and spoke to the majordomo, who announced to the entire assembly, “Lady Eleanora Madewell. Lady Henrietta Sedley.”

As was to be expected, no one looked up at the names, and the two made their way down to the main room. “Good Lord, Warnick is big,” Nora said casually. “If I were interested in such a thing, I could find my way to being interested in such a thing, quite honestly.”

Hattie laughed. Nora’s lack of interest in such a thing made her a perfect companion for nights like this—she would never insist Hattie dance with some mincing fop desperate for a dowry—and a perfect friend, as she would never insist that Hattie was mad for eschewing the idea of a loveless marriage for the sake of procuring any husband who would be had.

Not that Nora did not intend for partnership, but in the future she planned, partnership came with love, long-term, with a woman—which was a touch more complicated for the daughter of a duke with a massive dowry and the attention of every matchmaking mother of a son in shouting distance. This particular daughter of a duke was rich and brave and beautiful, however, and half of London was wild for her bold smile and her winning charm, so Hattie had no doubt that Nora would land precisely what she desired—life with a partner who loved adventure and Nora in equal measures.

Hattie, however, did not have such a guarantee.

Indeed, as Hattie aged, as she turned away from society and threw herself further and further into her father’s business, her lack of beauty became more and more of a liability, and any desire she might hold in her heart for partnership or love had been pushed away in favor of a different, more achievable desire.

The business.

No marriage. No children. Her gaze slid over the tops of the dancers assembled, lingering on the broad shoulders and dark head of the Duke of Warnick. No partner to look at her with such devotion.

She’d put the desire for those things away.

Until Beast.

The thought was barely formed when her cheeks flushed, the memory of him coming like the heat in the room. The memory of his touch on her skin. Of his kiss. Of the taste of him, sweet and tart like the candy he carried everywhere. And his voice, low and dark and perfect at her ear, at her lips, at her breast. Lower.

She’d wanted him to show her what she was missing. To ruin her with pleasure so she might always remember it, even if she was never able to have it again. And he’d done just that.

And promised her even more.

Of course, he’d packed her off to home instead of delivering on that promise. And now, three days later, she’d heard nothing from him. He knew her name, but would he be able to find her? Would he even come looking?

And that word he’d whispered when he’d sent her home—what had it meant?

Whit.

She shook her head, refusing to allow herself to linger on the single, graveled syllable that had consumed her since he’d spoken it. Had she heard him correctly? What had it meant? When she’d told Nora that bit, Nora had suggested that he might have been admiring Hattie’s delightful sense of humor.