Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(51)

He nodded once. “Seemed you may have overestimated me, then.”

She exhaled in a little laugh, his meaning settling in. “It does, doesn’t it?” Another pause. Then, “How did you learn to dance so well?”

The tentative camaraderie that had come from their conversation disappeared, his gaze immediately shuttering. Regret flooded Hattie, along with no small amount of confusion—how had such a simple question caused such an immediate, unpleasant response?

Beneath her fingers, his muscles turned to iron, as though he were ready to do battle. She looked up at him, his eyes fixed at a point over her head, in the distance. She twisted, craning to see, expecting to find an enemy charging toward them. But there was nothing there. Nothing but silks and satins and laughter swirling like madness.

What had happened? What was wrong? She didn’t know this man well, but she knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t tell her if she asked. Nor would he answer the other questions immediately on her tongue.

She looked back at his face, now ashen beneath the warm olive she’d come to expect. Concern came, hot and unpleasant. She clutched his arm with the hand there, clasped the hand in her own tighter. Lowering her voice, she said, “Mr. Whittington?” He swallowed at the name. Shook his head once, as though throwing off a foul taste. “Whit?” she said, even softer. “Are you ill?”

His breath was coming harsher now, the rise and fall of his chest impossible to ignore for his nearness. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and a muscle in his jaw ticked as though he was clenching his teeth, resisting whatever was consuming him.

She squeezed the hand in hers tightly. Tight enough to hurt. His amber eyes found hers. Answered the question in them.

She nodded, and they stopped dancing, but she did not release his hand, instead clinging to him tightly. Without an ounce of hesitation, she turned, and walked to the edge of the ballroom—and kept going, past a half dozen of the ton’s finest gossips, straight through the doors and into the darkness beyond.





Chapter Thirteen


He couldn’t let go of her hand.

He’d been in complete control. He’d played the part, made the noises, nodded at the gentlemen, smiled at the ladies, and spoken with the earl, issuing threats on the enemy’s turf—an action designed to strike fear. He’d set the Bastards’ revenge in motion.

Without Hattie.

Hattie, who had run from him the moment she’d seen him enter the ballroom, as though he might not notice. As though her running from him would make him think of anything other than chasing her. He didn’t chase her. Not in the classic sense. Instead, Whit kept to his original plan and laid the groundwork for revenge.

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.