Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(52)

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.

“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.