Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(60)

She smiled, the expression without humor. “That is spoken like a man who has never had to prove that he earned what he had.” She paused. “I want the business on my own merit, or not at all.”

“Do you doubt you deserve it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then take it. And prove your merit as its head.”

She watched him for a long moment, until Whit became uncomfortable with her unyielding gaze. Still, he resisted the urge to look away. He was a Bareknuckle Bastard, for God’s sake, and he refused to be stared down by a Mayfair lady—not even one who was about to run one of London’s biggest shipping businesses.

If her father agreed.

He’d agree. Whit would give him no choice.

Finally, Hattie whispered, “You can get it for me.”

“The Year of Hattie.”

She smiled, bright and beautiful. “And what will that make us? Business acquaintances?”

Why did that idea please him so much? He growled a little laugh and pulled her to him. “We already have a deal.” She gasped at the words—the reminder of the promise he’d made her all those nights ago to take her virginity. To give her dominion over her body.

“When?” The question was soft and sweet and full of anticipation, and punctuated by her face tilting up to his.

In an instant, Whit was aching for her, and he growled low and dark. “Not in a Mayfair garden.”

“If it isn’t soon, I shall have no choice but to find you again. A needle in a Covent Garden haystack.” The words cracked him open with their promise. When had he ever liked a woman so much as this one? When had he ever felt so well matched?

He dipped his head and sucked the full bottom lip of her smile, until she sighed.

“Soon,” he whispered, when he was through. Tonight maybe. Tomorrow.

She did not hesitate. “Please.”

What a magnificent word. “Go back to your ball, warrior,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. “I shall find you.”

He watched her make her way back through the gardens, up the stairs, and into the ballroom, his gaze not leaving the wine red silk of her beautiful dress. And for a moment, while he watched her, Whit’s thoughts wandered into places where he never allowed them to go. Places that tempted with words like happiness. And pleasure.

And wife.

He stiffened at the last, but did not push it away, instead letting it linger, circling over and over, until the last hint of her silk frock had been swallowed by the crowd and he was left alone, marveling at the singular feeling crashing through him—something he hadn’t felt in two decades.

Hope.

The foreign word stole his breath, and he unconsciously lifted a hand, rubbing at the tightness that came with it, at the way it threatened his certainty.

There was no time for hope. Not even when it came in beautiful, brazen packages, smelling like almonds and with ink stains on its wrists and wide, dimpled smiles. He told himself that as he turned away from the lights of the house.

And found Ewan standing in the darkness.





Chapter Fourteen


We shouldn’t be here.

Memory slammed through Whit at the look in his brother’s eyes, a brilliant amber, identical in color to those of Whit and Devil and the duke, their father. Instantly, he was transported to the moment years ago, when he’d been guided—small and full of nerves and something like hope—into a sitting room on the Marwick country estate to find the boys who would become his brothers and allies for the next two years. He remembered them like they were here now, in this Mayfair garden: Devil—brash and bold, hiding his fear, and Ewan—still as stone, assessing eyes taking in everything, brilliant and instantly favored by their father, who never seemed to see the cold fury that burned like fire in him.

That fire wasn’t cold anymore. Tonight, it threatened to burn down the world.

There’d been a time when Ewan was the largest of them—tallest and broadest and strongest. In Whit’s memories, he was godlike. Full of health and arrogance. Nothing like the man who stood before him, a pale approximation of the boy he’d once been. Lean—almost gaunt, with the way his clothes hung on his long frame—and hollow, unshaven and wild-eyed. Feral.

If twenty years on the streets had taught Whit anything it was this—men who had nothing to live for were the most dangerous of animals. Warning thrummed through him, and he reached inside his topcoat to collect one of his knives.

He was comforted by the cool, heavy weight in his hand, by the knowledge of the exact angle of the throw that would instantly lay his brother low. Ewan had been the best fighter among them years ago, never sending a fist flying without hitting his target. And when they’d planned their escape from their monster of a father, they’d believed in their success because of Ewan’s skill.

Twenty years of a dukedom should have evened the score.

But it hadn’t.

The last time the brothers had faced Ewan, Devil had been left for dead. If not for Felicity, Whit would have been left to battle the Duke of Marwick alone.

As he might do tonight.

“I’ve a boy fighting for his life in the Garden because of you.” Whit let his fist fall to his side, weapon in hand. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t take my revenge right now.”

“Killing a duke is a hangable offense.”