Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(7)

She had preference now.

The thought arrived illustrated—the man in the carriage, handsome in slumber and then . . . awake, undeniably beautiful. Those amber eyes that assessed and valued, that seemed to see straight to the core of her. The ripple of his muscles as he fought the bindings. And his kiss . . .

She’d kissed him.

What had she been thinking?

She hadn’t been.

And still . . . she was grateful for the memory, for the echo of his sharp inhale when she’d pressed her lips to his, for the soft grunt that had followed, the sound pooling deep inside her, a punctuation as he gave himself to it. As he’d submitted to her desire. As he’d become her preference.

Her cheeks went hot again. She cleared her throat and looked to her escort, whose full lips were curved in a secret smile. “I am Zeva, my lady. Dahlia is not in residence this evening, but not to worry. We have prepared for you in her absence,” the beauty continued. “We believe you will find everything to your liking.”

Zeva opened a door, allowing Hattie to enter.

Her heart began to pound as she looked about the room. She swallowed against the knot in her throat, refusing to allow nerves to show despite what had once been a wild idea now becoming a concrete eventuality.

This was no ordinary room. It was a bedchamber.

A beautifully appointed bedchamber, with silks and satins, and a velvet counterpane in a vibrant blue that shone against the elaborately carved posts of the room’s centerpiece—an ebony bed.

The fact that beds traditionally were the centerpieces of bedchambers seemed suddenly, completely irrelevant, and Hattie was certain that she’d never in her life seen a bed. Which explained why she could not stop looking at it.

It was impossible to ignore the amusement in Zeva’s voice when she said, “Is there a problem, my lady?”

“No!” Hattie said, barely recognizing the squeak of the word, which came in a pitch reserved only for hounds. She cleared her throat, the bodice of her dress suddenly seeming entirely too tight. She put a hand to it. “No. No. Everything is perfect. This is all very expected. Entirely as planned.” She cleared her throat again, still riveted by the bed. “Thank you.”

From behind her, Zeva spoke. “Would you perhaps like a moment of peace before Nelson joins you?”

Nelson. Hattie turned to face the other woman at the name. “Nelson? Like the war hero?”

“Just. One of our very best.”

“And by best you mean . . .”

Dark brows rose. “Aside from the qualities you requested, he is charming, knowledgeable, and exceedingly thorough.”

Exceedingly thorough in bed, she meant.

Hattie choked on the sand that seemed to fill her throat. “I see. Well. What more can one ask?”

Zeva’s lips twitched. “Why not a few moments to acquaint yourself with the room—”

With the bed, she meant.

She waved at a pull on the wall. “—and ring the bell when you are ready?”

Ready for bed, she meant.

Hattie nodded. “Yes. That sounds ideal.”

Zeva floated from the room, the quiet snick of the door the only evidence that she’d been there at all.

Hattie let out a long breath and turned to face the empty room. Alone, she was able to take in the rest of it, the shimmering gold wallpaper, the beautifully tiled fireplace, and the large windows that would no doubt reveal the web of Covent Garden rooftops by day, but now, by night, were made mirrors in the darkness, reflecting the candlelight of the room, and Hattie at its center.

Hattie. Ready to begin her life anew.

She approached one large window, trying her best to ignore her reflection, considering instead the darkness surrounding her, limitless, like her plans. Her desires. The decision to stop waiting for her father to realize her potential, and instead to take what she wanted. To prove herself strong enough, clever enough, unfettered enough.

And perhaps just a little bit reckless.

But what was the path to success without a bit of recklessness?

This recklessness would take her out of the running as a wife to any decent man, and make it impossible for her father to refuse her what she truly wanted.

A business of her own. A life of her own. A future of her own.

She took a deep breath and turned to face a table nearby, laden with enough to feed an army: tea sandwiches and canapés and petits fours. A bottle of champagne and two glasses stood sentry alongside the food. She shouldn’t be surprised—the survey of her preferences for the evening had been quite thorough, and she’d requested just such a spread, less because she cared for champagne and delicious food—though who didn’t?—and more because it felt like the sort of thing a woman with experience would provide upon such an occasion.

And so, a table lay in wait of a pair, as though this place were a posting inn on the Great North Road, and the room set for newlyweds. Hattie smirked at the silly, romantic thought. But that was the commodity 72 Shelton Street sold, was it not? Romance, as preferred, purchased and packaged.

Champagne and petits fours and a four-poster bed.

Suddenly very ridiculous.

She gave a little nervous laugh. There was no way she was eating canapés or petits fours. Not without immediately casting them up from her roiling stomach. But champagne—perhaps champagne was just the thing.

She poured herself a glass and drank it down like lemon water, warmth spreading through her faster than she’d expected. Warmth and just enough courage to propel her across the room to pull the bell. To summon Nelson. Exceedingly-thorough-like-the-war-hero Nelson.