Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(77)

But she didn’t want to. She was not through with him, either in business or in pleasure, and when she’d vowed she would triumph in both—it set her free.

That freedom, coupled with the truth between them, made desire all that mattered.

She crossed the threshold into rooms that smelled of honey and lemon and a touch of bay, making her think of a warm summer sun, and let herself sink into the moment—one that existed purely in service of her desire.

And that was the most magnificent freedom Hattie had ever experienced.

He moved away almost immediately, leaving her to her quiet inspection—an impossible task, as the only light source was a flickering orange glow through a door at the far end of the room. She stepped toward it, her feet sinking into a thick carpet—thick enough to explain the sound of the space, quiet and lush in the darkness. She could hear the fullness of the chamber, and she wondered what was there, around her, cocooning her from the outside world.

That was what the room felt like, even in darkness—a cocoon. Protection from everything beyond—anything that might threaten. Anything that did not promise pleasure.

It should have been cold, for the way darkness and wind had arrived outside, but it wasn’t. She supposed she should not have been surprised about that—was anything about him ever cold?

Hattie could make out his shape at the far side of the room, his broad shoulders shrugging out of his coat before he tossed it over the arm of a chair, revealing narrow hips and long legs. Her mouth went dry as he crouched low at the fireplace, where glowing coals turned to cinder in the hearth. He stoked the fire and tossed wood onto it, then rose to light a half-dozen candles on the mantel.

More of the space revealed itself, and Hattie discovered she was in the most decadent room she’d ever seen. The walls were covered in rich paisley silk in blues and greens, and it was filled with a collection of extravagantly stuffed furniture, each piece larger and more welcoming than anything she’d ever experienced—a burgundy loveseat that was double the depth of any other in London, a cream-colored high winged chair with a cushion that she ached to sit upon. Rich, sapphire satin covered a chaise in the far corner, laden with pillows in myriad colors to rival the collection of a king.

More cushions were scattered before the fireplace, as though they’d been dropped there for comfort by someone whiling away the hours warming their toes.

The colors were outrageous—the hues of summer and autumn, their lushness rivaling only the lushness of the textiles themselves. Hattie’s fingers itched to explore, to touch every inch of the room and revel in its pure decadence.

If he’d noticed her response, he ignored it. Or, perhaps, he angled for more of it, moving from the mantelpiece, match in hand, to light a dozen more candles, their flickering light setting the fabrics to shimmer. And then he stepped up onto a raised stool, setting the flame to a dozen more candles in a stunning brass wall sconce that climbed the wall like a vine, planted by the gods.

She took a step toward him, the softness beneath her feet drawing her attention to the floor, where a half-dozen carpets were overlapped throughout the room in a manner in which someone who did not know Whit would have thought haphazard. Hattie didn’t imagine for a moment she knew Whit—not well, at least—but she knew without question that there was nothing haphazard about this room.

It was, without a doubt, his lair.

He’d told the truth about it. There were no plants, exotic or otherwise. But there were books everywhere.

They were piled on end tables and next to the loveseat; a stack teetered by the fireplace. In the corner nearest the door, a heavy credenza held at least twenty of them, piled like teacakes next to a decanter of scotch or bourbon or whatever the amber liquid within was. She drew closer, reaching for one of the haphazard stacks, letting her fingers trail over the spines. Margaret Cavendish’s Philosophical and Physical Opinions, Jane Austen’s Emma, a biography of Zenobia, a collection of work by Lucrezia Marinella, and something called Dell’Infinità d’Amore. A handsome copy of Christine de Pizan’s City of Ladies topped the stack, along with a pair of spectacles.

This was not a library. There was no extravagant woodwork. No shelving, nowhere to display a book. These books were for reading.

And this man—this was where he read. With spectacles.

In her whole life, Hattie had never imagined spectacles to be tempting. But there she was, resisting the urge to ask him to put them on.

It was the most revealing peek into another person’s life Hattie had ever experienced. Revealing and delicious and so thoroughly unexpected that she wanted to spend the next week investigating every nook and cranny, until she understood the man who’d filled them.

Except she had a suspicion she’d never fully understand him.

“This room,” she said. “It’s—”

Perfect.

He was already gone—disappeared into the chamber on the far side of this magnificent space. She couldn’t see him, but still, he pulled her to him as though she were on a string.

“Whit?” she called out as she stepped through into the room beyond, an odd shape, longer than it was wide, with three enormous circular windows along the far wall, each turned into a mirror by the moonless night beyond and the firelight within.

The one farthest to the left reflected a massive copper bathtub, half full of water, set to one side of the fireplace, and Hattie’s attention was instantly drawn to the enormous piece—larger than any bath she’d ever seen. Heat rose from the water inside, hinting that servants had been there mere minutes earlier.