Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(84)

“And now he is married to Felicity Faircloth.”

Surprise flared and faded. “I forget she was a toff.”

Hattie grinned. “I was always a bit jealous of her for being able to leave it. And for having such a good reason.” A pause, and then, “You have the same eyes.”

The Marwick eyes.

“I wish I’d spoken to him.”

“Dev?” He shook his head. “He’s not for you.”

She was vaguely insulted. “Why not?”

“He’s not good enough for you.”

Lips curved in a smile that nearly stole his breath. “And you are?”

“Not by miles.”

She lifted one hand at the words, slowly, as though she was afraid he might flee. Whit almost laughed at the idea. There was nothing that would take him from this moment. Nothing that he wouldn’t do to keep her there. To strip her bare and have her. Finally. And when her fingertips brushed his temple just barely, just enough to push a lock of hair back from his face, he held his breath, wanting her to pull him close. Wanting her to kiss him.

Instead, she said, “Bareknuckle Bastards. That’s how the two of you got your name.”

“Three of us.”

It took her a moment to understand. “Grace?”

“You’ve never seen a fighter like Gracie. She could take down a string of brutes and not break a sweat, and when she stepped into the ring, her opponents quaked. The world thinks us Kings of Covent Garden? It’s all bollocks. We’d be nowhere without Grace. She was born to rule it.” He smiled, small and private. “She gave me my first knife. Taught me to throw it—a weapon that didn’t require me to be the biggest or the strongest.”

Admiration flared in her violet eyes. “I rescind my earlier remarks about meeting your brother. I should much prefer to meet your sister.”

“Devil would be deeply offended to hear that.” He met Hattie’s gaze. “But Grace would enjoy meeting you. Of that I have no doubt.”

She smiled, and for a heartbeat, he wondered what it would be like if he’d met this woman in a different place, at a different time. If he’d gone to his lessons like his mother had asked. If he’d refused to leave with his father and fight for a dukedom he’d never had a chance at winning. Would he have become a merchant? A shopkeep? Something simple that kept food in their bellies and a roof over their heads? And would he have convinced this woman so far above him he could barely see her that he was a worthy match?

Would he have come home each night, tired and happy, and found comfort with Hattie, read a book by the fire, shared a sack of sweets as they discussed the weather, or the noise of the market, or the news, or whatever normal people did on a normal day.

What might have been.

An ache bloomed in his chest at the thought, one that came with a desire so keen for something so impossible that he should have put an end to the evening right then. Because he was suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he might ache forever if he let Hattie Sedley come closer.

Of course, by the time he realized that, he was too desperate to have her.

And so instead of sending her home, he leveled her with a long look—long enough to set another blush on her pretty round cheeks, and have her looking away with an embarrassed smile on her wide, welcome mouth.

He wanted her.

And she wanted him.

And tonight, that was all that mattered.

“Hattie,” he said softly, not wanting to scare her with his eagerness.

She looked up, her violet eyes enormous. “Yes?”

“Are you through tending me?”

Her attention skittered down to the bandage around his torso. “Yes.”

He reached a hand out, trailing his fingers over her cheek, the skin smooth as silk. “Do we still have a deal?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers caught a loose lock of hair, like spun gold in the firelight, and he tucked it back behind her ear. She leaned toward the touch, and he caught her face, leaning closer, lowering his head to breathe her in. “Christ, you smell sweet. You’re like cakes in a shop window.”

She huffed a little laugh. “Thank you?”

“When I was a boy, there was a sweet shop in Holborn that made the most delicious almond sponge—I only ever had it once. The baker was a proper Belgian bastard, and he’d chase us with a broom if we darkened the doorstep, but if you stood in just the right spot across the street and down a bit, you could smell those cakes every time the door opened.”

He leaned close and brushed his nose over her temple, lowering his voice to a whisper. “In my whole life, I’ve never had temptation like those cakes. Until you.” He pressed his lips to her warm skin and told her the truth. “I’ve never wanted anything like I want you.”

She put her hand to his shoulder, her long fingers curving up, around his neck, and for a heartbeat he panicked—thinking she might push him away. But she didn’t. Instead, she turned her head and kissed him, setting her ruination in motion.

And his own.

“Whit,” she whispered, the sound soft and full of sin, and there was no question of resistance. He reached for her, unbuttoning her coat, sliding his hand beneath the warm wool to her—warmer, hotter. He reveled in the feel of her body, the swell of her waist, the round curve of her hip, her strong thighs as he pulled her closer, turning, lifting her so she straddled him.