Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(9)

The names of the men who were working with his estranged brother. His enemy. And here she was, in a building belonging to his sister, on the land that belonged to Whit himself.

Waiting for a man to pleasure her.

He ignored the thrum of excitement that coursed through him at the thought, and the thread of irritation that followed. She was business, not pleasure.

It was time to get business done.

He saw her the moment he entered, his eyes finding her perched on the edge of the bed, clutching a bedpost in the darkness. As he let the door close behind him, he was consumed by a singular thought: Sitting here, in one of the most extravagant brothels in the city—one designed for women of discerning taste and promising the utmost discretion—the woman could not have looked more out of place.

She should have looked completely at home, considering she had poked him awake, carried on a full conversation with him as though it were entirely ordinary, and then pushed him from a moving carriage.

After kissing him.

The fact that she’d been headed here had seemed fully in keeping with the rest of her wild night.

But something was off.

It wasn’t the dress, luxurious silken skirts exploding from the darkness in wild, turquoise waves that suggested a modiste of superior skill. It wasn’t the matching slippers, toes peeking out from beneath the hem.

It wasn’t the way the bodice glistened in the darkness, hugging the curve of her torso and showcasing the lovely swell above it—no, that bit was perfect for Shelton Street.

It wasn’t even the shadow of her face—barely recognizable in the darkness, but just visible enough to reveal her mouth gaping in surprise. Another man might find that open mouth ridiculous, but Whit knew better. He knew how it tasted. How those full lips softened and yielded. And there was nothing remotely out of place about that.

72 Shelton Street was more than welcoming of full bodies and full lips and women who knew how to use them.

But this woman didn’t know how to use them. She was stiff as stone, clinging to the bedpost with one white-knuckled hand and to an empty champagne flute with the other, holding herself at an odd angle, looking altogether out of place.

Even more so when she straightened impossibly further and said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I am waiting for someone.”

“Mmm.” He leaned back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, wishing she weren’t in shadow. “Nelson.”

She nodded, the movement like jerking clockwork. “Quite. And as you are not him—”

“How do you know that?”

Silence. Whit resisted the urge to smile. He could nearly hear her panic. She was about to back down, which would put him in the position of power. She’d give up the information he wished in minutes, like a babe to sweets.

Except, she said, “You do not match my list of qualifications.”

What in hell? Qualifications?

Somehow, miraculously, he avoided asking the question outright. The chatterbox provided additional information nonetheless. “I specifically requested someone less . . .”

She trailed off, and Whit found himself willing to do nearly anything to have that sentence finished. When she waved a hand in his direction, he couldn’t stop himself. “Less . . . ?”

She scowled. “Precisely. Less.”

Something suspiciously like pride burst in his chest, and Whit pushed it away, letting silence fall.

“You’re not less,” she said. “You’re more. You’re much. Which is why I tossed you from the carriage earlier—I apologize for that, by the way. I hope you were not too bruised in the tumble.”

He ignored the last. “Much what?”

That hand wave again. “Much everything.” She reached into the voluminous fabric of her skirts and extracted a piece of paper, consulting it. “Medium height. Medium build.” She looked up, assessing him frankly. “You are neither of those.”

She didn’t have to sound disappointed about it. What else was on the paper?

“I did not realize how large you were when we met earlier.”

“Is that what we are calling it? A meeting?”

She tilted her head in consideration. “Have you a better term?”

“An attack.”

Her eyes went wide behind her mask and she came to her feet, revealing a height he had not imagined in the carriage. “I didn’t attack you!”

She was wrong, of course. Everything about her was an assault, from her lush curves to the brightness of her eyes to the shimmer of her gown to the scent of almonds on her—as though she’d just come from a kitchen full of cakes.

The woman had felt like an attack from the moment he’d opened his eyes in that carriage and found her there, talking up a storm about birthdays and plans and the Year of Hattie.

“Hattie.” He hadn’t meant to say it. Definitely hadn’t meant to enjoy saying it.

Her eyes went impossibly larger behind the mask. “How did you know my name?” she asked, coming to her feet, panic and outrage pouring from her. “I thought this place was the height of discretion?”

“What is the Year of Hattie?”

Realization flashed, memory of revealing her name earlier. A pause, and then she said, “Why do you care?”

He wasn’t sure of the answer, so he did not offer it.