Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(92)

He grunted.

“No grunts. Not now,” she said, irritation growing. “Why didn’t you—”

Oh, God. Had he not enjoyed it?

Her eyes went wide.

Had she pushed him to do something he had not wished to do?

Doubt slammed through her, followed by panic and horror, and Hattie sat up, desperate to cover herself. How had she misread this situation, thinking he was enjoying himself?

Thinking he’d been enjoying himself because she’d been so thoroughly enjoying herself.

Because she’d been so lost in love with him.

No. Not with.

He didn’t want her.

She closed her eyes against the thought, and the mortification that came with it. “I have to leave.”

He sat up, as well. “Hattie.”

She shook her head, tears threatening. Oh, no. She couldn’t let him see her cry. She snatched her trousers in one hand and went around the edge of the loveseat to find her shirt, blessedly long enough to cover all the essential bits while she fetched her boots. She pulled on her trousers. “Thank you very much for your . . . service.”

“My what?” he asked, coming instantly to his feet.

Hattie increased the speed of her dressing. “That’s what it was, wasn’t it? I mean, you didn’t even . . .” She waved a hand at his erection, still evident.

“Hattie—” He started toward her, then stopped. Collected himself. “I didn’t want you pregnant.”

She turned to him, her mouth opening, then closing. And it was her turn to say, “What?”

“You wanted a ruined reputation. Not a ruined life,” he said. “I didn’t want you with child.”

With child.

A vision flashed, a little boy with dark hair and amber eyes. A little girl with a wide smile and a dimple in her chin. “A child wouldn’t ruin my life,” she said. “I would never think such a thing.” The words surprised her—somehow never imagined and then fully formed, as though they’d been there the whole time.

As though she’d been dreaming of a life with this man since birth.

But it didn’t matter.

And even if it did, there were other ways to prevent pregnancy and still find pleasure. French letters. A method she’d heard about in the ladies’ salon at a ball once which, at the time, had sounded rather messy, but tonight would have been something rather more . . . exciting.

If Hattie had heard of such a solution, she expected Whit had used it.

“A child would have tied you to me,” he replied. “And I can’t let that happen.”

The words stung. She hadn’t even thought of that. A child came with a child’s mother. And he didn’t want that. It made sense. Why would he? With a woman he’d thought of as nothing more than an agreement. An arrangement. A woman he didn’t want.

He didn’t want her.

Hadn’t he just proved it?

“I grew up without a father,” he added. “I know how difficult it is for a mother to provide alone. I would never do that to you. Or to a child.”

She shook her head. “I never would have imagined you would.”

He seemed to cast about for something to say. “Girls like you don’t marry boys like me, Hattie. Boys raised in the Rookery muck, living every day with the stink of it.”

“What proper horseshit,” she said, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them, startling them both. But she was furious. “There are a thousand reasons why I wouldn’t marry you, and where you were raised doesn’t even rank,” she said, and it was the truth. She’d met men born far above him in station and living far below him in character. She pulled on one boot. “There’s nothing wrong with your past.”

“There’s everything wrong with it. Look at my face, Hattie. The shiner’ll be bigger tomorrow.”

“And you got it by choice, not by chance. Don’t for a second think I pity you, Saviour Whittington.”

He stilled. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“Why?” she snapped, pulling on the second boot. “Are you afraid you’ll have to come out from behind the Beast and face the world as a man?”

His gaze narrowed on her. Good, let him glower. She wasn’t about to fear him. How dare he ruin her and then ruin her night? “I can’t keep you safe,” he said, the words sounding like they were tortured from him. “I can’t love you.”

The words were a cold slap, doubling down on the shame she already felt. She knew it, of course. She wasn’t for loving. She wasn’t even for sex.

Good old Hattie.

“I’ve never asked you to keep me safe.” She had to get out of this place before she died of embarrassment or found one of his famed blades and stabbed him. “I never asked you for love,” she said, grateful that he wouldn’t see the lie. She held up a hand before he could speak. “None of this matters, anyway. You made certain it wouldn’t. I am happy one of us was able to remain disconnected from the events of the evening.”

He ran his hands through his hair in fury and frustration, and Hattie tried very hard not to notice how all his muscles bunched and rippled with the movement. She almost succeeded. “I wasn’t disconnected.”

“No. Of course not,” she said, donning her coat, grateful to be covered up, finally. “Everyone knows that men deeply engaged in coitus often fail to complete the task.”