The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(43)

“Ya can’t stay here forever,” Niall snapped. “Overseeing Killoran’s hellion of a sister is your other task,” Niall needlessly reminded him.

Adair frowned. He’d thought of Cleopatra as a hellion on countless scores. Something in hearing Niall utter it in those frosty, lethal tones was altogether . . . different. “She discovered Paisley’s nursemaid was a drunk,” he said, feeling the need to point out that fact. Another round of banging commenced. “When Ryker and Penny trusted the young woman implicitly,” he added.

His brother scratched at his brow. “Are ya all right?”

He stared back, unblinking. What was his brother on about?

“You’re defending the girl.”

I’m not a girl.

Again, those damned words conjured forth the memories of her under him, bucking, twisting, begging for his kiss. Tamping down a groan along with an unwanted burgeoning of desire, he focused all his efforts on the two builders bringing a shorter but wider beam inside. “I’ve got more responsibilities than just seeing to Cleopatra Killoran.” He’d once scoffed at the pomposity of her name. Now, having been battled by the spirited minx on several scores, he conceded there wasn’t a more apt one for her.

“The ball is in two hours.”

His gut clenched. Another one of those infernal affairs. He’d been forced to suffer through too many polite events since his sister, Helena, had married a duke. Those bloody despised obligations had only increased with Ryker’s and Calum’s marriages to proper ladies.

“Ryker wants to know if you’ll be back.”

Adair snorted. “Wants to know? Or demands?”

“The latter,” Niall said with a grin. He’d been tasked with bringing Adair back.

“I’m overseeing the work, and then I’ll return.” Coward. You’re avoiding seeing Cleopatra, again. Stalking forward, Adair climbed the handful of broken steps, but the carved demons outside froze him in his steps. The horn of one gargoyle was broken, and a jagged crack ran through the entire winged body. Even the first adornments they’d ever affixed to the club had been ruined.

And Killoran’s club still stands and thrives . . .

Energized by his hatred and the need to end Niall’s pestering, Adair entered the Hell and Sin. Floors once carpeted and filled with guests were now littered with a sea of workers: men and small children, bustling about. Periodically they’d lift their heads from their tasks and lift a hand or call out a greeting.

Adair masked his features, attempting to hide the shock and pain that came from what his club had become.

“We’ll make it into something better,” Niall said quietly at his side. “We always do.”

Adair flexed his jaw.

Niall settled a hand on his shoulder. “I know you hate the girl for what she’s done.”

“What her family did,” he corrected. A woman who’d look after Black’s babe and offer accurate input on his design plans would never start a blaze. Knowing her even the short time he did, he knew she was too proud to assume victory that way.

“Same difference,” Niall incorrectly argued. “But you still need to be there tonight . . . not solely to watch her, but because all of London is going to see how she’s received by our family.”

Adair opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came out. When he managed to speak, he was unable to keep the disgust from his question. “And you suddenly care for those details?”

“I care for how it reflects upon my wife, and someday you’ll understand that, too.” A steely glint hardened his eyes until he was effortlessly transformed once more into the ruthless head guard at the Hell and Sin. “It’s time to leave. We all need to be there.”

Feeling like one being marched to the gallows, Adair reluctantly fell into step beside his brother, making his way toward Ryker’s carriage. Fortunately, Niall was the one sibling who’d always been driven by purpose, and he never needed to fill quiet or prattle on.

Steeling his resolve, Adair climbed inside the black conveyance and started the long journey back to his mission for the night.





Chapter 12

She looked like a bloody fool. Nay, to be precise, Cleopatra looked like a plate of lemon meringue without the benefit of the marshmallow top.

Focusing on the horrid state of her dress was far safer than focusing on the quixotic hold Adair Thorne had on her thoughts as she sat trapped in Black’s guest chambers. Willingly trapped, but trapped nonetheless.

Now, however, there was no escaping it. Cleopatra would have to venture out. She flinched. For a bloody ball—that formal introduction of a guttersnipe to Polite Society.

She exhaled slowly, dispelling that impending horror and Adair from her mind.

Doing a small circle, she eyed her frame in the mirror.

To be fair, no matter what she donned, she always looked rather silly. Her brother had erroneously believed through the years that in putting her in fine fabrics and gowns he could somehow set her worth among Polite Society as something greater than it ever was. Greater than it ever could be. Broderick hadn’t seen the inherent contradiction in their fine garments being worn at one of the wickedest clubs in London.

But Cleopatra knew enough . . . knew what her brother hadn’t yet accepted—the ton was going to cut their teeth on her . . . and quite happily, too.