Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards, #1)

by Sarah MacLean

The three were woven together long before they were aware, strands of spun, silken steel that could not be separated—not even when their fate insisted upon it.

Flickering candles and mottled glass distorted the revelers in the ballroom beyond, turning the throngs of people within—aristocrats and moneyed gentry—into a mass of indiscernible movement, reminding Devil of the tide of the Thames, ebbing and flowing and slick with color and stink.

“It’s difficult, as at this point, my mother has strict requirements for any suitor.” “For example?” “A heartbeat.”

“Because I am not for dukes.” Why the hell not?

She smiled at that. “You’re amusing.” “No one in my whole life would agree with you.” Her smile grew. “I am rarely interested in others’ opinions.”

Another warning sounded from Whit, and the woman looked over her shoulder. “That’s a very persistent nightingale.” “He’s irritated.”

After all, no one liked a spinster less than the world that made her.

That was the problem with Felicity. She’d always wanted more than she could have. Which had left her with nothing, hadn’t it?

“You are too late for the duke,” she repeated, knowing, even as she spoke, that she must stop the words from coming. Except they were a runaway horse—loosed and free and wild. “Because I’ve already landed him.”

“I suppose you think that it isn’t proper, me knowing the word bordello.” “I don’t think. I know. And stop saying bordello.” “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

And I don’t want you to offend Irving.” The butler’s brows rose. Felicity turned to him. “Am I offending you, Irving?” “No more than usual, my lady,” the older man said, all seriousness.

“I didn’t mean to say it.” Her brother shot her a look. “Bordello?”

They never argued, they enjoyed all the same things, and they were often found together on the edges of London’s ballrooms, preferring the company of each other to the company of anyone else. It was nauseating, really.

She climbed the stairs, the dogs weaving back and forth in front of her. When she reached the landing, she faced her mother. “Your dogs are trying to kill me.” The marchioness nodded, allowing the change of topic. “It’s possible. They’re very clever.”

But if tonight had taught her anything, it was that magic was not real. What was real was trouble.

She imagined sneaking from the house, returning to the scene of her devastating crime. Winning a fortune for her family, and the wide world for herself. Wanting more than she could have.

If she weren’t herself, she could do it. She could find the duke and woo him. She could bring him to his knees. If she were beautiful and witty and sparkling. If she were at the center and not the edge of the world. If she were inside the room, and not peering through the keyhole.

Before she could reach it, however, a voice sounded from the darkness. “You shouldn’t tell lies, Felicity Faircloth.”

“You’ve a balcony, Juliet.” “I’ve also a bedchamber on the third floor, not-Romeo.”

Out of curiosity, who has usurped my throne?” No one. If anything, the scar makes you more handsome.

“When you are ignored by the stars, you wonder if you might ever burn bright.”

He narrowed his gaze on her, and she’d had quite enough of that. “What do you eat for breakfast?” “What in—” He shook his head as though to clear it. “What?” “It’s not porridge, is it?” “Good God. No.” “This is fascinating,” the woman said.

“Oh . . . Reggie,” the first woman cackled. “You’ve got yerself a bit o’ trouble now . . .” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper as she backed farther into the darkness. “The Devil’s found you.”

“And yet he is there, inside Bourne House, drinking tepid lemonade and eating crumpets and dancing the quadrille.” Whit cut him a look. “Crumpets?” “Whatever they fucking eat,” Devil growled.

Hester said the lady begged you not to, and you went soft.”

Whatever it was, you did something to make them realize you were no longer interested in licking their boots. And there is nothing like the loss of a sycophant to anger gasbags like those four.”

“No!” she said altogether too forcefully. “Not at all. I was just . . . here . . . breathing.” His brows rose at the words, and she shook her head. “Breathing air. Taking air. I mean.

It seemed they wanted to be certain I knew precisely what sort of cow I was purchasing.” “Hog,” she corrected, immediately regretting the words. He looked to her. “I’m not certain that’s more flattering, but if you prefer it.”

“Where is she?” “At the door!” His heart began to pound. “Whose door?” “Yours,” John said, finally allowing the smile that had been threatening to break through. “Your lady’s tryin’ to pick the lock.”

“It’s yours?” Pride lit in his eyes, and something tightened in her chest. “It is.” “It’s magnificent.”

“They should be bloody proud of it.” She raised her brows. “Of my criminal tendencies?”

They should be proud of it because you’ve got the future in your hands every time you hold a hairpin.”

“Is she bothering you, Nik?” Felicity pulled back her hand and spun toward the question, spoken altogether too close to her ear. Devil had returned to inspect the open wagon, and Felicity, it seemed. “No,” the woman named Nik replied, and Felicity thought she might hear laughter in the other woman’s voice, “but I’m imagining she’s going to bother you quite a bit.”

Everyone was always on about women’s décolletages and how corsetry was growing more salacious by the minute and skirts clung too close to women’s legs, but had any one of those people seen a man without a coat? Good God.

“But you believe his name is Devil?” The question came low and graveled, as though the Beast was out of practice using his voice. She shook her head. “Oh. No. I don’t believe that at all. But you seem more reasonable.”

Because there are very few things in the world I can control, and locks are something I am good at. They are a barrier I can clear. And a secret I can know. And in the end, they bend to my will and . . .” She shrugged. “I like that.”

She tasted like a promise.

Her mother inclined her head—tacit acknowledgment. “He’s rich as the devil, I’m told.” Felicity refrained from telling her mother that she knew the Devil, and he was richer than anyone she’d ever known.

Before she could respond, he was pushing her out of the way and bounding for the hedge, moving branches aside and reaching one long arm into it. He was mad. Clearly. She took a tentative step toward him. “Um . . . Duke?” He grunted his reply, half inside the bush. “At the risk of being impertinent, may I ask why you are so interested in the hedgerow?”

“Oh, yes, I was over the moon,” she said, pertly. And then, after a moment, “You addlepated cabbagehead.” His brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

She stood then, and his gaze went to her embroidery hoop. “Good God. Is that a fox mauling a hen?”

“You. Fucking. Fools.” Devil turned toward the words. “Excellent.” He looked to Nik. “Leave while you still can.”

Whit looked to Devil. “She seems unhappy.” “Unhappy?” With lightning speed, Grace boxed Whit’s ear. “Oi!” Whit danced backward, a hand at the offended body part. “Fucking hell!”

A red brow rose. “Not Ewan.” His brow furrowed. “Who? Who do we know who is good enough for her?” Grace smiled then, full and open and uncalculated. She looked to Whit. “Who, indeed.” “Beast?” Devil thought he might lose his mind at the idea of his brother touching Felicity. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Whit growled. “You just might have the intelligence of a hedgehog. She means you, Dev. You marry the girl.”

“The girl doesn’t seem to care a bit about her reputation, Devil,” Grace said. “I might go so far as to say she’s absolutely no interest whatsoever in what society thinks of her.” “How would you know that?” he snapped. “You’ve met her one time.” She brandished the note. “Because she’s at the club right now.” He froze. “Which club?” A perfectly arched red brow rose as she replied, all calm, “My club.” There was a beat, followed by Whit’s quiet, “Fucking hell.” Or perhaps it was Devil who said it. He wasn’t certain, as he was distracted by the wash of fury that came over him at the words. He was gone in an instant, disappearing into the darkness without farewell, long legs eating up the ground until he became unsatisfied with his speed and began to run.

“It seems I can, though, can’t I?” Thank goodness for being a spinster; no one ever thought to make sure you remained in your bedchamber after you retired to bed. It made one feel quite chuffed when one did escape one’s home.

For the first time in her life, as she heard the words my lady, she wondered what it would be to actually, honestly be someone’s lady. What might it be like to stand by his side? To touch him at will? To have him touch her?

Memories swirled. Whit, reed-thin and small, with too many teeth in his little face, his impish smile big and bright. Grace, tall and sturdy, with sunken sad eyes. And Ewan, all long legs and sharp bones, like a foal. And with a monstrous determination.

my father always wanted heirs. As long as we lived, he would never get them.” Her eyes glistened in the starlight, her mouth set in a firm, straight line. “I want him dead.”

“What did you say to her?” “I told her she’d never be welcome in our home.” He met her eyes. “Why not?” “Because she hurt me. And I find I’m through with being hurt.” He shrugged. “Fair enough.”