Wicked and the Wallflower: Bareknuckle Bastards Book 1

by Sarah MacLean

  He hoped every memory of their youth consumed his brother, and he was consumed with regret for allowing himself to play the doting son to a fucking monster.

  Still, Devil lied. “I don’t care.”

  “I have searched for you for more than a decade, and now I’ve found you. The Bareknuckle Bastards, rich and ruthless, running God knows what kind of crime ring in the heart of Covent Garden—the place that birthed me, I might add.”

  “It spat you out the moment you betrayed it. And us,” Devil said.

  “I’ve asked a hundred questions a thousand different ways.” Ewan turned away, running a wild hand through his blond hair. “No women. No wives. No sisters to speak of. Where is she?”

  There was panic in the words, a vague sense that he might go mad if he did not receive an answer. Devil had lived in the darkness long enough to understand madmen and their obsessions. He shook his head, sending a word of thanks to the gods for making the people of the Garden loyal to them. “Ever beyond your reach.”

  “You took her from me!” Panic edged into rage.

  “We took her from the title,” Devil said. “The one that sickened your father.”

  “Your father, as well.”

  Devil ignored the correction. “The title that sickened you. The one that had you ready to kill her.”

  The duke looked to the ceiling for a long minute. Then, “I should have killed you.”

  “She would have escaped.”

  “I should kill you now.”

  “You’ll never find her, then.”

  A familiar jaw—an echo of their father’s—clenched. Eyes went wild, then blank. “Then understand, Devil, I have no interest in keeping my end of the deal. I shall have heirs. I’m a duke. I shall have a wife and child within a year. I shall renege on our deal, unless you tell me where she is.”

  Devil’s own rage flared, his grip tightening on the silver head of his walking stick. He should kill his brother now. Leave him bleeding out on the fucking floor, and finally give the Marwick line its due.

  He tapped the end of his stick on the toe of his black boot. “You would do well to remember that with the information I have about you, Duke. A word of it would have you hanged.”

  “Why not use it?” The question was not combative, as Devil would have expected it. It was something like pained, as though Ewan would greet death. As though he would summon it.

  Devil ignored the realization. “Because toying with you is more diverting.”

  It was a lie. Devil would have happily destroyed this man, his once brother. But all those years ago, when he and Whit had escaped the Marwick estate and made for London and its terrifying future, vowing to keep Grace safe, they’d made another vow, this one to Grace herself.

  They would not kill Ewan.

  “Yes, I think I shall play your silly game,” Devil said, standing and tapping his walking stick on the floor twice. “You underestimate the power of the bastard son, brother. Ladies love a man willing to take them for a walk in the darkness. I’ll happily ruin your future brides. One after another, until the end of time. Without hesitation. You never get an heir.” He approached his brother, coming eye to eye with him. “I took Grace right out from under you,” he whispered. “You think I cannot take all the others?”

  Ewan’s jaw went heavy with passionate rage. “You will regret keeping her from me.”

  “No one keeps Grace from anything. She chose to be rid of you. She chose to run. She didn’t trust you to keep her safe. Not when she was proof of your darkest secret.” He paused. “Robert Matthew Carrick.”

  The duke’s gaze blurred at the name, and Devil wondered if perhaps the rumors were true. If Ewan was, indeed, mad.

  It would not be a surprise, with the past that haunted him. That haunted them all.

  But Devil didn’t care, and he continued. “She chose us, Ewan. And I shall make certain that every woman you ever court does the same. I shall ruin every one of them, with pleasure. And in doing so, I shall save them from your mad desire for power.”

  “You think you haven’t the same desire? You think you did not inherit it from our father? They call you the Kings of Covent Garden—power and money and sin surround you.”

  Devil smirked. “Every bit of it earned, Ewan.”

  “Stolen, I think you mean.”

  “You would know a thing or two about stolen futures. About stolen names. Robert Matthew Carrick, Duke of Marwick. A pretty name for a boy born in a Covent Garden brothel.”

  The duke’s brow lowered, his eyes turning dark with clarity. “Then let it begin, brother, as it seems I have already been gifted a fiancée. Lady Felicia Fairhaven or Fiona Farthing or some other version of a stupid name.”

  Felicity Faircloth.

  That’s what the horses’ asses on the balcony had called her before they’d shred her to bits, forced her hand, and inspired her to claim a ducal fiancé in a fit of outrageous cheek. Devil had watched the disaster unfold, unable to stop her from embroiling herself in his brother’s affairs. In his affairs.

  “If you think to convince me you aren’t in the market for hurting women, bringing an innocent girl into this is not the way to do it.”

  Ewan’s gaze found his instantly, and Devil regretted the words. What Ewan seemed to think they hinted at. “I shan’t hurt her,” Ewan said. “I’m going to marry her.”

  The unpleasant pronouncement grated, but Devil did his best to ignore the sensation. Felicity Faircloth of the silly name was most definitely embroiled now. Which meant he had no choice but to engage her.

  Ewan pressed on. “Her family seems quite desperate for a duke—so desperate that the lady herself simply pronounced us engaged this evening. And to my knowledge, we’ve never even met. She’s clearly a simpleton, but I don’t care. Heirs are heirs.”

  She wasn’t a simpleton. She was fascinating. Smart-mouthed and curious and more comfortable in the darkness than he would have imagined. And with a smile that made a man pay attention.

  It was a pity he’d have to ruin her.

  “I shall find the girl’s family and offer them fortune, title, all of it. Whatever it takes. Banns shall post Sunday,” Marwick said, calmly, as though he was discussing the weather, “and they will see us married within the month. Heirs soon on the way.”

  No one gets back in. Not without a match for the ages.

  Felicity’s words from earlier echoed through Devil. The woman would be thrilled with this turn of events. Marriage to Marwick got her what she wanted. A heroine’s return to the aristocracy.

  Except she wouldn’t return.

  Because Devil would never allow it, beautiful smile or no. Though the smile might make her ruination all the better.

  Devil’s brows lowered. “You get heirs on Felicity Faircloth over my rotting corpse.”

  “You think she will choose Covent Garden over Mayfair?”

  I want back in.

  Mayfair was everything Felicity Faircloth wanted. He’d simply have to show her what else there was to see. In the meantime, he threw his sharpest knife. “I think she is not the first woman to risk with me rather than spend a lifetime with you, Ewan.”

  It struck true.

  The duke looked away, back out the window. “Get out.”

  Chapter Four

  Felicity sailed through the open door of her ancestral home, ignoring the fact that her brother was at her heels. She paused to force a smile at the butler, still holding the door. “Good evening, Irving.”

  “Good evening, my lady,” the butler intoned, closing the door behind Arthur and reaching for the earl’s gloves. “My lord.”

  Arthur shook his head. “I’m not staying, Irving. I’m only here to have words with my sister.”

  Felicity turned to meet the brown gaze identical to her own. “Now you’d like to speak? We rode home in silence.”

  “I wouldn’t call it silence.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. I’d call it speechlessness.”

&nb
sp; She scoffed, yanking at her gloves, using the movement to avoid her brother’s eyes and the hot guilt that thrummed through her at the idea of discussing the disastrous evening that had unfolded.

  “Good God, Felicity, I’m not sure there’s a brother in Christendom who would be able to find words in the wake of your audacity.”

  “Oh, please. I told a tiny lie.” She made for the staircase, waving a hand through the air and trying to sound as though she weren’t as horrified as she was. “Plenty of people have done far more outrageous things. It’s not as though I took up work in a bordello.”

  Arthur’s eyes bugged from their sockets. “A tiny lie?” Before she could reply he added, “And you shouldn’t even know the word bordello.”

  She looked back, the two steps she’d already taken putting her above her twin. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “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?”

  Her brother narrowed his brown gaze on hers. “No, but I can see you wish to. 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.

  Felicity gave a little chuckle as he took his leave.

  “I’m happy one of us is still able to find levity in our situation.” Arthur looked to the great chandelier above and said, “Good God, Felicity.”

  And they were returned to where they’d begun, guilt and panic and not a small amount of fear coursing through her. “I didn’t mean to say it.”

  Her brother shot her a look. “Bordello?”

  “Oh, now it’s you who are jesting?”

  He spread his hands wide. “I don’t know what else to do.” He stopped, then thought of more to say. The obvious thing. “How could you possibly think—”

  “I know,” she interrupted.

  “No, I don’t think you do. What you’ve done is—”

  “I know,” she insisted.

  “Felicity. You told the world that you’re marrying the Duke of Marwick.”

  She was feeling rather queasy. “It wasn’t the world.”

  “No, just six of the biggest gossips in it. None of whom like you, I might add, so it’s not as though we can silence them.” The reminder of their distaste for her was not helping her roiling innards. Arthur was pressing on, however, oblivious. “Not that it matters. You might as well have shouted it from the orchestra’s platform for the speed with which it tore through that ballroom. I had to hie out of there before Marwick sought me out and confronted me with it. Or, worse, before he stood up in front of all assembled and called you a liar.”

  It had been a terrible mistake. She knew. But they’d made her so angry. And they’d been so cruel. And she’d felt so alone. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Arthur sighed, long and heavy with an unseen burden. “You never mean to.”

  The words were soft, spoken almost at a whisper, as though Felicity weren’t supposed to hear them. Or as though she weren’t there. But she was, of course. She might always be. “Arthur—”

  “You didn’t mean to get yourself caught in a man’s bedchamber—”

  “I didn’t even know it was his bedchamber.” It had been a locked door. Abovestairs at a ball that had broken her heart. Of course, Arthur would never understand that. In his mind it was brainless. And perhaps it had been.

  He was on to something else now. “You didn’t mean to turn down three perfectly fine offers in the ensuing months.”

  Her spine straightened. Those she had meant. “They were perfectly fine offers if you liked the aging or the dull-witted.”

  “They were men who wanted to marry you, Felicity.”

  “No, they were men who wanted to marry my dowry. They wanted to be in business with you,” she pointed out. Arthur was a great business mind and could turn goose feathers into gold. “One of them even told me that I could remain living here if I liked.”

  Her brother’s cheeks were going ruddy. “And what would have been wrong with that?!”

  She blinked. “With living apart from my husband in a loveless marriage?”

  “Please,” he scoffed, “now we are at love? You might as well carry yourself up to the damn shelf.”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “Why? You have love.”

  Arthur exhaled harshly. “That’s different.”

  Several years ago, Arthur had married Lady Prudence Featherstone in a renowned love match. Pru was the girl who’d lived on the dilapidated estate next door to the country seat of Arthur and Felicity’s father, and all of London sighed when they referred to the brilliant young Earl of Grout, heir to a marquessate, and his impoverished, lovely bride, who’d immediately delivered her besotted husband an heir and was currently at home, awaiting the birth of his spare.

  Pru and Arthur adored each other in that unreasonable way that no one believed existed until one witnessed it. 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.

  But it wasn’t so impossible, was it? “Why?”

  “Because I’ve known Pru for my whole life and love doesn’t come along for everyone.” He paused, then added, “And even when it does, it comes with its own collection of challenges.”

  She tilted her head at the words. What did they mean? “Arthur?”

  He shook his head, refusing to answer. “The point is, you’re twenty-seven years old, and it’s time for you to stop dithering about and get yourself married to a decent man. Of course, now you’ve made it near impossible.”

  But she didn’t want any old husband. She wanted more than that. She wanted a man who could . . . she didn’t even know. A man who could do more than marry her and leave her alone for the rest of her life, certainly.

  Nevertheless, she did not want her family to suffer for her wild actions. She looked down at her hands and told the truth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Your contrition isn’t enough.” The response was sharp—sharper than she would have expected from her twin brother, who had stood with her since the moment they were born. Since before that. She found his brown gaze—eyes she knew so well because they were hers, as well—and she saw it. Uncertainty. No. Worse. Disappointment.

  She took a step down, toward him. “Arthur, what’s happened?”

  He swallowed and shook his head. “It’s nothing. I just—I thought perhaps we had a shot.”

  “At the duke?” Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “We did not, Arthur. Not even before I said what I did.”

  “At . . .” He paused, serious. “At a proper match.”

  “And was there a team of gentlemen clamoring to meet me tonight?”

  “There was Matthew Binghamton.”

  She blinked. “Mr. Binghamton is deadly dull.”

  “He’s rich as a king,” Arthur offered.

  “Not rich enough for me to marry him, I’m afraid. Wealth does not purchase personality.” When Arthur grumbled, she added, “Would it be so bad for me to remain a spinster? No one will blame you for my being unmarriageable. Father is the Marquess of Bumble, and you’re an earl, and heir. We can do without a match, no?”

  While she was wholly embarrassed by what had happened, there was a not-small part of her that was rather grateful that she’d ended the charade.

  He looked as though he was thinking of something else. Something important.

  “Arthur?”

  “There was also Friedrich Homrighausen.”

  “Friedrich . . .” Felicity tilted her head, confusion flaring. “Arthur, Herr Homrighausen arrived in London a week ago. And he doesn’t speak English.”

  “He didn’t seem
to take issue with that.”

  “It did not occur to you that I might take issue with it, as I do not speak German?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “You could learn.”

  Felicity blinked. “Arthur, I haven’t any desire to live in Bavaria.”

  “I hear it’s very nice. Homrighausen is said to have a castle.” He waved a hand. “Turreted.”

  She tilted her head. “Am I in the market for turrets?”

  “You might be.”

  Felicity watched her brother for a long moment, something teasing about the edges of thought—something she could not put voice to, so she settled on, “Arthur?”

  Before he could reply, a half-dozen barks sounded from above, followed by, “Oh, dear. I take it the ball did not go as planned?” The question carried down from the first floor railing on the heels of three long-haired dachshunds, the pride of the Marchioness of Bumble, who, despite having a red nose from the cold that had kept her at home, stood in perfect grace, wrapped in a beautiful wine-colored dressing gown, silver hair down about her shoulders. “Did you meet the duke?”

  “She didn’t, as a matter of fact,” Arthur said.

  The marchioness turned a disappointed gaze on her only daughter. “Oh, Felicity. That won’t do. Dukes don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “They don’t?” Felicity brazened through her reply, willing her twin quiet as she worked to fend off the dogs that were now up on their back legs, pawing at her skirts. “Down! Off!”

  “You are not as amusing as you think,” her mother continued, ignoring the canine assault going on below. “There is perhaps one duke available a year? Some years, no dukes at all! And you’ve already missed your chance at last year’s.”

  “The Duke of Haven was already married, Mother.”

  “You needn’t say it as though I don’t remember!” her mother pointed out. “I should like to give him a firm talking to for how he courted you without ever intending to marry you.”