Wicked and the Wallflower

by Sarah MacLean

  “I didn’t land him,” Felicity said absently, pressing forward.

  Natasha took on the look of a wild barn cat, mouse in sight. “You didn’t?”

  Silence followed, then her mother’s too loud laughter. “Oh, Felicity! What a jest. Of course, the banns have been read! There was an announcement in the News!”

  “I suppose so. Well, either way, I would not take such interest in it, Tasha . . .” Felicity said, turning a cool gaze on the other woman, “as even if I did land him, you’d never be welcome in our home, anyway.”

  Tasha’s mouth fell open at the words, and Felicity’s mother gasped her horror at Felicity’s rudeness. Blessedly, Felicity was saved from having to continue by the discovery of her fiancé, a blond head taller than anyone else in the ballroom, on the other side of the mad crush. The moment she saw him, her heart began to pound. She broke away from her unwelcome companions, weaving through the crowd to get to him.

  To get free of him.

  He was alone when she reached him, stick-straight and staring aimlessly at the crowd. She placed herself directly in front of him. “Hello, Your Grace.”

  His gaze flickered to her, then back to the ball. “I asked you not to call me that.” He paused. “Who is that woman?”

  She looked over her shoulder to find Natasha simpering nearby, playing the wide-eyed victim.

  “Lady Natasha Corkwood.”

  “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.”

  “Not that it matters, as we shan’t share a home.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But it’s a fine figure of speech, and I’m sure it helped get your point across.”

  She took a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

  He looked to her, and she saw understanding in his gaze. Understanding and something else. Something like . . . respect? “What is it?”

  It seemed fitting that an engagement begun in front of all the world ended in front of it. At least Felicity was ending it to the duke’s face, instead of to a collection of maddening gossips. “I’m afraid I cannot marry you.”

  That got his attention. He watched her for a long moment, and then said, “May I ask why?”

  Half the world was watching, and Felicity found she did not care. But surely the duke cared. “Would you like to find a place where we might . . . talk?”

  “Not particularly,” he said.

  That gave her pause. “Your Gr—” She stopped. “Duke.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “All right,” she said, her heart pounding. “Because I love another. Because I think he could love me. All I have to do is convince him that I want him more than I want this world.”

  He met her eyes. “I don’t imagine your father will be thrilled with your decision.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t imagine so. I was something of a last hope for him.”

  “For your brother, as well,” he pointed out. “They were more than happy to take my money.”

  “In exchange for a loveless marriage,” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t wish that.”

  “And what do you know of love?” he asked, the words a quiet scoff.

  I would walk through fire for him. Whit had used the words in the warehouse the other night, explaining the loyalty of Devil’s employees. She understood it now. She loved him. She looked to the duke. “Enough to know that I want it more than I want the rest.”

  He smirked at that.

  “And you should, too,” she added. When he did not reply, she added her plea, tentatively, “I wonder if I might convince you to invest with my brother in some way? He’s very knowledgeable in business, despite—”

  He cut her off. “Tell me what it looks like.”

  She hesitated. He was asking about . . . love? “It’s impossible to describe.”

  “Try.”

  She looked away, her gaze settling on a dancing couple, the woman in a beautiful sapphire gown. They were mid-turn, her back in a perfect arch over his strong arm, her skirts flaring out behind her. She stared up at him, smiling, and he, down at her, rapt, and in that moment, they were perfect enough to steal breath. Not because of her dress or his coat or how they moved or the fact that when they stopped that turn, her skirts would swirl around them both, and he would feel their heavy weight on his legs, and wish for a lifetime of the sensation.

  Sadness and desire and resolve warred within her when Felicity returned her attention to the duke. “You find your match. You find your match, and you let them love you.”

  “It is not that easy.” The words were gruff.

  “Well,” she said. “You could start by looking for her.”

  “I’ve been looking for her for twelve years. For longer. For as long as I can remember.” The words were impossible to misunderstand. The duke was not speaking of a nameless, faceless woman with whom he might live out the rest of his days. He was looking for someone specific.

  She nodded. “She is worth the wait, then. And when you do find her, you will be happy for this moment.”

  “When I find her, I shall be the most unhappy I have ever been.”

  A vision flashed. Of Devil, the night before, telling her he could never love her enough. Of his seeing her home as light began to streak across the sky. Of the soft kiss he gave her in the gardens, before she sneaked through the door to the kitchens. Of how it felt like farewell. Of the tears that had come, unbidden and unwelcome but there, nonetheless, until she’d decided that she was through having the world manipulate her, and that it was her time to manipulate the world.

  “Would you like to dance, Lady Felicity?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What?”

  “We are at a ball, are we not? It’s not an unimaginable eventuality.”

  She didn’t wish to dance.

  He went on. “That, and all of London is watching, and you are not the least emotive person I have ever met.”

  It wasn’t all of London, though. It was a tiny fraction of London, and one she was finding less and less tolerable. Nevertheless, she let him lead her to the center of the ballroom and collect her in his arms. They danced for several long minutes in silence, before he said, “So you think my brother in love with you.”

  Felicity pulled back at that, or as far away as she could while dancing. She certainly had misheard. He clearly hadn’t said—“I—I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s no need for you to play the fool, my lady,” he said. “He’s been after you from the start, has he not? From the night you announced our engagement to the world?” She missed a step at the words, and his arms tightened around her, lifting her off the ground for a heartbeat as she regained her footing.

  Confusion flared, her gaze flying to his. He couldn’t be speaking of Devil.

  Devil, whose eyes were that same, beautiful amber color as the duke’s—which she should have noticed earlier. Which she would have noticed earlier if Devil’s weren’t so full of heat, and these weren’t so cold.

  Realization dawned.

  Dear God.

  Devil’s father had been the Duke of Marwick.

  Which made the man with her—“Ewan.”

  To an outside observer, the name appeared to have no impact on him. But Felicity was in his arms, scant inches from him, and she saw the way it struck him as clearly as if she’d clenched a fist and sent it right into his jaw. Every inch of him tightened. His jaw clenched. His breath stilled in his chest. His hand went to stone in hers, and his arm became steel at her back. And then he looked at her, his eyes full of truth and something she should have been afraid of.

  But Felicity was not afraid. She was confused and shocked, and half a dozen other emotions, but she could not find room for fear, as she was too full of fury. Because if she was right and this man was Ewan, the
third brother, kidnapped to the country to vie for a title in some kind of monstrous game, then he was the winner of the game. And instead of keeping his brothers close and caring for them as they should have been cared for—as they deserved to be cared for—he’d left them to scrape and fight in the streets, never knowing where they would find their next kindness. Never knowing where they would find kindness, at all.

  And for that alone she loathed him.

  “He told you about me,” he said. Surprise in the words. Something close to awe.

  She vibrated with anger. She made to stop the dance. He refused to allow it. She pressed back against his arm with all her strength. “Let me go.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You hurt him.”

  “I hurt a lot of people.”

  “You took a blade to his face.”

  “I assure you, I didn’t have a choice.”

  “No. Clearly this world was worth more than your brother.” She shook her head. “You were wrong. I’d choose him over this place any day. I choose him now. Over you.”

  The duke’s eyes flashed. “You won’t believe me, but it had nothing to do with this world.”

  “No, I’m sure not,” she scoffed. “Not the title or the houses or the money.”

  “Believe what you like, Lady Felicity, but it is true. He was a means to an end.” The words weren’t cruel. They were honest.

  Her brow furrowed. “What kind of end would require such means?” She loathed this man. “You should be thrashed for what you did to him. He was a boy.”

  “So was I.” He paused. Then, casually, “If only you’d been with us then, Lady Felicity. Maybe you could have saved him. Maybe you could have saved us all.”

  “He does not need saving,” she said, softly. “He is magnificent. Strong and brave and honorable.”

  “Is he?”

  Something about the question unsettled, as though the duke were a chess master, and he could see her inevitable end. She pushed against him again, wanting away from this man turned monster. “I thought you were odd. You’re not. You’re horrible.”

  “I am. As is he.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  His response was instant, filled with darkness. “He is not without sin, my lady. Aren’t you curious as to how you came to know him? As to how he came to have an interest in you?”

  She shook her head, thinking back. “It was by chance. I lied—about our engagement—he overheard.”

  He did laugh then, the sound sending cold through her. “In our lifetime, nothing has ever happened to us by chance. And now you are a part of us, Felicity Faircloth. Now you are tied to us. And nothing will ever happen to you by chance again. Not engagements. Not the breaking of them. Not golden ballgowns or spies in hedgerows. Even the birds you hear sing to you in the nighttime do not warble by chance.”

  Felicity went cold and the room spun with revelation—that this man, this odious, horrid man, was inexorably tied to Devil. That he’d been so for years and, worse, that he knew the extent of her interactions with him. That he’d used her in spite of them. That he’d used her because of them, manipulating her without effort.

  “You were using me to get to him.”

  “I was. Though, to be fair, I did not set out to use you, specifically. That bit was chance, as a matter of fact.” He turned her, moving her through the room, and to an outside observer, they must have looked riveted to each other—a perfect match. No one could see the way she pushed against him, wishing to be far from him and whatever it was he was about to say.

  “I have searched for them for twelve years, did you know that? To no avail. I’d a line on a pair of brothers in Covent Garden. Ice dealers. Possibly smugglers. But they ran the streets, paid well for loyalty, and were well protected. I had no choice but to try a new tack. I came to town, broadcasting the news of my search for a bride.”

  Understanding dawned. “To summon them from shadows.”

  He inclined his head, surprise in his eyes. “Precisely. They might hide from me, but they would never stay quiet if they thought I was to renege on our only deal.” His gaze fixed on a point beyond her shoulder.

  “No heirs.”

  More surprise. “He told you that, as well?”

  “He never intended for you and I to marry,” she whispered.

  The duke barked a laugh, and those around them turned at the unexpected sound. He didn’t care. “Of course he didn’t. We were cut from the same cloth, my lady. You proved very useful to me . . . and exceedingly useful to him, as well.”

  “How?”

  “You were a message. I am not allowed happiness. I am not allowed a future. As though those things were ever in my cards.”

  Her gaze went to his, her heart pounding in her ears alongside the cacophony of the room. “I don’t understand. You didn’t want me. I wasn’t going to bring you happiness.”

  “No. But you might have brought me heirs. And those, he would not have allowed. That was the only punishment we could give our father. No heirs. The line ends with me, you see. And I know my brother well enough to know Devon would make certain of it.”

  We would mete out endless punishment.

  And Felicity was the weapon he’d chosen. The weapon, it seemed, they had both chosen.

  And then he added, “And the promise of you would deliver Devon to me.”

  She slowed to a stop and the duke allowed it, her skirts swirling around her, even as the rest of the assemblage continued dancing. Heads turned toward them, whispers already beginning. Felicity didn’t care. “I’ll give him his due; he did his work well.” He paused. “I’m guessing he’s already had you. I’m guessing he expected you to come here tonight and end our arrangement. Which of course you did, because you fancy yourself in love with him. Because you fancy yourself able to convince him that he loves you, as well.”

  The room whirled around them, the realization that Devil had betrayed her coming hard and fast and making her want to simultaneously cast up her accounts and do physical harm to the arrogant man before her. And then he added in a tone absent of emotion, “Poor girl. You should have known better. Devon cannot love. It’s not in him. He, like all of us, and like our father before us, can do nothing but ruin. I hope yours was at least enjoyable.”

  The words threatened to break her. To return her to Forlorn Felicity. Finished Felicity. But she would not allow that. She came to her full height, her shoulders straight and her chin proud, refusing to acknowledge the tears that threatened. She would not have tears. There was no time for them.

  Instead, she took a step back, putting distance between them, and the nearest couples slowed, craning their necks to see. They did not have to crane when she let her hand fly, nor did they have to strain to hear the wicked crack of her palm against his cheek.

  He took the blow without a word, and the entire room felt its ripple.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Devil spent hours that evening in the muck of the Thames, working the hook, the best way for him to keep his mind off what he’d done. He’d hauled and lifted until his muscles were raw, until his clothes were drenched with sweat and it felt as though the skin from his shoulders had been flayed. Only then did he find it in him to return home, aching and stinking and tired enough to have a promise of a bath and sleep before he woke, hard and hot and reaching for the one thing he could not have.

  Christ. It had been barely a day and he missed her like air.

  He cursed and unlocked the door to his offices, the building heavy with silence.

  Letting exhaustion come, he climbed the stairs and extended a key into the lock, only to discover that no key was necessary. Someone had unlocked the door to his chamber and, while there were half a dozen plausible possibilities, there was only one person he wished it to be, even as he wished for it to be anyone but her.

  He pushed the door open, the hinge groaning beneath the slow movement.

  Felicity was standing at the center of his offices, in the most b
eautiful pink gown he’d ever seen—the kind of gown any man would kill to remove—still and straight and serene, her eyes instantly on his, as though she’d been standing there forever, waiting for him. As though she would stand there forever, until he returned.

  Past and future and glorious, impossible present.

  He entered, closing the door behind him, steeling himself for what was to come. Summoning the strength to send her packing again. “I would ask you how you got into the building, but I don’t think I would like the answer.” He lifted his chin at her dress, unable to stop himself from pointing out the finery. “Covent Garden has never seen a frock such as that, my lady.”

  She did not look down at it. “I came from the Northumberland ball.”

  He whistled, long and low. “Did you give the nobs my regards?”

  “I did not, as a matter of fact,” she said. “I was too busy ending my engagement.”

  The words rioted through him. He moved toward her without thought. False. There was a single thought. Yes. Yes, she was free, and could finally, finally, be his.

  Except she couldn’t. “Why?”

  “Because I did not wish to marry the duke, or anyone else in the aristocracy.”

  Marry me.

  She went on. “Because I thought that if I did it there—if I ended my engagement publicly, in front of all the ton—then you would see that I was willing to turn my back on that world and join you here, in this place.”

  His heart began to pound.

  “You see, after that . . . after striking the duke in public—”

  “You hit him?” He reached for her. “Did he—”

  She recoiled from his touch and he stilled, dread and something else settling, instantly, in his gut. Fear. “I did, as a matter of fact. At the center of a ballroom in the seat of one of the most powerful dukedoms in history. I’m well and truly ruined now.”

  He didn’t care about ruination. He cared about her. “Why did you hit him? Did he hurt you?”

  She laughed, the sound bitter. “Did he hurt me? No.”

  “Then why—”

  “I suppose some might be hurt by discovering they’d been betrayed by the man they are to marry . . .” She watched him for a long moment, unspeaking. “But I was never to marry him, was I? Not from the beginning?”