“You needn’t say it like you’re shocked. Was that not the purpose of your lessons?”
No. Their kiss might have begun as education but it had ended as eroticism—pure, unfettered pleasure. Pleasure that Devil would refuse to believe she’d been able to echo with Ewan.
Pleasure he imagined he might never be able to echo with anyone ever again.
But Devil did not say any of that. Instead, he asked, “And? Were you satisfied with the outcome?”
She seated herself, spreading her skirts wide and lifting an embroidery hoop from the bench. “Quite.”
His blood was rushing in his ears—loud enough to make him wonder if he was going mad. “What did you do?”
She tilted her head. “What did I do?”
“How did you win him over?”
“What are you suggesting? That I shan’t singe his wings after all? What happened to You’re not a hog, Felicity Faircloth? With such a rousing assessment from you, how could I not have won him over?”
“You’re not a hog,” he replied, feeling like an ass. Feeling off balance. “But that’s not the point. You’ll never get passion from Marwick.”
“Perhaps I won his heart with my remarkable kiss.” Her lips curved in a perfect bow, making him wish they weren’t talking about kissing, but doing it, instead.
“Impossible.” Her face fell, and he hated himself for the way he stripped her power from her. Wanting, instantly, to return it, even though he shouldn’t. Even though returning it would only make her more dangerous.
“Is it? Did you not promise me he would? Did you not say I would have him slavering after me? Singeing his wings?”
He tapped his cane against his boot. “I lied.”
She scowled. “Somehow, I find myself unsurprised.”
“Marwick is not a man who can give you passion.”
“You don’t know that.”
“In fact, I do.”
“How?”
Because I’ve seen him turn his back on it without a second thought.
She narrowed her gaze on him. “No one in London knows him. But you do, don’t you?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“How?”
“It’s not important.” What a lie that was.
“As he is going to be my husband, it seems quite important.”
He’s not going to be your husband. He couldn’t say that to her, and so he stayed quiet.
“I should have realized it from the beginning,” she said. “From the moment you promised him to me. Who is he to you? Who are you to him? How do you have such control over him?”
“No one has control over the Duke of Marwick.” That much was true. That much he could tell her.
“Except you,” she said. “Who is he? A rival in business?” Her brow furrowed. “Is he the reason your men were shot?”
“No.” At least, Devil did not think so.
She nodded once, lost to the memory of the night in the rookery. Her gaze found his, full of concern. “Your men. Brixton said they were not—”
His chest tightened at the realization that even now, even as she released her rage at him, she worried for the well-being of his men—boys she did not know. “The shipment is gone, but the men live.” The two men had been lucky, all things considered. He and Whit had found them unconscious, not from blood loss, but from cracks to the skull. He’d been awake for nearly two straight days, threatening doctors to ensure they remained alive. “They shall heal.”
She released a breath. “I’m grateful for that.”
“Not so grateful as I.”
She smirked up at him. “A pity all your ice was stolen. Strange thing to be on a thief’s list.”
He raised a brow at her observation. “People like to keep things cold.”
“Of course,” she said. “However would they do that without—what is it they call you?—the Bareknuckle Bastards?”
He nodded.
“Why do they call you that?”
A memory flashed—his first night in London, after three and a half days without sleep—he, Whit, and Grace huddled together in a corner in the rookery, hungry and scared, with nothing but each other and the lesson their father had taught them—fight as dirty as you can. “When we arrived in the rookery, we were the best fighters they’d ever seen.”
She watched him from her seat. “How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
Her eyes went wide. “You were children.”
“Children learn to fight, Felicity.”
She thought for a moment, and he wondered if he was in for a soapboxing—a treatise on children’s rights and how he should have had a better childhood, as though he didn’t know all that already. He stiffened, preparing himself, but she didn’t give it. Instead, she said, “But they shouldn’t have to.”
God knew that was true.
She stood then, and his gaze went to her embroidery hoop. “Good God. Is that a fox mauling a hen?”
She tossed it to the bench. “I was angry.”
“I can see that.”
She stepped toward him. “So, you and Beast were young and you learned to fight.”
“We were young and we were already fighters,” he corrected her. “We fought for scraps on the streets for a few weeks before we were discovered by a man who ran a fight ring.” He paused. “The three of us owned it. And then we owned Covent Garden.”
“The three of you?”
“Beast, Dahlia, and me.”
“Dahlia fought?”
Devil smirked, the memory of Grace in her grimy dress and then in her first pair of beautiful, shiny boots—bought with her winnings. “She fought harder than the rest of us combined. Collected enough winnings to start her own business long before we started ours. We were Bareknuckle Babes in comparison. Dahlia . . . she was the original Bareknuckle Bastard.”
Felicity smiled. “I like her.”
He nodded. “You are not alone.”
“But now, you don’t fight with fists,” she said, her gaze lowering to where his bare hand held his cane sword. Her own hand moved, and he wondered if she might touch him. He wondered if he’d let her.
Of course he’d let her.
He tapped his stick twice against the toe of his boot. “No. Once you learn to use a steel, you don’t go back to flesh.” You did what you could to keep yourself safe. Your brother and sister. Your crew. And a blade was more powerful than a fist.
“But you do still fight.” Felicity was still staring at his knuckles, and he was growing more unsettled by the second.
He flexed his fingers. Cleared his throat. “Only when I need to. Beast is the one who likes the show.”
Her gaze flickered to his. “Did you fight the other night?”
He shook his head. “By the time we got there, the goods were gone.”
“But you would have.” She reached for him, and they were both transfixed as her fingers traced his knuckles, white under the tight grip he held on his cane, crisscrossed with scars and marks, badges earned in the rookery. “You would have put yourself in danger.”
Her touch was pretty poison, making him want to give her everything she wanted, everything he had. He should move. “I would have done what was necessary to keep mine safe.”
“How noble,” she whispered.
“No, Felicity Faircloth,” he said. “Don’t go painting me a prince. There’s nothing noble about me.”
Her beautiful brown eyes found his. “I think you’re wrong.”
Her thumb stroked back and forth over his knuckles, and it occurred to Devil that he’d never realized how sensitive the hand was. How powerful a touch there could be. He’d only ever felt pain in his knuckles and here she was, ruining him with pleasure, making him want to haul her into his arms and show her the same.
Except, he wasn’t supposed to want her.