Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  But he’d never lost sight of her.

  Not as she’d had two glasses of champagne in quick succession. Not as she’d dashed out to the balcony with her friend—a woman he now knew was Lady Eleanora, the reckless, carriage-racing daughter of a duke. And not when he’d found her father, deliberately moving them to a place where he could keep watch on Hattie, keenly aware of the possibility—the probability—that she would attempt an escape. Considering the myriad locales in which he’d found Hattie before, Whit wouldn’t put it past her to scale a wall, commandeer a carriage, and make her way to the nearest gaming hell where, if he had to lay odds, he’d find Lady Eleanora nearby as sidekick and second.

  If they’d tried it, Whit would have followed.

  He’d been in complete control.

  And he’d retained that control when she’d reentered the room and come for him, tall and strong and determined, gaze locked on him as she approached without care for the dozens of eyes that watched, considered, judged. She’d come for him, her wine red gown the color of the sin into which he intended to lead her if only she’d let him.

  And she would let him. He had no doubt.

  Whit had finished with her father, knowing that once she reached them, he’d lose his chance at the earl—knowledge that bore truth when she did arrive, violet eyes blazing as hot as the irritated flush on her cheeks, and he hadn’t had to force the smile for that lady. It had come in earnest, and even then, he’d been in complete control.

  But when they’d begun to dance, control had come tumbling down around him. He’d felt it the moment the steps had come to him, imprinted in the memory of his muscles, twenty years older but easily returning to the dance he’d once practiced, holding the darkness in his arms and imagining the beautiful woman who would fill them when he won the day and became duke.

  He’d never imagined anyone like Hattie.

  Hattie, who had somehow become a port in the storm of his thoughts—memories of his bastard of a father, of the competition he’d put them all through, of the sting of the duke’s switch on the backs of his thighs when he misstepped. Of the ache in his stomach on those evenings when he’d been sent to his bed without food. Empty stomachs shall make you hungrier for victory, the monster had liked to say. How many nights had they been hungry at his hands? And how many more after they’d escaped him?

  The memory had been clear and cold, and his heart had begun to pound as though he were twelve years old once more, suffering a dance lesson, control beginning to slip. He’d tried to hold on. He’d focused on Hattie, mapped her face with his gaze, taking in her golden blond hair and her full cheeks, flushed with excitement at their dance. He’d catalogued the long slope of her nose, its rounded tip, and the fullness of her lips, wide and beautiful, the memory of them impossibly soft.

  Her eyes had been closed, her face tilted up to him like a masterwork—and it had calmed him. She had three dark freckles, spaced evenly apart in a little triangle on her right temple, and he’d wanted nothing more than to set his lips there, to linger and taste them. He’d taken a deep breath, enjoying the solace that came with looking at her.

  She’d turned away at one point, and Whit had become transfixed by the curve of her ear, with its soft, downy lobe and dips and curls. Another freckle teased him, a beauty mark just behind her right ear at the edge of her hairline. A secret, shared only with him. One she didn’t even know about—there was no way for her to ever see it herself. The woman had magnificent ears.

  Eventually, she’d turned back and given him the best of all—her eyes. A wild, impossible color that was unreasonable for humans—but he’d already assumed Hattie was beyond human. Part sorceress. Part warrior. So beautiful.

  And those stunning eyes—the proof of it.

  A man could lose himself in those eyes.

  A man could give himself up to them. Cede control. Just once. Just during the dance. Just until he could catch his breath and escape his memory.

  And then she’d asked him how he’d learned to dance. And it had all come back. The memory, the discomfort. He’d tensed beneath her touch, struggling for control.

  Losing.

  He’d just needed a moment. A bit of air. The cool bite of the world beyond this ballroom. A reminder that his past was not his present. That he did not need that place, with its too many people and its too cloying perfume.

  In that moment, however, he did need Hattie.

  Because, in that moment, she saved him, taking his hand in her firm grip and leading him from the room before all London, like a hound on a lead. He’d let her. He’d wanted it. And she’d known it somehow—known that she should bring him not simply out onto the balcony, but farther, down the stone steps and beyond the light spilling from the ballroom, into the gardens. Into the darkness.

  It wasn’t until they were there, under the cover of a large oak, that she let him go.

  He hated that she’d let him go.

  Hated, too, that the loss of her touch had him struggling for deep breaths again.

  Hated, more than all that, that she seemed to understand all of it.

  She stood there, soft and silent and still, for an eternity, waiting for him to restore himself. She didn’t push him to speak, seeming to understand that even if he wished to, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Instead, she waited, watching him until he returned to the present. To the place. To her.

  Hattie, whose natural inclination was to fill silence with questions, did not ask any questions. Not about his conversation with her father or about his response to the waltz. She did not ask how it was he knew how to tie an impeccable cravat.

  Instead, this woman he’d known for barely longer than a heartbeat and who already haunted his dreams said, “Thank you.”

  The words were a shock. Should it not have been him doing the thanking?

  Before he could reply, she added, “I haven’t waltzed in three years. The last time I did . . . it did not go well.” She laughed. He didn’t like the self-deprecation in the sound. “He was a baron with an eye for my father’s money, and I was nearly twenty-six and twenty-six might as well be eighty-six when London is in season.”

  He did not move, afraid that if he did, she might stop speaking.

  “I was grateful for him, honestly. He was handsome enough, and young—only thirty. And with a smile that made me think maybe it really was for me.” Whit found he had a sudden loathing for this young, handsome baron, even before Hattie added softly, “I didn’t know he was a terrible dancer.”

  Confusion flared at that. She didn’t seem the type to care about one’s dancing ability. Hadn’t she just said she didn’t?

  “There were whispers that he was after me in truth, which of course had my father satisfied—his earldom is a life peerage, you see, and Augie won’t be able to pass nobility on so marriage to a baron was a boon. My father was even more happy when the baron marked himself down for a waltz. Waltzes are golden treasure in Mayfair ballrooms.” She paused, taking a deep breath and looking up at the sky. “It’s a sliver moon.”

  He didn’t want to look at the damn moon. He wanted to look at her. But he did, following her gaze to the brilliant crescent low over the rooftops.

  “It’s setting,” she said, simply.

  “Yes.” Her eyes flew to his, her pretty mouth falling open in surprise at his speaking. To his absolute shock, his cheeks grew warm. Whit had never been more grateful for darkness, and he’d hidden in it from soldiers of the Crown on more than one occasion.

  “I stepped on his foot,” she said, softly. “He wasn’t a good dancer, and I stepped on his foot, and he called me—” She stopped. Shook her head and looked back to the moon before speaking again, so quiet she could barely be heard. “Well. It wasn’t kind.”

  Whit heard her. Heard her embarrassment. Her pain. Felt it like it was his own. He was going to find this baron and fucking garrote him. He’d bring her the man’s undeserving head.

  The riotous pounding of Whit’s heart began to c
alm.

  “So . . . thank you for the dance tonight. You made me feel . . .” She trailed off, and Whit realized that he would happily turn over the contents of the Bastards’ Rookery warehouse to thieves for the chance to hear the end of that sentence.

  But she didn’t finish. Instead, she waved her hand, the dance card attached to it fluttering in the breeze. He reached for it, pulling her closer to him with a barely-there tug on the fragile parchment, already crumpled from her mistreatment.

  He turned it over, looked at it.

  She tried to tug it back, but he wouldn’t let her. “It’s empty. I told you,” she said defensively. “No one ever claims my dances.”

  Whit ignored her, lifting the pencil that dangled from the card. “I claimed one.”

  He could hear the smirk in her retort when she said, “As a matter of fact, I claimed yours.” He put the pencil to his tongue, licking the nib before setting it to the little oval paper. “It’s a bit late for claiming your waltz, don’t you—”

  But he wasn’t claiming the waltz. He wrote his name across the whole card, claiming all of it. Claiming all of her, this woman who had rescued him, in one bold, dark scrawl. Beast.

  Hattie looked down at the moniker, her pretty lips falling into a perfect little “Oh.” He didn’t respond, and she finally looked up at him and added, “That’s that then.”

  He offered a little grunt, too afraid of what he might say if he spoke.

  She filled the silence. “You’re very graceful. Like a falcon.”

  “Like a bird?” Whit repeated, unable to stop himself. If Devil got wind of the descriptor, he would never hear the end of it.

  She laughed, the low, rolling sound like a punch to the gut. “No. Like a predator. Beautiful and graceful, yes, but strong and powerful. And dancing with you, it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever done before. You made me feel graceful.” She gave a little laugh, and he could not miss the self-deprecation there. “By association, of course. As though my movements were an extension of yours. As though I, too, was a falcon, dancing on the wind.” She looked to him, the lights of the distant ballroom a barely-there reflection in her eyes. “I’ve never felt that way. I’ve never had that. And you gave it to me, tonight. So th—”

  He moved, finally, coming for her with the speed of the damn bird she’d compared him to. Diving for her, collecting her up in his grasp. He couldn’t bear her thanking him again. Not for what had happened inside. Not for the dance he hadn’t finished. He hadn’t given her the dance she deserved.

  Her gratitude dissolved into a pretty gasp. Good.

  He didn’t deserve her thanks. He wasn’t worthy of it. Not with the plans he had for her family. For her father’s business.

  Not with the plans he had for her.

  So he caught her words with a kiss, thieving them with his hands at those pretty, rounded cheeks, his thumbs rubbing over her cheekbones as he tilted her face up to his and kept taking, her gratitude, then her surprise, then her pleasure, licking at her full, lush bottom lip until she opened for him, welcoming him inside as though she’d done it a thousand times before. And for a moment, as he tasted her sigh, it seemed as though she had.

  Whit would have sworn they’d barely begun when Hattie pulled away, but their breath, coming heavy and desperate, suggested it had been longer than he thought—never long enough, though. Her gloved hands came to his, clutching them on her cheeks, and he wanted to tear the fabric from their hands, to feel her heat.

  He almost did. Might have, if she hadn’t whispered at his lips, her tongue coming out in a little maddening lick, as though she couldn’t stop herself from taking another taste of him. “You always taste of lemon—even when there are no candies in sight.”

  He groaned, going hard as steel and pulling her tight to him, aching for her to be closer, loathing her voluminous skirts and the cage of her corset beneath the fabric of her gown—if he had his way, she’d never wear a corset again. She wouldn’t wear anything that kept him from her softness, from her curves. In frustration, he lifted her up onto her toes. “You’re wrong. It’s you who tastes sweet.” He caught her tongue and gave it a suck before releasing it and adding, “Everywhere.”

  He kissed her deep, rewarding the way she slid her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, exploring him. Her fingers traced over the leather straps of his knives down the quartet of blades like stays over his ribs and she pulled back, just enough for her eyes to meet his in the darkness. “You came armed.”

  He grunted. Then, “Attacks come from everywhere.”

  One of Hattie’s blond brows arched. “Even in Mayfair ballrooms?”

  He hauled her closer, knowing it was mad. “Especially in Mayfair ballrooms. Seeing you in this dress was an assault.” His fingers curled at her back, clutching the edge of the wine silk, and for a wild moment, he considered what might happen if he ripped this dress from her and laid her down in the crisp leaves at their feet and gave her everything she’d asked of him.

  His cock throbbed its approval as she said, uncertain, “You like it?”

  I like you.

  The thought shattered him, as devastating as the dance had been, and he released her as though he’d been singed. Her eyes went wide, and he loathed the surprise and fleeting disappointment in them as they backed away from each other, extricating themselves from the touch.

  He watched as she shook out her skirts, pretending not to notice the swell of her breasts, even as he felt like a proper ass.

  After a long while, he said, “I owe you another waltz.”

  She shook her head. “I think I shall be done with waltzes for now.” She paused. “And it seems, perhaps, you should be, as well.”

  It wasn’t a question. She didn’t expect him to answer. He didn’t expect to answer. And still, for reasons he would never understand, he did. “The man who sired me insisted I learn to waltz.”

  She straightened slowly, carefully, as though she had just discovered she was in the presence of a rabid dog. And perhaps she was. “The man who sired you.”

  “I didn’t know him,” he said, knowing he couldn’t tell her everything and wanting to tell her everything just the same. “Not for the first twelve years of my life.”

  Hattie nodded, as though she understood. She didn’t of course. No one did. No one could—except the two other boys who had lived the same life. “Where were you—before?”

  The stilted, careful question came as though she’d wanted to ask a thousand of them, and that one had been the one that had fought its way out. It was an odd question, one Whit hadn’t expected. He’d always thought of his life as being split in two—before the day his father arrived and after. But it hadn’t simply been the day he’d met his father. And he didn’t think of the time before. He didn’t want to remember it.

  So he would never understand why he told Hattie the truth. “Holborn.”

  Another nod. As though it were enough. But suddenly, it didn’t seem that it could ever be enough. He reached a hand into his pocket, extracting one of his watches, the gold warm at his palm as he added, “My mother was a seamstress. She mended the clothes of sailors coming off the ships.” When there were clothes to be mended.

  “And your . . .” She hesitated, and he knew the dilemma. She did not want to say father. “Was he a sailor?”

  What Whit would have done for his father to have been a sailor. How many times had he dreamed it—that he’d been born of his mother and a man who’d left to make his fortune, with a miniature of his wife and infant son sewn into the lining of his coat—a reminder of the home to which he would return when he’d grown rich on the other side of the world.

  How many times had he lay abed, watching his mother hunched over a pile of dirty clothes delivered by men who’d always asked for more than mending, barely able to see her work for the scant light of the candle beside her, and dreamed that the next knock on the door would be his father, returned to save them?

  And then came the day when the
knock had been his father, tall and handsome, with a face that had been baked in a heat of aristocratic disdain, and eyes like colored glass. A man cloaked in a fortune he hadn’t had to make, because he’d been born with it, all there on his face and in the weave of his clothes and the shine of his boots.

  Twenty years, and Whit could still remember the awe he’d felt at those boots—gleaming like sunlight, the clearest looking glass in Holborn. He’d never seen anything like them, nary a scuff on them, more proof of wealth and power than if the man had leaned down and announced his name and title.

  And then he had. The Duke of Marwick. A name that had opened every door, from birth. A name that bore privilege beyond reason. A name that could secure him everything.

  Everything but the one thing he wanted more than all the rest—everything but an heir.

  For that, he required Whit.

  “He was not a sailor,” Whit said, finally. “He was nothing, until he turned up at the door to our room in Holborn and promised us the world, if only I’d go with him.”

  “And your mother?” There was fear in the question, as though she already knew the answer.

  He didn’t reply, his fist clenching around the watch. Instead, Whit turned his face to the gilded room beyond—the one rife with the privilege that had tempted him all those years before, and said, “They shall be talking of you tonight, Lady Henrietta. Leading a man into the darkness.”

  Magnificently, she didn’t hesitate at the change of topic. Instead, she followed his gaze and smiled, the expression filled with the wry knowledge of women in the world. “You do not worry they shall be talking of you for being led?” A pause, then, “I did say I wished to be ruined, did I not?” The question might have been coquettish on the lips of another, but not on Hattie’s. On Hattie’s, it was honest and forthright. A clear step in the direction in which she’d decided to walk.

  Admiration flared. “You should have done this years ago.”

  She turned to him. “There was no one who would have helped me years ago.”