Brazen and the Beast EPB

by MacLean, Sarah

  Yes.

  “More?”

  More. She pressed against him. Was that her whine?

  “Poor love,” he rumbled. He lifted her higher, her feet coming off the floor. How was he strong enough? She didn’t care. He was at the edge of her dress, the fabric too tight. Too constraining. Too limiting. “This looks uncomfortable.” He ran his tongue over the hot, full rise of her breasts, making them impossibly hotter. Impossibly fuller. She gasped for breath.

  Not-Hattie spoke again. “Do it.”

  He did not hesitate to obey, setting her to the high edge of the bed, his powerful fingers coming to the edge of the bodice. Her eyes opened and she looked down, his strong hands against the gleaming silk.

  Sanity returned. He surely wasn’t strong enough to—

  The dress ripped like paper beneath his touch, cold air chasing her shock and then—

  Fire.

  Lips. Tongue.

  Pleasure.

  And she couldn’t stop watching. She’d never seen anything like it. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen, entirely at her pleasure. The breath left her lungs as she watched, uncertain of what she loved best—the sight of him or the feel of him . . .

  The sight of her hands in his hair, holding him to her.

  The feel of them guiding him to her pleasure.

  The sound of his assent, of his desire.

  It was beyond anything she’d ever imagined. This man was beyond anything she’d ever imagined. At the thought, she dragged him up again, her fingers thrusting into his hair, pulling him to her until they kissed again. This time, though, it was she who licked over his full lips. It was he who opened to her. She who plundered. He who submitted.

  And it was glorious.

  His hands came to her breasts, his thumbs worrying the hard tips of them, stroking, pinching, until she gasped and writhed against him, lost to him.

  And she didn’t even know his name.

  The thought was ice.

  She didn’t even know his name.

  “Wait.” She pushed back from him, instantly regretting the decision when he released her without hesitation, his touch disappearing as though it had never been there to begin with. He stepped back.

  She pulled her bodice closed over her protesting breasts and crossed her arms, her hunger returning with a great, yawning ache everywhere they’d touched. Her lips began to tingle, his kiss a phantom there. She licked them, and his amber gaze fell to her mouth.

  He looked hungry, too, as he watched the words spill from her. “I don’t know your name.”

  For once, he didn’t hesitate. “Beast.”

  She misheard. Surely. “I beg your pardon?”

  “They call me Beast.”

  She shook her head. “That’s”—she searched for the word—“ludicrous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” She paused. Then, “You’re the most beautiful man anyone’s ever seen. Empirically.”

  His brows rose and he raised a hand, running it through his hair and over the back of his head in something like—was it possible it was embarrassment? “It’s rare that people point it out.”

  “That’s because it’s obvious. Like heat. Or rain. But I assume people point it out whenever they call you by that absurd moniker. I imagine it is meant to be ironic.”

  “It’s not,” he said, lowering his hand.

  She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  The promise sent a thread of unease through her. “I will?”

  He reached for her again, cupping her cheek in his palm, making her want to turn into the heat of him. “Those who steal from me. Who threaten what is mine. They see the truth of it.”

  Her heart began to pound. He meant Augie.

  This was not a man who punished in half measures.

  When he came for her brother, he would hold no quarter.

  Her brother was a proper imbecile, but she didn’t want him ruined. Or worse. No, whatever Augie had done, whatever he’d stolen, Hattie would return it. And that’s when she realized—the kiss they’d just shared—the offer he’d made her—it hadn’t been because he wished it.

  It had been because he’d wished for revenge.

  It hadn’t been for her.

  Of course it hadn’t.

  After all, this man, with his controlled passion and his silent assessment, was not the kind of man who came for Henrietta Sedley, pudgy spinster with ink stains on her wrists.

  Not unless she could deliver him something.

  This man might not wish a dowry, but he wished something, nonetheless.

  She ignored the pang of sadness that came at the understanding—pretended not to notice the sting at the backs of her eyes or the hint of unwelcome emotion in her throat. Crossing her arms more tightly over her chest, she moved past him to where she had discarded her shawl earlier.

  Once she was wrapped in the rich turquoise fabric, she turned back to him. His gaze flickered to the place where the wrap covered her ripped bodice, the tear she’d demanded he put there.

  She inhaled. If she could make one demand, she could make another. “It strikes me, sir, that you might be in the market for a trade.”

  One black brow rose in curiosity.

  “I shan’t deny that I know who had a hand in your . . . predicament . . . this evening. We are both too intelligent to play at silly games.”

  He grunted his affirmation.

  “I shall fetch what you have lost. I shall return it to you. For a price.”

  He watched her for a long moment. “Your virginity.”

  She nodded. “You want retribution; I want a future. Two hours ago, I was prepared for a transaction of sorts, so why not now?” When he did not reply, she lifted her chin, refusing to let him see her disappointment. “There’s no need for you to pretend you wished to do it out of the goodness of your heart. I am no starry-eyed miss. I’ve eyes and a looking glass.”

  She had been for a moment, though. He’d almost tricked her into playing such a part.

  “And you are no shining-armored knight, eager to court me.” Silence. Damn silence. “Are you?”

  He leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms. “I am not.”

  The man could have at least pretended.

  No.

  She didn’t want pretend. She preferred honesty.

  “And so?”

  He watched her for a long moment, those infernal all-seeing eyes refusing to release her. “Who are you?”

  She gave him a little shrug. “Hattie.”

  “Do you have a surname?”

  She wasn’t going to tell it to him. “We all have surnames.”

  “Mmm.” He paused, then said, “So, you offer the name of my enemy—though not your own—in exchange for a fuck.”

  “If you think to shock me with your language, it won’t work.” She waved away the word. “I grew up on the docks.” She’d played in the rigging of her father’s ships.

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re not from the gutter.”

  “Are you?” Who are you? She wasn’t surprised he didn’t reply. “No matter. The point is that I cut my teeth on the foul language of sailors and dockworkers, so I’m unshockable.” She pulled the shawl tight around her and considered this man, whom she’d found tied up in her carriage, who thought her brother an enemy, and who called himself Beast. Unironically.

  She should walk away. End this night before it went further. Return another time and resume the Year of Hattie with another man.

  But she did not wish another man—not after this one had kissed her so well.

  “I won’t give you a name. But I shall return whatever you’ve lost.” She would go home, sort out Augie’s part in this play, fetch whatever it was that had been taken from this man, and return it.

  “That’s likely for the best.”

  Relief flared, then uncertainty. “Why?”

  “If you g
ive me the name, you shall take responsibility when I destroy him.”

  Her heart pounded at the words. Destroying Augie was destroying her father’s business. Destroying her business.

  She should end this now. Never see this man again. She ignored the disappointment that flared at the idea. “If you’ve no interest in my offer, then you should leave. I’ve an appointment.” Perhaps she could salvage the evening.

  Not that she wished for Nelson any longer.

  It did not matter. A means to an end.

  A muscle ticked in his perfect, square jaw. “No.”

  “What then?”

  “You are in no position to make me an offer.” He reached for her once more, his long, warm fingers sliding over the nape of her neck, pulling her off balance just enough for her to put her hands to his chest for stability. “I get all of it.”

  He caught her inhale with his lips, a firm, hot slide of pleasure. He broke the kiss.

  “What is mine,” he growled.

  Whatever her brother had stolen. “Yes.” She met his lips again. Sighed as his tongue found hers in a long, slow slide.

  He pulled back. “What is yours.”

  Her virginity. “Yes,” she whispered, coming up on her toes for another kiss.

  He resisted a hairsbreadth from her. “And the name.”

  Never. That would bring him too close to everything that mattered to Hattie. She shook her head. “No.”

  One dark brow rose. “I don’t lose, love.”

  She smiled, sliding her hands into his hair and pulling him toward her, kissing him deep. She was enjoying herself immensely. “Need I remind you that I pushed you from a moving carriage earlier? I don’t lose, either.”

  She wasn’t certain if she felt or heard the low rumble in his chest. Nor was she certain it was laughter, but she wanted it to be as he lifted her high in the air and turned for the bed once more. To make good on their deal. He set her down on the mattress and leaned over her to steal her lips again, and she could not contain her sigh of pleasure before he released her and kissed over her cheek to her ear, where he whispered, “Need I remind you that I found you?” He grazed her ear with his teeth, and she sucked in a breath. “A needle in a Covent Garden haystack.”

  “Hardly a needle.” She stuck out like a sore thumb. Always had.

  He ignored her. “Waiting for a man who met your . . . what did you call them? Qualifications?”

  Her qualifications had changed. Not that he would ever know that. She turned her head, her gaze meeting his, full of fire. “I am told he is exceedingly thorough.”

  “Mmm,” he said, before he added, “I found you first.”

  “Then we shall call it even.” She barely recognized her breathless words.

  “Mmm.” He kissed her then, deep and thorough, his hands moving to the shawl that covered her destroyed dress, and she held her breath, knowing what was to come. More kissing. More touching. And all the rest. Everything.

  But before he could undo the knot that hid her from him, a knock came, clear and firm at the door.

  They froze.

  The door opened barely—not even enough for a head to poke through. Just enough for words to carry in. “My lady, your carriage has returned.”

  Dammit. Nora. Had it already been two hours?

  “I must go.” She pushed at his shoulders.

  He moved instantly, stepping back from her, giving her the space for which she had asked and did not want. He extracted the watches from his pocket and checked them both with such graceful speed that Hattie wondered if he even knew he’d done it. “Somewhere to be?”

  “Home.”

  “That was quick,” he said.

  “I was not expecting such scintillating conversation.” She paused, then added, “Though conversation is not a thing one gets often with you, is it?” After a long moment of silence, she smiled, unable to stop herself. “Precisely.”

  She crossed the room, collected her cloak, and turned back to him. “How will I find you? To—” Collect. She nearly said collect. Her cheeks blazed.

  One side of his beautiful mouth twitched, the corner barely rising before it fell. But he knew what she had been thinking, without question. And then he said, “I shall find you.”

  It was impossible. He’d never find her in Mayfair. But she could return to the Garden. Would. They’d made promises, after all, and Hattie intended for them to be kept.

  But she didn’t have time to point all that out. Nora was below, with the carriage, and Covent Garden was no place for nighttime lingering. Augie would know how to find him. She let her smile turn full grin. “Another challenge, then?”

  Something like surprise flashed in his eyes, chased away by something else—admiration? She turned away from him and set her hand to the door handle, pleasure thrumming through her. Pleasure and excitement and—

  She turned back. “I’m sorry I tossed you from a carriage.”

  His response was instantaneous. “I’m not.”

  The smile remained on her lips as she wove her way through the darkened hallways of 72 Shelton Street, the place where she had intended to start anew. To claim herself and the world that was rightfully hers.

  And perhaps she had done. Though not quite the way she had expected.

  Something whispered through her. Something that hinted at freedom.

  Hattie exited the building to find Nora leaning against the coach, cap low on her brow, hands deep in her trouser pockets. White teeth flashed as Hattie approached.

  “How was your time?” Hattie beat her friend to the start.

  Nora shrugged. “Found a toff to race and lightened his pockets.”

  Hattie shook her head with a little laugh. “You know you’re a toff, too, don’t you?”

  Her friend feigned shock. “You take that back.” When Hattie laughed, Nora tilted her head. “Don’t keep me in suspense—how was it?”

  Hattie chose her reply carefully. “Unexpected.”

  Nora’s brows rose as she opened the coach door and lowered the step. “That’s high praise. Did he meet your qualifications?”

  Hattie froze, one foot on the step. Qualifications. She patted the pockets sewn into her gown. “Oh, no.”

  “What?” Nora leaned in and whispered, altogether too loudly, “Hattie. You did use a French letter, did you not? I was assured they would be provided.”

  “Nora!” Hattie could barely summon admonishment. She was too busy panicking. She didn’t have her list. It had been in her hand. And then—

  The man called Beast had kissed her.

  And now it was gone.

  She turned and looked up at the happily lit windows of 72 Shelton Street. There he was, in a beautiful, wide window on the third floor—no longer covered. Now, it was open to the world, so all could see him, a backlit shadow—a perfect specter in the darkness.

  He raised his hand and pressed something to the window. A rectangle she identified instantly.

  Beast, indeed.

  She narrowed her gaze. He had won this round, and Hattie didn’t care for it. She turned to Nora. “Take me to my brother.”

  “Now? It’s the dead of night.”

  “Then let’s hope we do not ruin his sleep.”

  Chapter Six

  Lord August Sedley, only son and youngest child of the Earl of Cheadle, was not asleep when Hattie and Nora entered the kitchens of Sedley House half an hour later. He was very much awake, bleeding on the kitchen table.

  “Where’ve you been,” Augie whined from his place at the edge of the table when Hattie and Nora entered the room, bloody rag pressed to his bare thigh. “I needed you.”

  “Oh, dear,” Nora said, coming up short just inside the room. “Augie’s not wearing trousers.”

  “This bodes ill,” Hattie said.

  “You’re damn right it bodes ill.” Augie spat his outrage. “I was knifed, and you weren’t here and no one knew where to find you and I’ve been bleeding for hours.”

  Hattie cle
nched her teeth at the words—reminding herself that entitlement was Augie’s neutral state. “Why on earth didn’t you ask Russell to take care of it?” Her brother took a swig from the whiskey bottle in his free hand. “Where is he?”

  “He left.”

  “Of course.” Hattie did not disguise her disgust as she went for a bowl of water and a length of cloth. Russell—Augie’s sometimes valet, sometimes friend, sometimes man-at-arms, and constant pest—was perfectly useless at the best of times. “Why would he stay, as you’re only bleeding all over the damn kitchen.”

  “Still breathing, though,” Nora said happily, as she opened a cupboard and fetched a small wooden box, placing it next to Augie.

  “Barely,” Augie grouched. “I had to yank that damn thing out of me.”

  Hattie’s gaze lit on the impressive knife cast aside on the oak. The blade was eight inches long, with a curved edge that would have shone in the darkness if it weren’t so doused in blood.

  If it weren’t so doused in blood, it would have been beautiful.

  She knew such a thought was not appropriate for the moment, but still, Hattie thought it, wanting to pick up the weapon and test its weight; she’d never seen something so wicked. So dangerous and powerful.

  Except the man to whom it belonged.

  Because she knew instantly, without question, this knife belonged to the man who called himself Beast.

  “What happened?” she asked, coming to set the bowl on the table and inspect Augie’s still bleeding thigh. “You shouldn’t have taken the knife out.”

  “Russell said—”

  Hattie shook her head, cleaning the wound, enjoying her brother’s hissing curse more than she should. “I don’t care. Russell is a brute and you should have left the knife in.” She knocked twice on the worktable. “Lie back.”

  Augie groaned. “I am bleeding.”

  “Yes, I see that,” Hattie replied. “But as you are conscious, it would make my work a darn sight easier if you were lying flat.”

  Augie lay back. “Be quick about it.”

  “No one would blame you for taking your time,” Nora said, approaching with a biscuit tin in hand.

  “Go home, Nora,” Augie snapped.

  “Why would I do that when I am so enjoying myself here?” She extended the biscuit tin to Hattie. “Would you like one?”