Brazen and the Beast EPB

by MacLean, Sarah

  “You’re welcome.”

  He should return her to the house, this woman who had rescued him and hadn’t asked him to explain. Hadn’t even lingered on the events inside. Instead, she’d told him about the last, miserable dance she’d had. And he’d told her nothing.

  He didn’t want to bring her in. He wanted to tell her something. “I think you would like my sister.”

  Hattie froze at the words. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “There are many things you do not know about me.”

  “If only there were some way you could tell me such things. Some kind of verbal communication you might attempt. Turning all your growls and grunts into discernible words. A spoken language of some kind, complete with meaning.”

  He grunted his amusement, and she smiled.

  “Do you want to hear about her or not?”

  Her eyes widened. “Absolutely.”

  “My sister was born a woman into a man’s world. My father used to say she’d had a single purpose, and she hadn’t been able to achieve it.”

  “A disappointment from her first breath,” Hattie said, too familiar with the idea.

  “And every breath after,” Whit agreed, avoiding the full truth of the story. The bit where his father had never intended for the bastard girl not of his blood—useful only as a placeholder for his future heir—to live past her fourteenth birthday. Instead, he skipped to the midpoint of the tale. “When we were fourteen, Grace and Devil and I fled—to start our lives outside of his control. We arrived in the city and found our way to Covent Garden. I thought we could go to—”

  To his mother. The only one of their mothers who had lived at that point.

  He reached into his pocket, taking his second pocket watch in hand. Hattie’s gaze tracked the movement, and for a single, mad moment, he considered telling her everything. But telling her would bring her too close. And he couldn’t afford her close.

  He shook his head and returned his attention to her. Cleared his throat. “Suffice to say, we couldn’t have survived without Grace. She was smarter and stronger than the rest of us, by far. Bits notwithstanding.” Grace might not have been their sister by blood, but she was their sister in spirit.

  She smiled at that. “Where is she now?”

  He didn’t know. Grace had left town after Ewan had returned, knowing that he had been looking for her. Knowing that the last time Ewan had seen her, he’d tried to kill her. They’d told Ewan she was dead, and he’d nearly killed Devil for the news, then left, madder than before. She was somehow keeping her businesses running from hiding, but still, she hadn’t returned.

  In the silence, Hattie said, “Well, wherever she is, I am grateful that you had each other.”

  Don’t be kind to me, Henrietta Sedley. I don’t deserve it.

  He forced his thoughts down a new path. “Body. Business. Home. Fortune. Future.” Her eyes went wide at the echo of the night they’d met. “Body begets business. You think my ruining you will get you closer to Sedley Shipping.”

  She looked back to the house, where no doubt London was agog at how she’d marched him into the gardens. “We shall find out soon enough. I’m well and truly ruined after tonight.”

  “You’re nowhere near the kind of ruined you want,” he said more casually than he felt at the idea of getting her alone so he could do the deed properly. “And we’ll get to that, but first, body begets business begets fortune begets future. Assuming you get the business.”

  Her attention snapped to him. “I’ll get it.”

  He ignored the vow and the whisper of guilt that came with it. “And what of home? You expect your father to give you the business, but not let you stay in your family’s home?”

  “Of course he would. But a woman of business requires a home of her own. Filled with a life she’s made for herself. One she’s chosen for herself.”

  “Does she?”

  “Don’t you?” she asked, not waiting for him to answer before she added, “I would wager you do. Some kind of lair deep in Covent Garden. Filled with . . .” She stopped, and he hung on the pause. “. . . plants or something.”

  He blinked. “Plants?”

  “You seem the kind of man who has plants.”

  “Potted plants?”

  “No.” She shook her head, as though this were all perfectly normal. “Exotic plants. Things a body could not find without a serious tour about another continent.”

  He laughed at that, surprising himself with the way she made him lighter. “I’ve never been outside of Britain.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Really?”

  He shrugged. Where would a boy raised in the gutter go?

  “Well then,” she said, waving away the moment. “Potted plants, then.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have plants.”

  “Oh. You should get some.”

  He resisted the urge to continue down her mad path and instead said, “And what of you . . . do you have a home in mind? In which to keep your own plants?”

  She smiled. “In fact, I do.”

  “Where?” He shouldn’t care. But he did—he wanted to know about this dream she had—the part that went far beyond what he’d already seen. He wanted her to share it with him. To choose him to share it with.

  The pleasure he felt when she did just that was immense, filling the darkest parts of him when she reached out and clasped his hand, leading him to the far side of the gardens. It was no wonder that he followed without question.

  Hattie drew him to a small stone bench several yards away, perched against the brick wall that separated the Warnick gardens from the neighbor’s. Twisting her hand in his clasp, she used her free hand to lift her skirts, and stepped up onto the bench. He instantly helped her, providing strength and balance as she gained her footing there.

  “Thank you.” She released his hand, immediately reoffering it to him. An invitation.

  He didn’t take it, but joined her anyway. “This is unexpected.”

  She grinned, her excitement heady. “You do not spend a great deal of time standing on benches with ladies?”

  He offered a little grunt in reply.

  “But you’ve scaled a wall in your day.”

  His brows shot up. “Are we scaling a wall tonight, my lady?”

  “I would not want to ruin your handsome attire,” she teased, “but we can look.” She pointed over the wall. “Look.”

  He did, seeing what anyone might see in such a situation. A dark garden, a darker house beyond. He didn’t understand immediately—not until he looked to her, his gaze locking on her in profile, her skin glowing pale in the light from Warnick House, her eyes tracking the darkness, as though she could see every nuance of the home and gardens without need for light.

  There was more than that, though. Alongside the perusal was something else entirely—desire.

  “This is the house,” he said.

  She turned to him. “Number forty-six Berkeley Square. The former home of Baron Claybourne.”

  “And you want it.”

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “And you want the business.”

  She met his eyes, honesty clear and unyielding in her gaze. “I do.”

  And why couldn’t she have it? Why shouldn’t she? “Take it.”

  She cut him a dry look. “I had intended to. Augie was going to step aside and tell my father to give it to me. If I kept you from him.” She gave a little shrug. “That’s all gone pear-shaped.”

  Whit’s fists clenched. He could not guarantee that if he ever met August Sedley he wouldn’t put a fist directly into the man’s face. What kind of a man sent his innocent sister to wage his war? The same kind of man who came for the Bastards without thinking.

  No. August Sedley did not come away from this unscathed. Even if he hadn’t thrown his lot in with Ewan, Augie could not be trusted to run one of the biggest shipping businesses on the docks, and run it well to keep men in work and families in health.

&n
bsp; But Hattie . . . Hattie, who loved French beans in Covent Garden and bought day-wilted flowers for thruppence—she could be trusted.

  She wanted the business and Whit could give it to her.

  “And if I helped?”

  Suspicion flared in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”

  Because I want you to have everything you desire. “Because you should have it. Because Sedley Shipping would thrive with you at the helm. Because the docks need businessmen who know that workers make a world. And you’re strong enough to be one of them.”

  She met his gaze. “To be the best of them.”

  One side of his lips lifted in a small smile. “Yes.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  “So what, you add it to the list of demands for my father? My brother gives up your true enemy, and my father installs me as his successor, and you don’t bring the whole thing down around us?”

  Clever girl. A pause fell, the truth in it.

  “So I get it . . . because of your benevolence.”

  A thread of unease whispered through him. “For God’s sake, Hattie, who cares how you get it?”

  She smiled, the expression without humor. “That is spoken like a man who has never had to prove that he earned what he had.” She paused. “I want the business on my own merit, or not at all.”

  “Do you doubt you deserve it?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then take it. And prove your merit as its head.”

  She watched him for a long moment, until Whit became uncomfortable with her unyielding gaze. Still, he resisted the urge to look away. He was a Bareknuckle Bastard, for God’s sake, and he refused to be stared down by a Mayfair lady—not even one who was about to run one of London’s biggest shipping businesses.

  If her father agreed.

  He’d agree. Whit would give him no choice.

  Finally, Hattie whispered, “You can get it for me.”

  “The Year of Hattie.”

  She smiled, bright and beautiful. “And what will that make us? Business acquaintances?”

  Why did that idea please him so much? He growled a little laugh and pulled her to him. “We already have a deal.” She gasped at the words—the reminder of the promise he’d made her all those nights ago to take her virginity. To give her dominion over her body.

  “When?” The question was soft and sweet and full of anticipation, and punctuated by her face tilting up to his.

  In an instant, Whit was aching for her, and he growled low and dark. “Not in a Mayfair garden.”

  “If it isn’t soon, I shall have no choice but to find you again. A needle in a Covent Garden haystack.” The words cracked him open with their promise. When had he ever liked a woman so much as this one? When had he ever felt so well matched?

  He dipped his head and sucked the full bottom lip of her smile, until she sighed.

  “Soon,” he whispered, when he was through. Tonight maybe. Tomorrow.

  She did not hesitate. “Please.”

  What a magnificent word. “Go back to your ball, warrior,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. “I shall find you.”

  He watched her make her way back through the gardens, up the stairs, and into the ballroom, his gaze not leaving the wine red silk of her beautiful dress. And for a moment, while he watched her, Whit’s thoughts wandered into places where he never allowed them to go. Places that tempted with words like happiness. And pleasure.

  And wife.

  He stiffened at the last, but did not push it away, instead letting it linger, circling over and over, until the last hint of her silk frock had been swallowed by the crowd and he was left alone, marveling at the singular feeling crashing through him—something he hadn’t felt in two decades.

  Hope.

  The foreign word stole his breath, and he unconsciously lifted a hand, rubbing at the tightness that came with it, at the way it threatened his certainty.

  There was no time for hope. Not even when it came in beautiful, brazen packages, smelling like almonds and with ink stains on its wrists and wide, dimpled smiles. He told himself that as he turned away from the lights of the house.

  And found Ewan standing in the darkness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We shouldn’t be here.

  Memory slammed through Whit at the look in his brother’s eyes, a brilliant amber, identical in color to those of Whit and Devil and the duke, their father. Instantly, he was transported to the moment years ago, when he’d been guided—small and full of nerves and something like hope—into a sitting room on the Marwick country estate to find the boys who would become his brothers and allies for the next two years. He remembered them like they were here now, in this Mayfair garden: Devil—brash and bold, hiding his fear, and Ewan—still as stone, assessing eyes taking in everything, brilliant and instantly favored by their father, who never seemed to see the cold fury that burned like fire in him.

  That fire wasn’t cold anymore. Tonight, it threatened to burn down the world.

  There’d been a time when Ewan was the largest of them—tallest and broadest and strongest. In Whit’s memories, he was godlike. Full of health and arrogance. Nothing like the man who stood before him, a pale approximation of the boy he’d once been. Lean—almost gaunt, with the way his clothes hung on his long frame—and hollow, unshaven and wild-eyed. Feral.

  If twenty years on the streets had taught Whit anything it was this—men who had nothing to live for were the most dangerous of animals. Warning thrummed through him, and he reached inside his topcoat to collect one of his knives.

  He was comforted by the cool, heavy weight in his hand, by the knowledge of the exact angle of the throw that would instantly lay his brother low. Ewan had been the best fighter among them years ago, never sending a fist flying without hitting his target. And when they’d planned their escape from their monster of a father, they’d believed in their success because of Ewan’s skill.

  Twenty years of a dukedom should have evened the score.

  But it hadn’t.

  The last time the brothers had faced Ewan, Devil had been left for dead. If not for Felicity, Whit would have been left to battle the Duke of Marwick alone.

  As he might do tonight.

  “I’ve a boy fighting for his life in the Garden because of you.” Whit let his fist fall to his side, weapon in hand. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t take my revenge right now.”

  “Killing a duke is a hangable offense.”

  “We both know you’re not a duke,” Whit replied, enjoying the way Ewan stiffened at the words. “Augie Sedley won’t be doing your bidding anymore, bruv.”

  “I don’t care about that; I never cared about that,” Ewan said, drawing closer. Whit tightened his fist on the knife’s hilt, the emotionless words unsettling. “I only cared about coming for you.” His gaze tracked over Whit’s shoulder, to the house. “And now I see how to do it.”

  To Hattie.

  Something hot and terrifying coursed through Whit. “You look at me, Marwick.” If he came within ten feet of Hattie, Whit would destroy him. “I’m here, and spoiling for the fight you want to give me.”

  It was time to punish him. For what he’d done to them as children. For what he’d done to Devil. For what he’d done to their men.

  “I want to. I want to see you bleed out in this fucking garden. But I can’t.” Whit held his silence. “Because of her.”

  Grace. The girl Ewan had loved and lost.

  When they’d run, she’d made Devil and Whit vow they wouldn’t hurt Ewan. She’d begged them for it. You don’t know all of it, she’d sworn. And for two decades, they’d kept their vows. But now? With Ewan’s cold gaze on the spot where Hattie had disappeared?

  Protect her.

  If there was to be a battle, it would be tonight.

  “Grace isn’t here to hold us to our promises.”

  Ewan’s jaw turned to stone. “You don’t say her name.�
� Whit didn’t respond, noting the way Ewan’s wild eyes threatened something worse. Something Whit didn’t want anywhere near Hattie. “You let her die. I gave her up. I let her run with you—and you didn’t keep her safe.”

  It wasn’t true. Devil and Whit had been hiding Grace from Ewan since they’d left—knowing that he would come for her, unable to keep himself from doing so. Grace, the child who had been born to the Duchess of Marwick—sired by a man who was not the duke. Falsely baptized a boy and heir. Announced a boy and heir. A placeholder for the future heir to the Dukedom of Marwick.

  Grace, who, if she were discovered and revealed, could bring the whole dukedom crashing down, and Ewan with it. Falsely claiming a title was punishable by death.

  Not that Grace would ever do it.

  Because Grace and Ewan were forged from the same fire. The first either had loved, and the first either had betrayed. And Grace would never see the boy she’d once loved killed. Not then, after Ewan had left Whit broken on the floor and come for her at their father’s bidding. Not after Ewan had raised the knife and struck nearly true. Not after he would have killed her if Devil hadn’t intervened—earning the wicked scar on his cheek for the trouble.

  Devil and Whit and Grace had run that night, but not before Whit had seen the reckless panic in Ewan’s eyes—the fury and frustration and fear that had propelled him to come for them in the first place. The desperation to win the dukedom. To be their father’s heir. All else be damned.

  Whit and Devil had done all they could to keep Grace hidden—to hide her in Covent Garden and keep her from the brother who’d searched for them since the moment he’d reached adulthood, with funds and determination. The Garden’s loyalty—beyond measure—had kept them all a secret until months ago, when Ewan had found them, half mad with his unending search.

  They’d lied when he asked for Grace.

  They’d told him she was dead.

  And they’d broken him.

  “You let her die,” Ewan said again, coming at Whit like a rabid dog, taking hold of his lapels and pushing him back, into the darkness. “I should have killed you the moment I found you.”