Wicked and the Wallflower

Chapter Seven

There was a woman with him.

Of all the things Felicity had expected might happen when she feigned illness and snuck from her house at twilight to summon a hack to take her to the mysterious location scrawled on the back of his calling card—and there were many—she hadn’t expected a woman.

A tall, striking woman painted to perfection and with hair like a sunset, dressed in full, tiered amethyst skirts and a decorative corset in the richest aubergine Felicity had ever seen. The woman wasn’t properly beautiful, but she was proud and poised and stunningly . . . stunning.

She was the kind of woman men fell for madly. That was no question.

Exactly the kind of woman Felicity so often dreamed of being herself.

Was Devil mad for her?

Felicity had never been happier about standing in a dimly lit room than she was in that moment, her face blazing with panic and every inch of her wanting to flee. The problem was that the man who called himself Devil and his companion were blocking the only exit—unless she considered the possibility of leaping from the window.

She turned to look at the darkened panes of glass, gauging the distance to the alleyway below.

“Too far for jumping,” Devil said, as though he was in her head.

She turned back to face him, brazening through. “Are you certain?”

The woman laughed and answered. “Quite. And the last thing Dev needs is a flattened titled lady.” She paused, the familiarity of the nickname filling the space between them. “You are titled, are you not?”

Felicity blinked. “My father is, yes.”

The woman pushed past Devil as though he was not there. “Fascinating. And which title would that be?”

“He is the—”

“Don’t answer that,” Devil said, coming into the room, setting his hat down on a nearby table and turning the gas up on a lamp there, flooding the space with lush golden light. He turned to face her, and she resisted the urge to stare.

And failed.

She properly stared, taking in his heavy greatcoat—too warm for the season—and the tall boots below, caked with mud as though he’d been cavorting with hogs somewhere. He shucked the coat and sent it over a nearby chair without care, revealing more casual attire than she’d almost ever seen on a member of the opposite sex. He wore a patterned waistcoat over a linen shirt, both in shades of grey, but no cravat. Nothing at all filled the opening of the shirt—nothing but the cords of his neck and a long, deep triangle of skin, dusted with a hint of dark hair.

She’d never seen such a thing before—could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Arthur or her father without a cravat.

She’d also never seen anything so thoroughly male in her life.

She was consumed by that triangle of skin.

After a too long pause, Felicity realized she was staring, and returned her attention to the woman, whose brows were high on her forehead with knowledge of precisely what Felicity had been doing. Unable to face the other woman’s curiosity, Felicity’s gaze flew back to Devil’s—this time to his face. Another mistake. She wondered if she’d ever get used to how handsome he was.

That said, she could certainly do without him looking at her as though she were an insect he’d discovered in his porridge.

He didn’t seem like the kind of man who ate porridge.

He narrowed his gaze on her, and she’d had quite enough of that. “What do you eat for breakfast?”

“What in—” He shook his head as though to clear it. “What?”

“It’s not porridge, is it?”

“Good God. No.”

“This is fascinating,” the woman said.

“Not to you, it isn’t,” he replied.

Felicity bristled at the sharp tone. “You shouldn’t speak to her that way.”

The other woman grinned at that. “I completely agree.”

Felicity turned. “I think I shall go.”

“You should not have come,” he said.

“Oi! You certainly shouldn’t speak to her that way,” the woman said.

Devil looked to the ceiling as though asking for patience.

Felicity moved to pass him.

“Wait.” He reached out to stop her. “How did you get here to begin with?”

She stopped. “You gave me your direction.”

“And you simply marched over here from Mayfair?”

“Why does it matter how I arrived?”

The question agitated him. “Because anything could have happened to you on the journey. You could have been set upon by thieves. Kidnapped and ransomed by any number of ruffians.”

Her heart began to pound. “Nefarious sorts?”

“Precisely,” he agreed.

She feigned innocence. “The kind who might sneak into a bedchamber unannounced?”

He stilled. Then scowled.

“Oooh!” The other woman clapped her hands. “I don’t know what that means but it is delicious. This is better than anything you could see on Drury Lane.”

“Shut up, Dahlia,” he said, all exasperation.

Dahlia. It seemed the right name for her. The kind of name that Felicity could never carry.

When Dahlia did not reply, he turned back to Felicity. “How did you get here?”

“I took a hack.”

He cursed. “And how did you get here? Into my rooms?”

She stilled, keenly aware of the pins threaded into her hair. She couldn’t tell him the truth. “They were unlocked.”

He narrowed his gaze on her; he knew it was a lie. “And how did you get into the building?”

She searched for an answer that might make sense—something other than the truth. Not finding one, she decided to simply ignore him. Moving to leave once more, she said, “I apologize. I did not expect you to be here with your . . .” She searched for the word. “Friend.”

“She’s not my friend.”

“Well, that’s not very kind,” Dahlia objected. “And to think, you were once my favorite.”

“I was never your favorite.”

“Hmm. Certainly not now.” She turned to Felicity. “I am his sister.”

Sister.

A powerful wave of something she did not wish to name shot through her at the word. She tilted her head. “Sister?”

The woman smiled, bold and broad and for a moment, Felicity almost saw a resemblance. “His one and only.”

“And thank God for that.”

Ignoring Devil’s snide remark, Dahlia approached Felicity. “You should come and see me.”

Before she could answer, Devil leapt in. “She doesn’t need to see you.”

One red brow arched. “Because she’s seeing you?”

“She’s not seeing me.”

The other woman turned to face her with a knowing smile. “I think I see.”

“I don’t see, if that helps,” Felicity said, feeling as though she ought to interject to end the strange conversation.

The other woman tapped her finger to her chin, considering Felicity for a long while. “You will, eventually.”

“No one is seeing anyone! Dahlia, get out!”

“So very rude,” Dahlia said, coming forward, hands extended toward Felicity. When she set her own in them, Dahlia pulled Felicity close and kissed one cheek and then the other, lingering on the final buss to whisper, “72 Shelton Street. Tell them Dahlia welcomes you.” She looked to her brother. “Shall I stay and play the chaperone?”

“Get out.”

His sister smirked. “Farewell, brother.” And then she was gone, as though the whole scenario were perfectly ordinary. Which of course it wasn’t, as it had started out with Felicity sneaking out her back garden without a chaperone, walking three-quarters of a mile, and hiring a hack to bring her here, to the dead center of Covent Garden, where she’d never been before and for good reason—or so she imagined.

Except now she was here in this mysterious place with this mysterious man, and mysterious women were whispering mysterious directions in her ear, and Felicity could not for the life of her think of a good reason not to be there. It was all terribly exciting.

“Don’t look like that,” he said as he closed the door behind his sister.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s exciting.”

“Why not? It is exciting.”

“Whatever she told you, forget it.”

Felicity laughed. “I don’t think that is going to happen.”

“What did she tell you?”

“It occurs that if she wished you to hear what she told me, she would have said it so you were able to do so.”

He pressed his lips together in a thin line, his scar going stark white. He did not like that answer. “You stay away from Dahlia.”

“Are you afraid she shall corrupt me?”

“No,” he said sharply. “I’m afraid you shall destroy her.”

Felicity’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”

He looked away, toward a sideboard where a crystal decanter sat, full of deep, amber liquid. Like a dog scenting the hunt, he went for it, pouring himself a glass and drinking deep before turning back to her.

“No, thank you,” she said tartly. “I don’t drink whatever it is that you did not offer me.”

He drank again. “Bourbon.”

“American bourbon?” He did not reply. “American bourbon is prohibitively expensive for you to be drinking it like water.”

He leveled her with a cool look before pouring a second glass and walking it to her, extending it with one long arm. When she reached for it, he pulled it back, dangling it out of reach, the silver ring on his thumb glinting in the light. “How did you get in?”

She hesitated. Then, “I don’t want the drink anyway.”

He shrugged his shoulders and poured her glass into his. “All right. You don’t wish to answer that. How about this one? Why are you here?”

“We have an appointment.”

“I was planning to come to you,” he said.

The idea of him climbing her trellis was not unwelcome, but she said, “I grew tired of waiting.”

He raised a brow at that. “I am not at your beck and call.”

She inhaled at the cool words, not liking the way they stung. Not liking him, much, if she were honest. “Well, if you did not expect me to come here, then perhaps you should not have left me a card with your direction.”

“You shouldn’t be in Covent Garden.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Felicity Faircloth, you’re looking to marry a duke and assume your rightful place as a jewel of the ton, and if some aging aristocrat saw you here, that would never happen.”

He had a point, but oddly, at no time during her journey had she even considered the ton. She’d been too excited about what was to greet her at the other end of the calling card. “No one saw me.”

“I’m sure not for lack of you sticking out like a daisy in dirt.”

Her brows rose. “A daisy in dirt?”

His lips flattened. “It’s a figure of speech.”

She tilted her head. “It is?”

He drank. “Covent Garden isn’t for you, Felicity Faircloth.”

“Whyever not?” Did he know that saying such things made her want to explore every nook and cranny of the place?

He watched her for a long moment, his dark eyes inscrutable, and then nodded once, turned on his heel, and marched to the far end of the room, pulling a cord. Perhaps he did know.

“You needn’t summon anyone to escort me out,” Felicity said. “I found my way in—”

“That much is clear, my lady. And I’ve no interest in having anyone escort you out. I can’t risk you being seen.”

He was an irritating man, and Felicity’s patience began to fray. “Afraid I shall destroy you, as well as your sister?”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Haven’t you—I don’t know—a ladies’ maid or a chaperone or something?”

The question unsettled her. “I am a twenty-seven-year-old spinster. Very few people would think twice about me traveling sans-chaperone.”

“I’m certain your brother, your father, and any number of Mayfair toffs would think far more than twice to find you traveling sans-chaperone to my offices.”

Felicity brazened it through. “You think having a chaperone would make it more acceptable for me to be here?”

He scowled. “No.”

“You think me more dangerous than I am.”

“I think you precisely as dangerous as you are.” The words, so forthright and without edge, gave her pause, sending a thread of something strange coursing through her. Something suspiciously like power. She inhaled sharply, and he leveled her with a look. “That’s not exciting, either, Felicity Faircloth.”

She disagreed, but thought it best not to say so. “Why do you insist on calling me by both of my names?”

“It reminds me that you are a fairy-tale princess. Faircloth indeed. The fairest of them all.”

The lie stung, and she hated herself for letting it do so, more than she hated him for speaking it. Instead of saying so, however, she forced herself to laugh at his unwelcome jest.

His brows knit together. “You are amused?”

“Is that not what you intended? Did you not think yourself immensely clever?”

“How was I being clever?”

He was going to make her say it—and that made her hate him more. “Because I’m the opposite of fairest.” He did not speak, and did not look away, and she felt she had to continue. To make her point. “I am the plainest of them all.”

When he still did not speak, she began to feel foolish. And annoyed. “Is that not our arrangement?” she prompted. “Are you not to make me beautiful?”

He was watching her even more intently now, as though she were a curious specimen under glass. And then, “Yes. I shall make you beautiful, Felicity Faircloth.” She scowled at the intentional use of both of her names. “Beautiful enough to draw the moth to your flame.”

The impossible, made possible. And yet . . . “How did you do it?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“How did you ensure he wouldn’t deny it? Half a dozen doyennes of the ton turned up for tea this morning at our home, believing that I am the future Duchess of Marwick. How?”

He turned his back on her, moving to a low table laden with papers. “I promised you the impossible, did I not?”

“But how?” She couldn’t understand. She’d woken that morning with a keen sense of impending doom, certain that her lie had been exposed, the Duke of Marwick had proclaimed her mad before all London, and her family had been ruined.

But none of that had happened.

Nothing near to that had happened.

Indeed, it seemed that the Duke of Marwick had tacitly confirmed the engagement. Or, at least, he had not denied it.

Which was impossible.

Except, this man, Devil, had made that precise promise, and made good upon it.

Somehow.

Her heart had pounded with each successive gawking well-wisher, and something like hope had flared in her chest, alongside another emotion—startlingly akin to wonder. At this man, who seemed capable of saving her and her family.

So, of course she’d come to see him.

It had seemed, frankly, quite impossible not to.

A knock sounded on the door and he moved to answer it, swinging it open and allowing a dozen servants in from the hallway beyond, each holding large pails of steaming water. They entered without a word—without looking at Felicity—marching through the room to the far wall, where a doorway stood open to a dark space beyond.

Her gaze flew to Devil’s. “What is that?”

“My bedchamber,” he said simply. “Did you not have a look when you picked my lock?”

Heat roared to life on her cheeks. “I didn’t pick—”

“You did, though. And I don’t understand how a lady procures the superior skill of lockpicking, but I hope you will one day tell me.”

“Perhaps that will be the favor you ask of me once you’ve brought me my besotted husband.”

One corner of his stern mouth twitched, as though he were enjoying their conversation. “No, my lady, that tale you shall offer freely.”

The words were quiet and full of certainty, and she was grateful for the dim evening light lest the unexpected flush they brought with them be obvious. With a little uncomfortable cough, she looked to the door to his bedchamber, where a light had flickered to life, bright enough to make the shadows within dance, but not enough to reveal anything of the space beyond.

And then the servants returned, empty pails in hand, and Felicity knew exactly what they had done. Before they’d had a chance to file out and close the door behind them, Devil was shucking his waistcoat and making quick work of the buttons on the sleeves of the linen shirt beneath.

Her mouth fell open, and he turned to enter the room beyond, calling over his shoulder as he disappeared, “Well, we might as well begin.”

She blinked, calling after him, “Begin what?”

A pause. Was he . . . disrobing? Then, from farther away, “Our plans.”

“I . . .” She hesitated. Perhaps she was misunderstanding the situation. “I beg your pardon, but are you about to bathe?”

He peeked his head back around the edge of the door. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

He was no longer wearing a shirt. Felicity’s mouth went dry as he disappeared back into the room, and she watched the empty doorway for long minutes, until she heard the twin thuds of his boots, and then the splash of water as he took to the bathtub.

She shook her head in the empty front room of the apartments. What was happening? And then he called out, “Lady Felicity, do you wish to shout from out there? Or are you coming in?”

Coming in?

She resisted the urge to ask him to elaborate, and instead made her choice, knowing doing so could easily mark her a lamb to slaughter. “I am coming in.”

No, not lamb to slaughter.

Moth to flame.