Wicked and the Wallflower

Chapter Five

Felicity leapt straight into the air with a little scream at the words, spinning to face the far side of the room, cloaked in darkness, where nothing looked out of place.

Lifting her candle high, she peered into the corners, the light finally touching a pair of perfectly polished black boots, stretched out, crossed at the ankle, the shining silver tip of a walking stick resting atop one toe.

It was him.

Here. In her bedchamber. As though it were perfectly normal.

Nothing about this evening was normal.

Her heart began to pound, harder than it had earlier in the evening, and Felicity backed away, toward the door. “I believe you have the wrong house, sir.”

The boots didn’t move. “I have the right house.”

She blinked. “You most certainly have the wrong room.”

“It’s the right room, as well.”

“This is my bedchamber.”

“I couldn’t very well knock on the door in the dead of night and ask to speak with you, could I? I’d scandalize the neighbors, and then where would that leave you?”

She refrained from pointing out that the neighbors were going to be scandalized in the morning anyway, when all of London knew she’d lied.

He heard the thought anyway. “Why did you lie?”

She ignored the question. “I don’t converse with strangers in my bedchamber.”

“But we aren’t strangers, love.” The silver tip of the walking stick tapped the toe of his boot in a slow, even rhythm.

Her lips twitched. “I have little time for people who lack consequence.”

Though he remained in the dark, she imagined she could hear his smile. “And tonight you showed it, didn’t you, Felicity Faircloth?”

“I am not the only one who lied.” She narrowed her gaze in the darkness. “You knew who I was.”

“You’re the only one whose lie is big enough to bring down this house.”

She scowled. “You have the better of me, sirrah. To what end? Fear?”

“No. I don’t wish to scare you.” The man’s voice was heavy like the darkness in which he was cloaked. Low, quiet, and somehow clearer than a gunshot.

Felicity’s heart thundered. “I think that is precisely what you wish to do.” That silver tip tapped again and she turned her irritated gaze to it. “I also think you should leave before I decide that instead of fear, I shall feel anger.”

Pause. Tap tap.

And then he moved, leaning forward into the circle of light, so she could see his long legs, tall black hat on one thigh. His hands were uncovered by gloves, and three silver rings glinted in the candlelight on the thumb, fore and ring fingers of the right one, beneath the black sleeves of his topcoat, which fit his arms and shoulders perfectly. The ring of light ended at his jaw, sharp and clean-shaven. She lifted her candle once more, and there he was.

She inhaled sharply, ridiculously remembering how she’d thought earlier that the Duke of Marwick was handsome.

Not anymore.

For surely, no man on earth should be as handsome as this one. He looked remarkably like his voice sounded. Like a low, liquid rumble. Like temptation. Like sin.

One side of his face remained in shadow, but the side she could see—he was magnificent. A long, lean face all sharp angles and shadowed hollows, dark, winged brows and full lips, eyes that glittered with knowledge that she’d wager he never shared, and a nose that would put the royals to shame, perfectly straight, as though it had been crafted with a sharp, sure blade.

His hair was dark and shorn close to his head, close enough to reveal the round dome of it. “Your head is perfect.”

He smirked. “I’ve always thought so.”

She dropped the candle, returning him to shadows. “I mean it’s a perfect shape. How do you get your hair shaved so close to the scalp?”

He hesitated before he answered. “A woman I trust.”

Her brows rose at the unexpected answer. “Does she know you are here?”

“She does not.”

“Well, as she takes a blade to your head regularly, you’d best be going before you upset her.”

A low rumble came at that, and her breath caught. Was it a laugh? “Not before you tell me why you lied.”

Felicity shook her head. “As I said, sir, I do not make a practice of conversing with strangers. Please leave. Out the way you came in.” She paused. “How did you come in?”

“You’ve a balcony, Juliet.”

“I’ve also a bedchamber on the third floor, not-Romeo.”

“And a sturdy trellis.” She heard the lazy amusement in his words.

“You climbed the trellis.”

“I did, as a matter of fact.”

She’d always imagined someone climbing that trellis. Just not a criminal come to—what was he here to do? “Then I assume the walking stick is not to aid in movement.”

“Not that kind of movement, no.”

“Is it a weapon?”

“Everything is a weapon if one is looking for one.”

“Excellent advice, as I seem to have an intruder.”

He tutted at the retort. “A friendly one.”

“Oh, yes,” she scoffed. “Friendly is the very first word I would use to describe you.”

“If I were going to kidnap you and carry you off to my lair, I would have done it by now.”

“You have a lair?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, but I’ve no intention of bringing you there. Not tonight.”

She would be lying if she said the additional qualifier was not exciting. “Ah, that will ensure I sleep well in the future,” she said.

He laughed, low and soft, like the light in the room. “Felicity Faircloth, you are not what I expected.”

“You say that as though it is a compliment.”

“It is.”

“Will it still be one when I hit you squarely in the head with this candlestick?”

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” he said.

Felicity didn’t like how well he seemed to understand her bravado was just that. “You seem terribly sure of yourself for someone who does not know me.”

“I know you, Felicity Faircloth. I knew you the moment I saw you on that balcony outside Marwick’s locked conservatory. The only thing I did not know was the color of that frock.”

She looked down at the dress, a season too old and the color of her cheeks. “It’s pink.”

“Not just pink,” he said, his voice dark with promise and something else that she did not like. “It’s the color of the Devon sky at dawn.”

She didn’t like the way the words filled her, as though she might someday see that sky and think of this man and this moment. As though he might leave a mark she could not erase.

“Answer my question and I will leave.”

Why did you lie?

“I don’t remember it.”

“Yes, you do. Why did you lie to that collection of unfortunates?” The description was so ridiculous that she nearly laughed. Nearly. But he didn’t seem to find it amusing.

“They aren’t so unfortunate.”

“They’re pompous, spoiled aristocrats with their heads shoved so far up each others’ asses, they haven’t any idea that the world is quickly moving on and others will soon take their place.”

Her jaw dropped.

“But you, Felicity Faircloth.” He tapped his stick on his boot twice. “No one is taking your place. And so I will ask again. Why did you lie to them?”

Whether it was the shock of his description or his matter-of-fact way of doing the describing, Felicity replied, “No one wishes my place.” He did not speak, and so she filled the silence. “By which I mean to say . . . my place is nothing. It’s nowhere. It was once with them, but then . . .” She trailed off. Shrugged. “I am invisible.” And then, because she couldn’t stop herself, she added, softly, “I wanted to punish them. And I wanted them to want me back.”

She hated the truth in the words. Shouldn’t she be strong enough to turn her back on them? Shouldn’t she care less? She hated the weakness he’d exposed.

And she hated him for exposing it.

She waited for him to reply from the darkness, strangely reminded of the time she’d visited the Royal Entomological Society and seen an enormous butterfly trapped in amber. Beautiful and delicate and perfectly preserved, but frozen in time, forever.

This man would not capture her. Not today. “I think I shall call a servant to come and take you away. You should know my father is a marquess, and it is quite illegal to enter a home of the aristocracy without permission.”

“It’s quite illegal to enter anyone’s home without permission, Felicity Faircloth, but would you like me to tell you I am duly impressed by your father’s title, and your brother’s, too?”

“Why should I be the only one who lies tonight?”

A pause, then, “So you admit it.”

“I might as well—all of London will know it tomorrow. Flighty Felicity with her fanciful fiancé.”

The alliteration did not amuse him. “You know, your father’s title is ridiculous. Your brother’s, too.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, for lack of anything else.

“Bumble and Grout. Good Lord. When poverty at long last ensnares them, they can always become apothecaries. Selling tinctures and tonics to the desperate in Lambeth.”

He knew they were impoverished. Did all of London? Was she the last to discover it? The last to be told, even by the family that intended to use her to reverse it? Irritation flared at the thought.

The man continued. “And you, Felicity Faircloth, with a name that should be in a storybook.”

She cut him a look. “I did so wonder about your opinion of our respective names.”

He ignored her set-down. “A storybook princess, locked in a tower, desperate to be a part of the world that trapped her there . . . to be accepted by it.”

Everything about this man was unsettling and strange and vaguely infuriating. “I don’t like you.”

“No, you don’t like the truth, my little liar. You don’t like that I see that your silly wish is false friendship from a collection of poncy, perfumed aristocrats who cannot see what you really are.”

She should be a dozen kinds of out-of-sorts with him so close and in the darkness. And yet . . . “And what is that?”

“Better than those six by half.”

The answer sent a little thrill through her, and she almost allowed herself to be drawn in by this man who she might be convinced was made of magic with more champagne. Instead, she shook her head and put on her best disdain. “If only I were that princess, sirrah—then you would not be here.” She moved to the wall, ready to pull the cord again.

“Isn’t that the bit everyone likes? The bit where the princess is rescued from the tower?”

She looked over her shoulder. “That’s supposed to be a prince doing the rescuing. Not . . . whatever you are.” She reached for the cord.

He spoke before she could pull. “Who is the moth?”

She whirled back to him, embarrassment flaring. “What?”

“You wished to be a flame, princess. Who is the moth?”

Her cheeks blazed. She hadn’t said anything about moths. How did he even know what she had meant? “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

“I shouldn’t be sitting in your dark bedchamber, either, love, but here I am.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I take it you are not the kind of man who pays attention to rules.”

“Have you known me to follow any of them in our lengthy acquaintance?”

Irritation flared. “Who are you? Why were you skulking about outside Marwick House like some nefarious . . . skulker?”

He remained unroused. “A skulking skulker, am I?”

This man, like all of London, seemed to know more than she did. He understood the battleground, had the skill to wage war. And she loathed it. She sent him her most withering look.

It had no effect. “Once more, love. If you are the flame, who is the moth?”

“Certainly not you, sir.”

“That’s a pity.”

She didn’t like the insolence in those words, either. “I feel quite satisfied with the decision.”

He gave a little laugh, a low rumble that did odd things to her. “Shall I tell you what I think?”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she snapped.

“I think your moth is very difficult to lure.” She pursed her lips but did not speak. “And I know I can get him for you.” Her breath caught as he pressed on. “The one whose wings you’ve already bragged to half of London about singeing.”

Felicity was grateful for the dimly lit room, so he couldn’t see her red face. Or her shock. Or her excitement. Was this man, who had somehow found his way into her bedchamber in the dead of night, actually suggesting she had neither ruined her life nor her family’s chances for survival?

Hope was a wild, panicked thing.

“Could you get him?”

He laughed then. Low and dark and barely humorous, sending an unwelcome thrill through her. “Like a kitten to the saucer.”

She scowled. “You should not tease.”

“When I tease you, love, you shall know it.” He leaned back again, stretching his legs out, tapping that infernal stick against his boot. “The Duke of Marwick could be yours, Felicity Faircloth. And with London never knowing the truth of your lie.”

Her breath grew shallow. “That’s impossible.” And still, she believed him, somehow.

“Is anything truly impossible?”

She forced a laugh. “Besides an eligible duke choosing me over every other woman in Britain?”

Tap tap. Tap tap. “Even that is possible, old, plain, opinionated, tossed-over Felicity Faircloth. This is the bit in the storybook where the princess receives everything she’s ever wished for.”

Except it wasn’t a storybook. And this man couldn’t give her what she wished for. “That bit typically begins with a fairy of some sort. And you do not seem at all spritely.”

A low rumble of a laugh. “There, you are right. But there are creatures other than fairies who dabble in similar trade.”

Her heart resumed its pounding, and she hated the wild hope there, that this strange man in the darkness could deliver on his impossible promise.

It was madness, but she advanced upon him, bringing him into the light once more, moving closer and closer, until she stood at the end of his impossibly long legs, at the end of his impossibly long walking stick, and lifted her candle to reveal his impossibly handsome face once more.

This time, however, she could see the whole of it, and the perfect left side did not match the right, where a harsh, wicked scar marked him from temple to jaw, puckered and white.

When she inhaled sharply, he turned his head from the light. “A pity. I was looking forward to the set-down you appeared ready to deliver. I didn’t think you would be so easily put off.”

“Oh, I am not put off at all. Indeed, I’m grateful that you are no longer the most perfect man I’ve ever seen.”

He turned back, dark gaze finding hers. “Grateful?”

“Indeed. I’ve never quite understood what one does with exceedingly perfect men.”

A brow rose. “What one does with them.”

“Besides the obvious.”

He tilted his head. “The obvious.”

“Looking at them.”

“Ah,” he said.

“At any rate, I now feel far more comfortable.”

“Because I’m no longer perfect?”

“You’re still terribly close to it, but you’re no longer the handsomest man I’ve ever seen,” she lied.

“I feel as though I should be insulted, but I shall get past that. Out of curiosity, who has usurped my throne?”

No one. If anything, the scar makes you more handsome.

But this was not the kind of man one said that to. “Technically, he had the throne before you. He’s simply reclaimed it.”

“I’ll thank you for a name, Lady Felicity.”

“What did you call him before? My moth?”

He went utterly still for a moment—not long enough for an ordinary person to notice.

Felicity noticed. “I thought you would have expected it,” she said, her tone scoffing. “What with your offer to win him for me.”

“The offer still stands, though I don’t find the duke handsome. At all.”

“We needn’t debate the point. The man is empirically attractive.”

“Mmm,” he said, seemingly unconvinced. “Tell me why you lied.”

“Tell me why you’re so willing to help me fix it.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. “Would you believe I am a Good Samaritan?”

“No. Why were you outside Marwick’s ball? What is he to you?”

He lifted one shoulder. Let it drop. “Tell me why you don’t think he’d be thrilled to find himself affianced to you.”

She smirked. “First, he hasn’t any idea who I am.”

One side of his mouth twitched, and she wondered what it would be like to receive the full force of his smile.

Putting the wild thought to the side, she added, “And, as I said, exceedingly handsome men have no use for me.”

“That’s not what you said,” the man answered. “You said you weren’t sure of the use for exceedingly handsome men.”

She thought for a moment. “Both statements are true.”

“Why would you think Marwick would have no use for you?”

She frowned. “I should think that would be obvious.”

“It’s not.”

She resisted the question, crossing her arms as if to protect herself. “It’s rude of you to ask.”

“It’s rude of me to climb your trellis and invade your quarters, too.”

“So it is.” And then, for a reason she would never fully understand, she answered his question. Letting frustration and worry and a very real sense of impending doom pour over her. “Because I’m the epitome of ordinary. Because I’m not beautiful, or diverting, or a stellar conversationalist. And though I once thought it impossible to believe I’d land myself an aging spinster, here we are, and no one has ever really wanted me. And I don’t expect that to start now, with a handsome duke.”

He was silent for a long moment, her embarrassment raging.

“Please leave,” she added.

“You seem to be fairly stellar at conversation with me.”

She ignored the fact that he hadn’t disagreed with her other assessments. “You’re a stranger in the darkness. Everything is easier in the dark.”

“Nothing is easier in the dark,” he said. “But that’s irrelevant. You’re wrong, and that’s why I’m here.”

“To convince me that I’m good at conversation?”

Teeth flashed and he stood, filling the room with his height. Felicity’s nerves thrummed as she considered the shape of him, beautifully long, with a hint of broad shoulders and lean hips.

“I came to give you what you want, Felicity Faircloth.”

The promise in his whisper coursed through her. Was it fear she felt? Or something else? She shook her head. “You can’t, though. No one can.”

“You want the flame,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Of course you do. But it’s not all you want, is it?” He took a step closer to her, and she could smell him, warm and smoky, as though he’d come from somewhere forbidden. “You want all of it. The world, the man, the money, the power. And something else, as well.” He came closer still, towering over her, his warmth flooding her, heady and tempting. “Something more.” His words became a whisper. “Something secret.”

She hesitated, hating that he seemed to know her, this stranger.

Hating that she wanted to reply. Hating that she did. “More than I can have.”

“And who told you that, my lady? Who told you you could not have it all?”

Her gaze fell to his hand, where the silver handle of his walking stick tucked between his large, strong fingers, the silver ring on his index finger glinting up at her. She studied the pattern of the metal, trying to discern the shape on the cane. After what seemed like an age, she looked to him. “Have you a name?”

“Devil.”

Her heart raced at the word, which seemed somehow completely ridiculous and utterly perfect. “That’s not your real name.”

“It’s strange, how we put such value on names, don’t you think, Felicity Faircloth? Call me whatever you like, but I am a man who can give you all of it. Everything you wish.”

She didn’t believe him. Obviously. Not at all. “Why me?”

He reached for her then, and she knew she should have stepped back. She knew she shouldn’t have let him touch her, not when his fingers ran down her left cheek, leaving fire in their wake, as though he were leaving his scar upon her, a mark of his presence.

But the burn of his touch was nothing like pain. Especially not when he replied, “Why not you?”

Why not her? Why shouldn’t she have what she wanted? Why shouldn’t she make a deal with this devil, who had appeared from nowhere and would soon be gone?

“I want not to have lied,” she said.

“I cannot change the past. Only the future. But I can make good on your promise.”

“Spin straw into gold?”

“Ah, so we are in a storybook, after all.”

He made it all sound so easy—so possible, as though he might work a miracle in the night without any effort at all.

It was madness, of course. He could not change what she’d said. The lie she’d told, bigger than all of them. Doors had closed all around her earlier that evening, locking her out of every conceivable path. Shutting out her future. The future of her family. Arthur’s helplessness flashed. Her mother’s desperation. Their twin resignation. Unpickable locks.

And now, this man . . . brandishing a key.

“You can make it true.”

His hand turned, the heat of him against her cheek, along her jaw, and for a fleeting moment he was a fairy king. She was in his thrall. “The engagement is easy. But that isn’t all you wish, is it?”

How did he know?

His touch spread fire down the column of her throat, fingers kissing the swell of her shoulder. “Tell me the rest, Felicity Faircloth. What else does the princess in the tower desire? The world at her feet, and her family rich once more, and . . .”

The words trailed off, filling the room until her reply burst from her. “I want him to be the moth.” He lifted his hand from her skin, and the loss was keen. “I wish to be the flame.”

He nodded, his lips curling like sin, his colorless eyes dark in the shadows, and she wondered if she would feel less in his thrall if she could see their color. “You wish to tempt him to you.”

A memory flared, a husband, desperate for his wife. A man, desperate for his love. A passion that could not be denied, all for a woman who held every inch of power. “I do.”

“Be careful with temptation, my lady. It is a dangerous proposition.”

“You make it sound as though you’ve experienced it as such.”

“That’s because I have.”

“Your barberess?” Was the woman his wife? His mistress? His love? Why did Felicity care?

“Passion cuts both ways.”

“It needn’t,” she said, feeling suddenly, keenly, strangely comfortable with this man whom she did not know. “I hope to eventually love my husband, but I needn’t be consumed by him.”

“You wish to do the consuming.”

She wished to be wanted. Beyond reason. She wished to be ached for.

“You wish for him to fly into your flame.”

Impossible.

She answered him. “When you are ignored by the stars, you wonder if you might ever burn bright.” Immediately embarrassed by the words, Felicity turned away, breaking the spell. Cleared her throat. “It does not matter. You cannot change the past. You cannot erase my lie and make it truth. You cannot make him want me. Not even if you were the devil. It’s impossible.”

“Poor Felicity Faircloth, so concerned about what is impossible.”

“It was a lie,” she said. “I’ve never even met the duke.”

“And here is truth . . . the Duke of Marwick shan’t deny your claim.”

Impossible. And yet, there was a tiny part of her that hoped he was right. If that, she might be able to save them all. “How?”

He smirked. “Devil’s magic.”

She raised a brow. “If you can make it so, sir, you will have earned your silly name.”

“Most people find my name unsettling.”

“I am not most people.”

“That much, Felicity Faircloth, is true.”

She did not like the warmth that spread through her at the words, and so she ignored it. “And you would do it out of the goodness of your heart? Forgive me if I do not believe that, Devil.”

He inclined his head. “Of course not. There’s nothing good about my heart. When it is done, and you have won him, heart and mind, I shall come and collect my fee.”

“I suppose this is the part where you tell me the fee is my firstborn child?”

He laughed at that. Low and secret, like she’d said something more amusing than she’d realized. And then, “What would I do with a mewling babe?”

Her lips twitched at that. “I haven’t anything to give you.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You undersell yourself, Felicity Faircloth.”

“My family hasn’t any money to give,” she said. “You said so yourself.”

“If they did, you would not be in this predicament, would you?”

She scowled at his matter-of-fact assessment. At the helplessness that flared with the words. “How do you know it?”

“That Earl Grout and the Marquess of Bumble have lost a fortune? Darling, all of London knows that. Even those of us who aren’t invited to Marwick’s balls.”

She scowled. “I didn’t know.”

“Not until they needed you to.”

“Not even then,” she grumbled. “Not until I could do nothing to help.”

He tapped his walking stick twice on the floor. “I am here, am I not?”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “For a price.”

“Everything has a price, darling.”

“And I assume you already know yours.”

“I do, as a matter of fact.”

“What is it?”

He smiled, the expression wicked. “Telling you that would remove the fun.”

A tingle spread through her, across her shoulders and down her spine, warm and exciting. And terrifying and hopeful. What price her family, comfortable in their security? What price her reputation as an oddity, yes, but never a liar?

And what price a husband with no knowledge of her past?

Why not deal with this devil?

An answer whispered through her, a promise of something dangerous. And still, temptation thundered through her. But first, assurance.

“If I accept . . .”

That smirk again, as though he were a cat with a canary.

“If I accept,” she repeated with a scowl. “He shan’t deny the engagement?”

The devil inclined his head. “No one will ever know of your fabrication, Felicity.”

“And he shall want me?”

“Like air,” he said, the words a lovely promise.

It wasn’t possible. The man was not the devil. And even if he were, not even God could erase the events of the evening and make the Duke of Marwick marry her.

But what if he could?

Bargains cut both ways, and this man did seem more exciting than most.

Perhaps in the loss of the impossible passion he promised her, she could win something else. She met his gaze. “And if you cannot do it? Do I collect a favor from you?”

He was silent, and then, “Are you certain you wish a favor from the Devil?”

“It seems that would be a far more useful favor than one from someone who is perfectly good all the time,” she pointed out.

The brow above his scar rose in amusement. “Fair enough. If I fail, you may claim a favor from me.”

She nodded and extended her hand for a proper handshake, one she regretted the moment his large hand slid into hers. It was warm and big, rough at the palm in a way that evoked work far beyond anything polite gentlemen performed.

It was delicious, and she released him immediately.

“You should not have agreed,” he added.

“Why not?”

“Because nothing good comes from deals made in the dark.” He reached into his pocket and brandished a calling card. “I shall see you two nights hence, unless you require me beforehand.” He dropped the card to the little table next to the chair Felicity thought she might think of as his for the rest of time now. “Lock this door behind me. You wouldn’t want a nefarious character coming in while you are asleep.”

“Locks didn’t keep the first nefarious character out of my room tonight.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “You’re not the only lockpick in London, love.”

She blushed as he tipped his hat and exited through the balcony doors before she could deny her lockpicking, his silver cane flashing in the moonlight.

By the time she reached the edge of the balcony, he was gone, snatched up by the night.

She returned inside and locked the door, her gaze falling to the calling card there.

Lifting it, she considered the elaborate insignia there:

The back offered an address—a street she’d never heard of—and underneath, in the same, masculine scrawl:

With the Devil’s Welcome.