The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers Book 1) Read online

  “I disapprove of a bloody nob who’d make light of me.” Normally she did. Now she prayed that he was, in fact, just a pompous bored lord, merely toying with her.

  “This isn’t making fun,” he said, his voice carried a new gravity that only increased the terror clamoring in her breast. “What I propose is a . . .” He tapped a finger against his lips. “A . . . business arrangement. If the rumors are in fact true, and you are in need of a titled husband, I am offering myself for that role.”

  How coldly methodical he made it all sound. It was an arrangement she’d considered and resolved herself to prior to coming to Black’s household. Yet to have them laid out so . . . by this man, a stranger she’d only observed at the Devil’s Den and who’d met with her only once prior to this, turned her stomach. I am no different than him . . . And whether or not she’d agreed to Broderick’s plan to help the family, she’d become a whore in her own right.

  A floorboard groaned from somewhere in the corridor, and she briefly glanced at the doorway. Adair.

  He’s there. She knew it the way she knew where to put her foot when climbing to keep from plunging to her death. It was an instinctiveness that could not be explained or understood.

  “Why would I marry you?” She finally got words out, a question. “Oi don’t know you at all.”

  Lord Landon gave a small shrug. “Ours would be no different than so many other ton marriages. You would have your connections to the nobility; I would have the necessary funds to . . .”

  Her ears pricked up—but ultimately, when he spoke, he withheld that single revealing detail about his circumstances.

  “I would have my finances set to right. I’d, of course, require an heir and the necessary spare.”

  “Of course,” she said drily. Here, all these years she’d believed ruthlessness a trait reserved for the bastards of St. Giles.

  “I’d agree to set aside a portion of your dowry so that it remains in your hands forever.”

  That in itself was a generous offer that said something about the marquess and proved he was not necessarily the heart-hardened nobleman his marriage offer painted him to be, but a man who was desperate, and desperation was something Cleopatra understood. It was an abhorrent emotion she was all too familiar with.

  Lord Landon withdrew a watch fob. The gold gleamed brightly in the early-morn sun as he consulted the piece. “I ask that you consider it, Miss Killoran. You’ll find I’m not cruel.” He may as well have just declared his preference for taking tea. Coming to his feet, he tucked away the watch.

  Cleopatra abruptly stood, eager for him to take his leave. “Oi . . . I don’t know what to say,” she said. That raw honesty would have earned her a beating from Diggory and a lecture from Broderick.

  Reaching inside his jacket, the marquess drew his gloves on one at a time. “It is my hope that you’ll say yes . . . and relatively soon. I’d hope to have an answer on your decision by the end of the week.”

  By the end of the week? With his request and the terms he’d laid out, he was precisely what she’d come to Mayfair for—a titled husband, a quick marriage, and then a secure future for her siblings. It’s too quick . . . I don’t know him . . . he’s a stranger . . .

  But as he’d said, what did it truly matter if her ultimate purpose was a business arrangement? There would never be more between her and any man. Not now when she’d fallen so helplessly and hopelessly in love with Adair.

  Her heart buckled. “I . . . I will think on it,” she promised.

  “Splendid,” he said with his roguish charm. It didn’t escape her notice that he didn’t so much as lift his attention from the gloves he now jammed his long, uncallused fingers into.

  “Why me?” she called when he’d taken three steps. “Surely there are ladies of your own station who are wanting of a title and fat in the pockets.” That you needn’t come here and put an offer to me. Cleopatra clamped her lips tight to keep from blurting out those unspoken words.

  The marquess wheeled back, that enigmatic grin affixed to his lips. “That is why, Miss Killoran. I might be a rake, battling back creditors and fast approaching dun territory, but I’m also a man who appreciates directness and honesty. You’re wise with your brother’s business and unafraid to go toe-to-toe with some men that even I would be wary of.”

  He’d been watching her that closely, then, at the Devil’s Den. Cleopatra frowned, unsure what to make of that revelation.

  “Nor do you cower. As such, I’d take marriage to you over any simpering debutante who converses about the weather and her needlepoint.” Dropping a quick bow that ended all questions, the marquess turned on his heel and left.

  Cleopatra stood there after he’d gone. The longcase clock’s ticking was inordinately loud in the parlor, and she focused on that overwhelming beat. Never before had she been more relieved with a person’s abrupt departure, which given the hell she’d endured in St. Giles and the monsters whose company she’d suffered through in Diggory’s gang, was saying a good deal, indeed. He wanted to marry her.

  It could be done . . . would be done, if she simply agreed to the cool, businesslike terms laid forth by Lord Landon. Marriage had never been anything she’d aspired to. Quite the opposite. She’d learned early on, after Diggory’s earliest wives had married him, and then promptly taken their own lives rather than suffer his abuse, that she wanted no part of marriage.

  Everything’s changed.

  Cleopatra’s legs weakened, and she sank onto the edge of Penelope’s sofa.

  “Ya going to pretend ya aren’t out there?” she asked into the quiet.

  “Depends.” Adair’s muffled voice came from outside the door Lord Landon had closed on his way out.

  She dug her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. “On what?”

  “You looking for company?”

  Her lower lip quivered, and she blasted herself for that weakness, but Lord help her, she could not stop it. After all he’d learned about her parentage early this morn, she’d simply expected he’d want nothing more to do with her. Instead, he’d stood outside the closed parlor door listening. To what end? Because he’d been instructed to be there? Or because he wanted to be there? “I might be,” she said when she trusted herself to speak.

  Adair pushed the door open and stepped inside. He did a quick sweep of the room before settling his focus on her.

  Cleopatra stood and moved behind the sofa, needing space, fearing what he’d say. In this instance, it was far safer to attend the dreadful offer Lord Landon had made her than the final words she’d offered to Adair earlier today.

  He pushed the heavy panel closed and leaned against it, studying her through his thick lashes.

  At an impasse, Cleopatra plucked at the satin brocade upholstery. “’e offered me marriage.”

  “Oi know. Oi ’eard it.”

  There should be outrage over his listening in on her conversation with the marquess. Instead, she was simply grateful she didn’t have to recount the exchange. She tried to make sense of his emotionless tones.

  Adair pushed away from the door and strolled over. She silently damned him for being so coolly unaffected. So calm when her nerves were stretched so tight. She was one wrong word from losing control.

  He stopped before her and brushed his knuckles over her jaw in a caress so fleeting she might have imagined it were it not for the heat left by his touch. “Wot are ya going to do?”

  She jerked her chin up. “Does it matter? Oi marry ’im then my time ’ere is done. The agreement between our families is met and ya don’t ’ave to ’ave one of Diggory’s whelps underfoot.” Her lower lip quivered, and she quickly caught it between her teeth.

  Adair’s gaze, however, fell to her mouth, taking in that sign of her weakness. Why must he look so closely? “Oi should have said something,” he said quietly. “Oi didn’t know wot to say because Oi didn’t expect it . . .” He grimaced. “About your . . . your . . .”

  “Father,” she said bluntly, not all
owing him to dance around the truth of her origins.

  Loathing so strong flashed in his eyes that she took a step back, ravaged by it, hating herself for having come to care so very much about this man’s opinion of her. “Diggory was never your father,” he said in graveled tones. “’e gave you life, and that was likely the only good thing he ever did in his sorry existence.” Adair held her gaze. “An Oi’ll always ’ate him for wot he did to me and mine . . .”

  Tears clouded her vision. How could she truly expect him to forgive her connection to the beast who’d tortured him? She glanced away, but Adair, with his tender touch, forced her eyes back to his.

  “But Cleopatra, Oi hate him as much for what he did to you. You aren’t responsible for his crimes. You aren’t him.”

  This from the man who’d been unable to divorce her connection to Broderick Killoran? “But you said . . .”

  He made a low sound of protest. “I know what I said,” he hastily cut in. “Oi said ya weren’t to be trusted. Oi doubted you at every turn. But I was wrong. You’ve more honor and strength and courage than most people Oi know.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek. “Why are ya doing this?” she begged, tears hoarsening her voice. “You’re supposed to hate me. Tell Black who Oi am and turn me out. End the arrangement between our families.”

  “Oh, Cleopatra.” A heart-wrenching smile curved those hard lips that had explored hers so passionately just hours before. “You still don’t know.”

  She shook her head. “Know what?”

  “Oi love ya too damned much to do any of that.” His smile died, and with it went all the light in the room. “Don’t do it.”

  Tension coursed through her and jerked her spine erect. “Oi don’t—”

  “Oi’m being honest with you,” he said sharply, capturing her by the shoulders. “Don’t you dare pretend ya don’t know what Oi’m speaking about.” The way he slipped in and out of his Cockney and cultured tones spoke to the thin grasp he had on his composure. “Don’t marry him. Ya deserve more, Cleopatra.”

  She wetted her lips. Did he believe himself to be that more? For he was. And yet in marrying him, she’d be forsaking her siblings. But if I do not take the gift of love for myself, I’m forsaking myself . . . and Adair. “What are you saying?” she asked softly, needing clarity of what he truly sought.

  Adair dropped his brow to hers. “Marry me.”

  There it was. Her heart tripped several beats. Who knew two words could cause this giddy lightness inside one’s soul? She briefly closed her eyes. Taking the gift he held out would mean putting her happiness above her siblings, when the whole of her life, Ophelia, Gertrude, and more recently, Stephen, had been put first. But if she did not do this, she would be forever empty and broken in ways she’d never recover. They would be all right. Each of them. They were strong. Strong enough to set their own course and defy Broderick, just as Cleopatra had. “I—”

  Frantic footsteps pounded in the corridor, and then the door crashed open.

  Adair instantly shoved her behind him, drawing his weapon.

  Ryker Black stood framed in the entrance, his nostrils flared, his cheeks flushed, and fury in his eyes. A moment later he was joined by his brothers Calum and Niall. Their stony-faced expressions stirred unease in even her breast. “The deal,” Black said on a steely whisper, “is off.”

  Adrenaline pumping through his veins at the unexpected intrusion from his brothers, Adair looked at the trio in the doorway.

  “What in blazes are you talking about?” he snapped.

  A leather folder in hand, Ryker strode forward. “It was her family,” he said flatly, jabbing the folio in Cleopatra’s direction.

  Again demonstrating the braveness that had snagged his heart, Cleopatra moved out from behind him to glower at his brother. “Oi don’t know how many times—”

  “I’ve had Bow Street Runners investigating your family and watching my club.”

  A gasp hissed past Cleopatra’s lips.

  Fury coursed through him. “Ya ’ad her family investigated and you didn’t think to tell me?” This omission was no different from the vital information they’d withheld from him about the future of the Hell and Sin . . . and their family.

  “We thought given ’ow . . . close you’ve become to her that it moight be best to otherwise say nothing,” Niall answered with his usual bluntness.

  Adair took a lunging step forward, his fingers twitching with the need to bury themselves in the face of Niall . . . and all of them.

  Ever the peacemaker, Calum swiftly inserted himself between them. “Enough,” he boomed. “The decision about whether or not to include you in discussions on the Killorans matters less than the findings revealed.”

  Four pairs of eyes went to Cleopatra.

  Even with her slight stature, she stood proudly, a veritable soldier capable of defeating one of those great Spartan warriors. “Oi don’t know how many times Oi’ll have to defend my family against your charges.” She jammed her hands on her hips and glowered at Adair’s brothers. “We aren’t arsonists, and Oi’m not a liar.”

  It didn’t escape Adair’s notice that she’d only included herself in that latter statement. It was a detail Ryker wouldn’t miss, either. His brother thinned his eyes into narrow slits.

  “We found one of your men sneaking around the Hell and Sin.”

  “Pfft,” Cleopatra scoffed. “Doesn’t mean anything. Could have been any reason he was there. And you didn’t even say who—”

  “Brewster,” Niall spat.

  Killoran’s head guard.

  Cleopatra faltered. “Oi don’t believe it.”

  “He somehow sneaked past our guards and was discovered inside, Miss Killoran,” Calum said gently.

  “I still don’t believe you. There was another reason he was there.” Cleopatra paused, looking to Adair. “Brewster wouldn’t. He’s too honorable. Tell them my family wouldn’t do that.”

  Except . . . Adair couldn’t do that. Because he didn’t know them. He looked away, but not before he saw the flash of hurt in her eyes.

  “We found a ruby-studded dagger stuck in the wall of the recently completed rooms. You can read it all here, yourself, Miss Killoran,” Ryker snapped, hurling the folder at her.

  Cleopatra instantly shot her hands out, but it sailed to the hardwood floor with a noisy thwack. The bespectacled spitfire immediately sank to her haunches and recovered the folder. Adair took a step closer to read those damning pages, but she snapped them close, glaring at him like he was the grime under the heel of her boot.

  A pang struck sharp in his chest, and he cursed his brothers to hell for springing this upon them. For not allowing him any time to think it through, to read the file . . . to interview Brewster.

  Her head bent over the top sheet, Cleopatra’s spectacles slid forward, and she angrily shoved them back into place, reading frantically through . . . and then she stopped. It was an imperceptible pause that most would miss, but studying her as closely as he did, he saw it. She knew the truth from whatever was written there. Cleopatra briefly caught his gaze, and a flash of worry turned her brown eyes a shade darker.

  Then she looked away, effectively shutting him out.

  Her fingers shook slightly as she shut the folder. “It wasn’t Brewster,” she said in her usual defiance, erecting a barrier between them.

  “He’s being brought in for an interview now.”

  All the color bled from Cleopatra’s cheeks, leaving her an ashen shade of gray.

  “Your belongings are being packed as we speak,” Ryker went on with his usual ruthlessness.

  “Ya cannot send her away,” Adair gritted out, and a sickening dread twisted in his belly.

  “I am sending her away,” Ryker said tightly. “The terms of our arrangement only existed as long as there was a truce. The truce was off the minute the fire was set.” His face set into a hard mask that sent shivers of apprehension skittering along Adair’s spine. “I’m having charges brought
against Killoran for organizing the plot.”

  Cleopatra cried out and surged forward. “Ya bastard!” Adair caught her in his arms. She thrashed and flailed wildly. “Ya’d see to put my brother in Newgate? He didn’t burn down your damned club.”

  “His head guard did,” Niall called over the fray. “Do ya expect us to believe ’e acted on his own without any interference from his employer?”

  “Oi don’t care what ya believe, ya miserable rotted cur,” she spat.

  Out of breath from his attempts to restrain her, Adair adjusted his hold, and all the while his panic spiraled. His brothers would never trust Cleopatra. They’d never see her or know her the way Adair did. What kind of future could they have together with this enmity between their families?

  “Let me go,” she hissed, and wiggled herself free. Cleopatra bolted to the corner of the room, and his heart lurched painfully. She’d the look of a wounded, fearful animal braced for battle.

  “Have you spoken to Killoran?” Adair demanded.

  Varying degrees of shock and pity filled the three pairs of accusatory eyes now on him.

  Ryker rolled his shoulders. “I’m going shortly. The constable has orders not to make any formal arrests until we speak.”

  “Bastard,” Cleopatra spat again.

  Adair held a palm up, silencing her. “I’ll not let you turn Cleopatra away without confirmation of an investigation.”

  “Oi don’t want to stay here,” Cleopatra said quietly, with a restoration of her usual calm that increased the dread knocking around his insides. There was a resignation there that hinted at her double meaning. She didn’t want to be here with him.

  Presenting his back to his brothers, Adair strode over to where Cleopatra had taken up position. Careful to angle his body in a way to conceal their exchange, he lowered his brow close to hers. “Don’t you dare quit on me because this is hard,” he demanded in hushed tones. “Our families hate one another, but in time—”

  “Stop.”

  He’d expected to see rage reflected behind her round wire-rimmed spectacles. The grief there hit him like a kick to the gut.