He came to tell her that she couldn’t use his boys as messengers.

He came to tell her that he had more important things in his life—responsibilities that far outweighed that of a bored wallflower lockpick for whom he had little time and even less interest.

He came to tell her that he didn’t belong to her, and she should not for a moment think he did.

He did not come because Ewan had kissed her.

And if he did come because Ewan had kissed her, it wasn’t because of Felicity. It was because he knew his brother well enough to know that Ewan was trying to prove a point. Trying to send his own message to Devil, that he had his marriage and his heir well within his grasp.

Either way, he didn’t come for Felicity.

At least, that’s what Devil told himself as he crossed the back gardens of Bumble House mere hours after Brixton returned to the rookery with news of the kiss, his subsequent discovery, and the fact that Felicity Faircloth had returned him to deliver a scolding to his employer.

Devil tucked his walking stick beneath his arm and began to climb the rose trellis beneath her window. He was a handful of feet above the earth when she spoke from below.

“I thought you were dead.”

He froze, clinging to the slats and vines for longer than he’d like to admit, loathing the way her voice had his breath catching in his chest and his heart beating slightly faster than it should. It wasn’t because of her, he told himself. It was because he was still on edge from the last time he saw her. From the news that the Bastards’ shipment had been hijacked and their men hurt. From the fact that he’d been with her instead of taking care of his men.

That was all.

He looked down at her.

A mistake.

The sun was setting over the Mayfair rooftops, sending rich rays of copper-tinted light into the gardens, catching her dark hair and setting it aflame, along with the satin of her gown. Pink again, now the color of an inferno thanks to a trick of the light. Not that Devil should have noticed that it was pink. He shouldn’t have. He also shouldn’t have wondered if she was wearing the undergarments he’d purchased her days ago. He certainly shouldn’t have wondered if the undergarments came with pink satin ribbons like he’d asked.

Asking for those was another thing he shouldn’t have done.

Christ. She was magnificent.

He shouldn’t notice that, either, but it was impossible not to, what with how she looked like she’d been forged in fire and sin. She was beautiful and she was dangerous. She made a man want to fly right to her. Not like a moth. Like Icarus.

The only thing he should notice was that this woman was not for him.

“I’m not dead, as you can see.”

“No, you’re quite hale.”

“You needn’t sound so disappointed,” he replied, climbing down a foot or two before letting himself drop to the ground and taking his stick in hand.

“I thought you were dead,” she repeated, as he turned to face her, her velvet brown eyes a wicked temptation.

She was too close, but his back was up against a trellis, and he couldn’t move. “And were you very pleased?”

“Oh, yes, I was over the moon,” she said, pertly. And then, after a moment, “You addlepated cabbagehead.”

His brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“You sent me away,” she replied, speaking slowly, as though he were a child who could not remember the events of two nights earlier. “You climbed up onto a horse with your idiot weapon—which is no kind of protection from bullets, I might add—and rode off into the darkness without a second thought for me. Standing there. In the courtyard of your warehouse. Certain you would be killed.” Her cheeks were flushed, her nostrils flaring, the pulse in her throat racing. She was more beautiful than she’d ever been. “And then your henchman packed me into a carriage and took me home. As though everything was fine.”

“Everything was fine,” Devil said.

“Yes, but I didn’t know that!” she said, her voice high and urgent. “I thought you were dead!”

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

“No. You’re not. You’re simply a bastard.” With that, she turned on her heel and left him, giving him no choice but to follow her, like a dog on a lead.

He didn’t care for the comparison, nor its aptness, but follow her he did. “Be careful, Felicity Faircloth, or I shall start to think you concerned for my well-being.”

“I’m not,” she said without looking back.

The sulk in the words made him want to smile, which was strange in itself. “Felicity?”

She waved a hand in the air as she crossed into the high, labyrinthine shrubbery at the rear of the garden. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You summoned me,” he said.

She whirled toward him at that, her earlier frustration tipping over into anger. “I did no such thing!”

“No? Didn’t you send my boy packing to fetch me?”

“No!” she insisted. “I sent Brixton packing because your spies are not welcome in my hedgerow.”

“You sent him with a clear message for me.”

“It wasn’t clear at all if you think I meant to summon you.”

“I think you always mean to summon me.”

“I—” she began, then stopped. “That’s ridiculous.”

He couldn’t stop himself from approaching her, from drawing near enough. “I think you issued a challenge in the yard of my warehouse, looking like a queen, and when I did not rise to it, you thought to bring me to you. You imagined that I’d turn up here, desperate for you.”

“I have never imagined you desperate for me.”

He leaned in. “Then you are not as creative as I thought. Did you not pronounce to all assembled two nights ago that you were not through with me?”

“No, as a matter of fact. I pronounced that I was not through with Covent Garden. That’s quite a different thing altogether.”

“Not when Covent Garden belongs to me.”

She turned away, heading deeper along the hedge path. “I hate to disabuse you of your pompous self-worth, sirrah, but you were not in my thoughts, except to let you know that I was prepared to deliver on my debt to you.”

He stilled, not liking the words. “Your debt.”

“Indeed,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I thought you’d like to know that your lessons worked.”

Of all the things she could have said, those were the words most likely to set Devil off. “Which lessons?”

“Your lessons in passion, of course. The duke was here this morning to discuss the terms of our marriage, and I took matters in hand.”

His grip tightened on his cane sword, instinct making him wish he could unsheathe it and set it to his bastard brother’s neck. “What matters?”

She turned, still moving deeper into the gardens, spreading her hands wide as she walked backward, cheeks flushed. “Kissing, of course.” And then, as though she’d remarked upon the weather, she completed a full circle and continued away from him. “Did Brixton not report back?”

Devil tapped his walking stick in his hand twice. A thread of unease whispered through him. Brixton had reported that Ewan had kissed her, of course. But when Devil had pressed the boy for more information, he’d been told that the caress was short and perfunctory—the very opposite of what had happened with him in the ice hold two nights ago.

There was nothing perfunctory about the way he and Felicity had come together.

So what had happened after Ewan had sent the boy packing? She wasn’t wearing gloves. Had they touched? Skin to skin? Had he kissed her with passion?

Good God. Had she kissed him?

Impossible. And yet . . .

I took matters in hand.

Devil followed her, coming around a corner to see her headed for one end of an enormous, curved stone bench that must have been twenty feet long. “You kissed him.”

“You needn’t say it like you’re shocked. Was that not the purpose of your lessons?”

No. Their kiss might have begun as education but it had ended as eroticism—pure, unfettered pleasure. Pleasure that Devil would refuse to believe she’d been able to echo with Ewan.

Pleasure he imagined he might never be able to echo with anyone ever again.

But Devil did not say any of that. Instead, he asked, “And? Were you satisfied with the outcome?”

She seated herself, spreading her skirts wide and lifting an embroidery hoop from the bench. “Quite.”

His blood was rushing in his ears—loud enough to make him wonder if he was going mad. “What did you do?”

She tilted her head. “What did I do?”

“How did you win him over?”

“What are you suggesting? That I shan’t singe his wings after all? What happened to You’re not a hog, Felicity Faircloth? With such a rousing assessment from you, how could I not have won him over?”

“You’re not a hog,” he replied, feeling like an ass. Feeling off balance. “But that’s not the point. You’ll never get passion from Marwick.”

“Perhaps I won his heart with my remarkable kiss.” Her lips curved in a perfect bow, making him wish they weren’t talking about kissing, but doing it, instead.

“Impossible.” Her face fell, and he hated himself for the way he stripped her power from her. Wanting, instantly, to return it, even though he shouldn’t. Even though returning it would only make her more dangerous.

“Is it? Did you not promise me he would? Did you not say I would have him slavering after me? Singeing his wings?”

He tapped his cane against his boot. “I lied.”

She scowled. “Somehow, I find myself unsurprised.”

“Marwick is not a man who can give you passion.”

“You don’t know that.”

“In fact, I do.”

“How?”

Because I’ve seen him turn his back on it without a second thought.

She narrowed her gaze on him. “No one in London knows him. But you do, don’t you?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“How?”

“It’s not important.” What a lie that was.

“As he is going to be my husband, it seems quite important.”

He’s not going to be your husband. He couldn’t say that to her, and so he stayed quiet.

“I should have realized it from the beginning,” she said. “From the moment you promised him to me. Who is he to you? Who are you to him? How do you have such control over him?”

“No one has control over the Duke of Marwick.” That much was true. That much he could tell her.

“Except you,” she said. “Who is he? A rival in business?” Her brow furrowed. “Is he the reason your men were shot?”

“No.” At least, Devil did not think so.

She nodded once, lost to the memory of the night in the rookery. Her gaze found his, full of concern. “Your men. Brixton said they were not—”

His chest tightened at the realization that even now, even as she released her rage at him, she worried for the well-being of his men—boys she did not know. “The shipment is gone, but the men live.” The two men had been lucky, all things considered. He and Whit had found them unconscious, not from blood loss, but from cracks to the skull. He’d been awake for nearly two straight days, threatening doctors to ensure they remained alive. “They shall heal.”

She released a breath. “I’m grateful for that.”

“Not so grateful as I.”

She smirked up at him. “A pity all your ice was stolen. Strange thing to be on a thief’s list.”

He raised a brow at her observation. “People like to keep things cold.”

“Of course,” she said. “However would they do that without—what is it they call you?—the Bareknuckle Bastards?”

He nodded.

“Why do they call you that?”

A memory flashed—his first night in London, after three and a half days without sleep—he, Whit, and Grace huddled together in a corner in the rookery, hungry and scared, with nothing but each other and the lesson their father had taught them—fight as dirty as you can. “When we arrived in the rookery, we were the best fighters they’d ever seen.”

She watched him from her seat. “How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

Her eyes went wide. “You were children.”

“Children learn to fight, Felicity.”

She thought for a moment, and he wondered if he was in for a soapboxing—a treatise on children’s rights and how he should have had a better childhood, as though he didn’t know all that already. He stiffened, preparing himself, but she didn’t give it. Instead, she said, “But they shouldn’t have to.”

God knew that was true.

She stood then, and his gaze went to her embroidery hoop. “Good God. Is that a fox mauling a hen?”

She tossed it to the bench. “I was angry.”

“I can see that.”

She stepped toward him. “So, you and Beast were young and you learned to fight.”

“We were young and we were already fighters,” he corrected her. “We fought for scraps on the streets for a few weeks before we were discovered by a man who ran a fight ring.” He paused. “The three of us owned it. And then we owned Covent Garden.”

“The three of you?”

“Beast, Dahlia, and me.”

“Dahlia fought?”

Devil smirked, the memory of Grace in her grimy dress and then in her first pair of beautiful, shiny boots—bought with her winnings. “She fought harder than the rest of us combined. Collected enough winnings to start her own business long before we started ours. We were Bareknuckle Babes in comparison. Dahlia . . . she was the original Bareknuckle Bastard.”

Felicity smiled. “I like her.”

He nodded. “You are not alone.”

“But now, you don’t fight with fists,” she said, her gaze lowering to where his bare hand held his cane sword. Her own hand moved, and he wondered if she might touch him. He wondered if he’d let her.

Of course he’d let her.

He tapped his stick twice against the toe of his boot. “No. Once you learn to use a steel, you don’t go back to flesh.” You did what you could to keep yourself safe. Your brother and sister. Your crew. And a blade was more powerful than a fist.

“But you do still fight.” Felicity was still staring at his knuckles, and he was growing more unsettled by the second.

He flexed his fingers. Cleared his throat. “Only when I need to. Beast is the one who likes the show.”

Her gaze flickered to his. “Did you fight the other night?”

He shook his head. “By the time we got there, the goods were gone.”

“But you would have.” She reached for him, and they were both transfixed as her fingers traced his knuckles, white under the tight grip he held on his cane, crisscrossed with scars and marks, badges earned in the rookery. “You would have put yourself in danger.”

Her touch was pretty poison, making him want to give her everything she wanted, everything he had. He should move. “I would have done what was necessary to keep mine safe.”

“How noble,” she whispered.

“No, Felicity Faircloth,” he said. “Don’t go painting me a prince. There’s nothing noble about me.”

Her beautiful brown eyes found his. “I think you’re wrong.”

Her thumb stroked back and forth over his knuckles, and it occurred to Devil that he’d never realized how sensitive the hand was. How powerful a touch there could be. He’d only ever felt pain in his knuckles and here she was, ruining him with pleasure, making him want to haul her into his arms and show her the same.

Except, he wasn’t supposed to want her.

He moved his hand from beneath her touch. “I came to tell you that you cannot summon me.”

Her rich brown gaze did not waver. “I cannot come to you, and I cannot summon you to me.”

“No,” he said. “There’s no need for either.”

She shook her head and spoke softly, her voice low and lush like a promise. “I disagree.”

“You can’t,” he said, as though it meant something.

It didn’t. In fact, it meant so little that she changed the subject, her gaze tracking over his face as though she were attempting to memorize him. “Do you know, I’ve never seen you in the sunlight?”

“What?”

“I’ve seen you in candlelight, and in the eerie glow of your ice hold, in the dead of night outside and in the evening starlight on a ballroom balcony. But I’ve never seen you in the sunlight. You’re very handsome.”

She was so close. Close enough that he could track her gaze as she explored his face, taking in all the faults and angles. Close enough that he could explore hers—perfection to his flaw. And somehow, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “It’s strange. All those times we’ve met in darkness, and I’ve only ever seen you in sunlight.”

Her breath caught, and it took all his energy not to touch her.

Which didn’t matter, as she reached up in that moment and touched him, her fingers like fire on his skin, coasting along his cheekbone and down to his jaw, where she traced the sharp angles of his face before finally reaching her goal—his scar. The tissue there was strange and sensitive, the nerves unable to distinguish pain from pleasure, and she seemed to know that, her touch remarkably gentle. “How did you get this?”

He did not move; he was too afraid that if he did, she might stop touching him. Too afraid, also, that she might touch him more. It was agony. He swallowed. “My brother.”

Her brow furrowed and her gaze flew to his. “Beast?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t know you had another brother.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me.”

She nodded. “That’s true,” she said, softly. “Is it wrong that I would like to learn them all?”

Christ. She was going to kill him. He took a step back, and the loss of her touch threatened the same. He looked away, desperate for something to say. Something that did not involve kissing her until neither of them remembered all the reasons they could not be together.

Reasons that were legion.

He cleared his throat, focusing on the strange shape of the bench behind her. “Why is this bench curved?”

For a long moment, she seemed too busy watching him to reply, her focus making him curse the daylight and wish there were shadows in which he could hide.

He should leave.

Except she answered him. “It’s a whispering bench,” she said. “The acoustics of it are designed so that if someone is whispering at this end, the person on the other end can hear them. It’s said to have been gifted to one of the ladies of the house by her gardener. They were . . .” She blushed, beautiful and honest, then cleared her throat. “They were lovers.”

That blush nearly killed him.

He considered the bench, then moved to the far end, leaning back, his thighs wide, draping one arm over the back of it, forcing himself to seem casual. “So if I sit here . . .”

She moved on cue, resuming her spot on the opposite end. She looked down at her lap. And then she spoke, the words in his ear as though she were next to him. As though she were touching him. “No one would ever know what we are to each other.”

It was rare that Devil was surprised, but the bench surprised him. Or perhaps Felicity’s words surprised him. Perhaps it was the idea that they might hold weight—that the two of them might be something to each other. He immediately looked to her, but she remained transfixed by her embroidery hoop.

“No one would ever know we were speaking,” he said.

She shook her head. “The perfect meeting place for spies.”

His lips twitched at that. “Do you notice a great deal of clandestine visits to your gardens?”

She was not so hesitant with her smile. “There’s been an uptick in the use of my rose trellis recently.” She looked to him and whispered, “One must be prepared for anything.”

He was transfixed by the shape of her—by the straightness of her spine and the rise and fall of her breasts, the softness of her jaw and the swell of her torso. She was Rubens’s Delilah, making him wish he were Samson, at her feet, draped over her sun-kissed skirts.

Willing to give her anything, even his power. “Do you know the story of Janus?”

She tilted her head. “The Roman god?”

He leaned back, extending his legs far in front of him. “The god of doors and locks.”

“They have a god?”

“And a goddess, as a matter of fact.”

“Tell me.” The whisper was full of anticipation, and he turned to look at her, finding her warm brown gaze spellbound.

He couldn’t help his smile. “All the times I’ve tried to tempt you, Felicity Faircloth, and all I had to do was tell you about the god of locks.”

“You’ve done quite well tempting me without that, but I should like to hear anyway.”

Devil’s heart pounded at her honesty, and it was an exercise in control to stay where he was. “He had two faces. One always saw the future, the other always the past. There wasn’t a secret in the world that could be kept from him, because he knew the inside and the outside. The beginning and the end. His omniscience made him the most powerful of the gods, rivaling Jupiter himself.”

She was leaning toward him, and his gaze flickered to the place where her skin, freckled in the sun, rose up from the silk of her dress. The bodice was pulled tight with the angle of her body, and Devil was only a man, after all; he lingered there, watching her breasts strain for freedom. It was beautiful, but nothing like the look in her eyes as she repeated her request. “Tell me.”

The words made him feel like a king. He wanted to tell her stories for the rest of time, to entertain her, to linger in her presence and learn the ones that fascinated her . . . the ones that struck to the very core of who she was, his beautiful lockpick.

Not his.

He put the thought aside and continued. “But seeing the future and the past is as much curse as a gift, you see, and for every beautiful beginning, he also saw the painful end. And this was Janus’s devastation, because he could see death in life, and tragedy in love.”

“How awful,” Felicity whispered in his ear from too far away.

“He did not sleep. Did not eat. He found pleasure in no one and nothing, as he spent all his time—an eternity of time—guarding the past, warding against the inevitable future. Where other gods rivaled and battled for access to each others’ power, none warred with Janus . . . they saw the pain he suffered and steered far clear of it.”

She leaned forward, that dress pulling even more, tempting even more—like the future that could be seen and not warded against. “I imagine he was not a cheerful deity.”

He gave a little bark of laughter. “He was not.” Her eyes widened and she sat up. “What is it?”

“Nothing, only you laugh so rarely.” She paused. “And I like it.”

His cheeks warmed. Like he was a goddamn boy. He cleared his throat. “At any rate. Janus could see the future, and knew it brought only tragedy. Except there was one thing he could not see. A thing he could not predict.”

Her brown eyes twinkled. “A woman.”

“What makes you say that?”

She waved a hand in the air. “It’s always a woman if it’s unpredictable. We’re changeable like the weather, did you not know? Unlike men who always act with clear and logical purpose.” She ended with a dry harrumph.

He inclined his head. “It was a woman.”

“Ah. You see?”

“Would you like me to tell you the story or not?”

She leaned back against the bench, cradling her face in her hand. “Yes, please.”

“Her name was Cardea. And he could not see her coming, but once she was there, he saw her in bright, vivid color. And hers was the greatest beauty he had ever known.”

“Aren’t they always the greatest beauty, these unpredictable women?”

“You think you are so smart, Felicity Faircloth.”

She grinned. “Am I not?”

“Not in this case, because, you see, no one else could see her beauty. She was plain and uninteresting to the rest of the gods. She’d been made so before birth, as punishment to her mother, who had crossed Juno. And so the daughter was punished with mediocrity.”

“Well, I certainly can understand that,” she said quietly, and it occurred to Devil she had not meant for him to hear the words. He wouldn’t have, if not for the bench.

“But she was not plain. And she was not uninteresting. She was beautiful beyond measure, and Janus could see it. He could see the beginning of her and the end of her. And in her, he saw something he had never allowed himself to see.”

Her full lips opened on a tiny inhale. He had her. “What did he see?”

“The present.” He would have stayed there, forever, on that bench, imprisoned by her rapt attention. “He’d never cared for it before. Not until she arrived.”

Not until she showed him what it could be.

“What happened?”

“They married, and on the consummation of their marriage, Janus, the god with two faces, became the god with three. But only Cardea saw the third face—it was for her alone, the face that experienced happiness and joy and goodness and love and peace. The face that saw the present. Only Cardea was gifted a look at the god in his full, glorious form. As only Janus was gifted a look at his goddess in the same way.”

“She unlocked him,” Felicity whispered, and the words threatened to bring Devil to his knees.

He nodded. “She was his key.” The words came like wheels on gravel. “And because she had gifted him the present, he gave her what he could of the past and future, of beginnings and ends. The Romans worshipped Janus for the first month of the year, but by his will, they honored Cardea on the first day of every month—the end of what had been, the beginning of what was to come.”

“And then? What became of them?”

“They reveled in each other,” he replied. “Gloried in having finally found the other being in all the world who could see them for who they were. They are never apart—Janus, forever the god of the lock, Cardea, forever the goddess of the hinge. And the Earth keeps turning.”

She slid toward him for just a moment, just until she realized what she was doing—that she shouldn’t be moving. That it wasn’t proper. Not that anything between them had ever been proper.

He wanted her near him. Touching him. This bench was a torture device. “Did you like the kiss?”

He shouldn’t have asked it, but she replied nonetheless. “Which one?”

He raised a brow. “I know you liked the one we shared.”

“Such modesty.”

“It’s not conceit. You liked it.” He paused. “And so did I.” She inhaled sharply, and he heard it as well as saw it, the way she straightened. Perhaps it was the ease of whispering, but he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Has anyone ever told you that you have a beautiful blush?”

Red crept to her cheeks. “No.”

“You do—it makes me think of summer berries and sweet cream.”

She looked down at her lap. “You shouldn’t—”

“It makes me wonder what I can’t see that has gone pink. It makes me wonder if all that pink tastes as sweet as it looks.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“I know your lips are sweet—your nipples, too. Did you know they are the same color? That pretty pink perfection.”

Her cheeks were flaming. “Stop,” she whispered, and he could swear he heard the sound of her breathing along their secret stone pathway.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you think we offend the bench?” She gave a little laugh, and he went hard at the sound, so close and with her so impossibly far away. “Because I imagine that when this bench was gifted to the lady of the house, her lover sat on the far end and said much worse.”

She looked to him then, and he saw the heat in her gaze. The curiosity. Felicity wanted to hear worse.

Better.

“Shall I tell you what I imagine he said?” he asked.

She nodded. Barely. But enough. And, miraculously, she didn’t look away. She wanted to hear more, and she wanted to hear it from him.

“I imagine he told her that he built this place inside this web of hedgerows so that no one would see. Because, you see, Felicity Fairest, it’s not enough that we can whisper and not be heard . . . because you reveal everything you think and feel on your beautiful, open face.”

She lifted one hand to a cheek, and he continued his soft litany. “I imagine the lady’s lover adored the way her emotions played across her face—the way her lips fell open like temptation incarnate. I imagine he marveled at the pink of them, wondering at the way they matched the perfect tips of her round breasts, and the pink perfection of somewhere else entirely.” She gasped, her eyes flying to his. He smirked. “I see you are not as innocent of thought as you would like others to believe, love.”

“You should stop.”

“Probably,” he replied. “But would you prefer I continue?”

“Yes.”

Christ, that word alone, the glory of it, rioted through him. He wanted to hear it from her again and again as he talked and touched and kissed. He wanted it as her fingers scraped through his hair, as they clutched his shoulders, as they directed his mouth wherever she wanted him to go.

He made to rise, to go to her and continue with his hands and his lips, but she stayed him. “Devil.” He met her gaze. “You lied to me.”

A hundred times. A thousand. “About what?”

“Marwick was never going to singe his wings.”

“No.” Not that Devil would have let it get that far. Not once he realized how hot she burned.

“I still want the singed wings.”

The sun was leaving, and the darkness was falling and with it, his ability to resist her. He shook his head. “I can’t make him want you.”

I won’t.

What a fucking mess he’d made. He’d lost control of all of it. Ceded all his power to this woman, who had no understanding of how she wielded it.

She shook her head. “I don’t want Marwick.”

She was twenty feet away, and the whispered words sounded like gunfire in his ears, but he still didn’t believe he’d heard them correctly. “Say it again.”

Felicity was watching him from her end of the bench, her velvet-brown eyes unwavering. “Marwick isn’t my moth.”

“Who, then?”

“You,” she whispered.

He was already moving toward her, fire already consuming him, knowing he’d never survive it.