Unable to sleep, Felicity rose at the crack of dawn and went to her brother’s home, letting herself in through the kitchens and up into the family’s quarters, opening the door to his bedchamber to discover him still abed, kissing his wife.

She immediately turned her back and raised a hand to her eyes, crying out, “Ahh! Why?”

While it wasn’t the kindest response to the vision of marital bliss before her, it was certainly more kind than other things she might have thought or said, and it got the job done.

Pru gave a little surprised squeak, and Arthur said, “Dammit, Felicity—are you unable to knock?”

“I didn’t expect . . .” She waved a hand. She looked back to find her sister-in-law sitting up in the bed, counterpane pulled to her chin. Returning her attention to the door, she added, “Hello, Pru.”

“Hello, Felicity,” Pru said, a smile in her voice.

“It’s lovely to see you.”

“And you! I hear you’ve a great deal going on.”

Felicity grimaced. “Yes, I suppose you would have heard that.”

“Enough!” Arthur said. “I’m putting locks on all the doors.”

“We have locks on all the doors, Arthur.”

“I’m putting more locks on the doors. And using them. Two people bursting into our private rooms uninvited in less than a day is two people too many. You may turn around, Felicity.”

She did, to discover that both her brother and sister-in-law had donned dressing gowns. Pru, heavy with child, was crossing the room to a pretty dressing table, and Arthur was standing at the end of the bed, looking . . . not pleased.

“I was invited,” she defended herself. “I was summoned! Felicity. Come and see me immediately. One would think you were king for how superior a summons it was.”

“I didn’t expect you to think you were summoned for this hour.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She didn’t expect to be able to sleep ever again, honestly, for the moment she began to dream, it was of Devil, the King of Covent Garden, and the way he looked at her and the way he touched her and the way he might love her, and just when it all felt so deliciously real, she woke, and it was all horribly false, and so not sleeping seemed a better alternative. “I intended to come and see you today, Arthur. I was going to come and apologize. I know it’s dreadful, and Father has disappeared, and Mother is in a constant state of vapors, but I’ve been thinking about what happened two nights ago and—wait. Someone else burst into your rooms?”

His brows rose. “I wondered when you would note that.” He sighed. “I am unconcerned about what happened at the Northumberland Ball.”

Felicity sighed. “Well, you should be concerned, Arthur. It was . . . not my best moment. I’m properly ruined.”

He barked a laugh at that. “I can imagine.”

“I rather think it might have been your best moment, honestly,” Pru said happily from her dressing table. “Marwick sounds quite unpleasant.”

“He is,” Felicity said. “Mostly. But—” She stopped herself before she could point out that her decision, however freeing for herself, was the opposite for her father and Arthur, who now had no hope for recovering their losses. If Arthur still hadn’t told Pru, it would be a terrible betrayal of her brother.

Even if he deserved it.

She looked at him, the question in her eyes.

“She knows,” he said.

Felicity looked to Pru. “You do?”

“That this idiot man was keeping the truth about his own ruin from us both? In fact, I do.”

Felicity’s jaw dropped. She never expected her sister-in-law to weep and wail in the face of financial disaster, but she also did not expect her to be so . . . well, frankly, happy. She looked to her brother. “Something has happened.”

Her brother watched her for a long moment. “Indeed, something has.”

Was it possible the duke was not allowing the engagement to end? He was just mad enough to do it—just to punish Devil. And as much as Felicity was irritated with Devil, and hurt by Devil, she was not interested in punishing him. “I’m not marrying Marwick. I made that very clear at the ball . . . and even if he came to . . .”

“I’ve no interest in you marrying Marwick, Felicity. Frankly, I despised the idea from the start. Similarly, I have little interest in discussing the ball. I should like to talk about what happened after the ball.”

Felicity froze. Impossible.

“Nothing happened after the ball.”

“That’s not what we were told.”

Felicity looked to Pru, then back to Arthur, a thread of suspicion in her. “Who burst into your rooms before me?”

“I think you know.”

She went cold. “He shouldn’t have come here.” He’d used her. He’d betrayed her.

You were the perfect revenge.

He’d done enough damage; couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

“Nevertheless,” Arthur said, “he turned up here yesterday.”

“He isn’t important,” she lied.

Arthur raised a brow.

“He seems quite important, if you ask me,” Pru interjected.

No one asked you, Pru. “What did he say?” Felicity asked. He wouldn’t have told Arthur the truth about the night on the roof, certainly. That ran the risk of landing him with her for a wife, and Lord knew he wasn’t willing to risk that for anything.

Lord knew he wasn’t willing to even consider her for a wife.

“He said a number of things, as a matter of fact.” Arthur looked to Pru. “Introduced himself all polite—despite the fact that he’d climbed a tree and broken in.”

“He does that,” Felicity said.

“Does he?” Pru asked, as though they were discussing Devil’s penchant for riding.

“We’re going to have to have a talk about how you know that, eventually,” Arthur said. “He then tore a strip off of me for mistreating you.”

Her gaze flew to her brother’s. “He did?”

“He did. Reminded me that you were never a means to an end. That we were treating you abominably and that we didn’t deserve you.”

Tears welled, along with anger and frustration. He, too, didn’t deserve her. “He shouldn’t have done that, either.”

“He does not seem the kind of man who can be stopped, Felicity,” Pru said.

Especially when you want to stop him from leaving you.

“He was right, is the thing,” Arthur said. “We did behave abominably. He thinks you ought to turn your backs on us. Thinks we’re unworthy of you.”

“He doesn’t really believe that.” Her worth had run its course the moment her usefulness in his revenge had done the same.

“For someone who doesn’t believe in your worth, he certainly was willing to pay a fortune for it.”

She froze, instantly understanding. “He offered you money.”

Arthur shook his head. “Not just money. A king’s ransom. And not just to me—to Father as well. A hefty sum to fill the coffers. To begin again.”

She shook her head. Taking Devil’s money tied them together again. He could turn up any time to check on his investments. She didn’t want him near her. She couldn’t bear him near her. “You can’t take it.”

Arthur blinked. “Whyever not?”

“Because you can’t,” she insisted. “Because he’s only doing it because he feels some kind of guilt.”

“Well, one might argue that a guilty man’s money spends as well as that of someone who sleeps well at night, but, leaving that aside, why would Mr. Culm feel guilty, Felicity?”

Mr. Culm. The name sounded ridiculous on her brother’s tongue. Devil had never used it before with her. He loved being the opposite of a mister with a powerful passion.

And also, Mr. Culm made her remember when she wished she was his Mrs.

Which she didn’t anymore. Obviously.

“Because he does,” she settled on as an answer. “Because . . .” She trailed off. “I don’t know. Because he does.”

“I think he might feel guilty because of the other thing he said while he was here, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed, and Felicity looked to Pru, who looked like the cat that got the cream. “What was it?”

“How did he put it?” Pru asked with a smile that gave Felicity the keen sense that her sister-in-law had committed whatever Devil had said to memory. “Ah. Yes. He loves you.”

Tears came. Instantly. Tears and anger and frustration and loathing that he’d said the words she’d longed to hear to Prudence and Arthur and not to her. The person whom he ostensibly loved.

She shook her head. “No, he doesn’t.”

“I think he might, you know,” Arthur replied.

One lone tear spilled down her cheek and she dashed it away. “No, he doesn’t. You are not the only ones who treated me abominably, you know. He did, too.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. He told us that, as well. He told us he’d made enough mistakes to make it impossible for him to make you happy.”

She stilled. “He said that?”

Pru nodded. “He said he would live with the regret for a lifetime. That he would remember the chance he’d had and lost.”

Another tear. Another. Felicity sniffed and shook her head. “He didn’t care enough about me.”

Arthur nodded. “I shan’t tell you otherwise; you must decide if he is a man worthy of you. But know that Devon Culm has bestowed a fortune upon you, Felicity.”

“Upon you,” she corrected. “So, what, that I may be kept? That I may be your responsibility forever? That I may belong to you, and live in sadness and silence here in this world that used to be all glitter, and is now faded paint, peeling from the rafters? All he’s done is make my future a gilded prison.”

“No, Felicity. I spoke correctly. Culm bestowed a fortune upon you. He wished you to have enough to find your own happiness.” He looked to Pru. “How did he say it?”

Pru sighed. “A future wherever and with whomever you wish.”

Felicity’s brow furrowed. “A dowry?” The bastard. He’d just thrown up another door. She’d unlocked everything, and here she was again, surrounded by new chains. New locks.

Arthur shook her head. “No. It’s yours. The money is yours. An enormous amount, Felicity. More than you could ever spend.”

The shocking words settled as Pru lifted a box from her dressing table and walked it over to Felicity. “And he left you a gift.”

“The money was not gift enough?” The black onyx box, longer than it was wide, barely an inch high, and tied with a pink silk bow. Her chest tightened at the pretty package it made. Pink on black, like light on darkness. Like a promise.

“He was adamant you receive this when we told you of the funds.”

She slipped the ribbon from the box, wrapping it carefully around her wrist before she opened the lid to discover a thick white linen card inside. Across it, in Devil’s beautiful black scrawl, were three words.

Farewell, Felicity Faircloth.

Her chest tightened at the words, tears springing again instantly.

She hated him. He’d taken away the only thing she’d ever really wanted. Him.

She lifted the card, nonetheless, and her breath caught at the glint of metal beneath, six straight, thin lines of shining, gleaming steel, beautifully wrought. Tears came freely now, her hand shaking as she reached for the gift, her fingertips caressing the smooth metalwork. “Devil,” she whispered, unable to keep his name from her tongue. “They’re beautiful.”

Pru craned to look in the box. “What are they? Hairpins?”

“Yes.”

“What a strange design.”

Felicity lifted one from the box, inspecting the jagged wave at one end. Setting it down on its black velvet cushion—the most beautiful tool chest in Christendom—she ran her finger over the L-shaped angle in another. The flat square end of a third. “They’re lockpicks.”

The money was one thing. But the lockpicks were everything.

You’ve got the future in your hands every time you hold a hairpin, he’d said all those days ago in the warehouse, when he’d told her she shouldn’t be ashamed of her talent.

These picks were proof he knew her. That he put her desires first. Her passion first. That he cared more for what she chose for herself than for his own guilt.

But more than all that, they were proof that he loved her.

He’d bought her freedom—she would never again have to make choices based on Arthur’s business or her mother’s home, or her own social standing. He’d freed her from Mayfair. From the world she no longer wanted. And he’d given her the future.

Just as he had on the roof, when he’d resisted her. When he’d told her that he wouldn’t take her. That he wouldn’t ruin her. That he wouldn’t rob her of the future he could see—like Janus. In the moment, he’d let her choose him, and she had, without for a moment feeling ruined. And now, he’d ensured that she’d never be ruined again; he’d replenished her family’s coffers and made her rich beyond measure. Rich in money and freedom.

Wherever and with whomever you wish.

She lifted the pins one after the other and inserted them into her hair.

She didn’t want the world of the aristocracy. She wanted the world.

And he was the man to give it to her.

Not that she wasn’t prepared to take it.

To no avail, Felicity banged on the great steel warehouse door a half hour later as the sun edged over the rookery’s rooftops. What good was the benefit to having been given the blessing of a Bareknuckle Bastard’s protection in Covent Garden if one could not enter their damn warehouse when one wished?

She was going to have to do it another way. She reached into her hair, pulling out one gleaming steel pin, and a second, each one beautifully shaped. Devil had found a skilled artisan who understood complex lockpicking, which seemed the kind of thing that should not exist . . . but he specialized in things that did not exist, and so she was unsurprised as she knelt in the dirt outside the warehouse door.

He’d better be within, or she was going to be very irritated that she’d stained her dress.

Also, he’d better be within, because she was ready to give him a firm set-down. One he richly deserved, the bastard.

After which, she intended to stay until he told her he loved her. More than once.

Before she could do the job, however, a man leapt to the ground behind her. “My lady.”

She turned to face John, the handsome, friendly man who had returned her to her home the last time she was here. “Hello, John,” she said, brazening through, a bright smile on her pretty face.

“Good morning, my lady,” John replied in his deep baritone. “I hope you understand that I cannot allow you to pick that lock.”

“Excellent,” she said. “Then you shall save me the trouble and let me in?”

John’s brows rose. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“But I am welcome here. I am under his protection. He gave me free rein over Covent Garden.”

“Not any longer, my lady. Now we’re to return you to Mayfair if we find you. No hesitation. You ain’t even to see Devil.”

A tightness settled in her chest. He didn’t even wish to see her again.

Which of course was rubbish because obviously he wished to see her.

Obviously he loved her.

He simply had to be convinced to tell her to her face, the foolish man.

That said, this new turn of events was not ideal. Felicity tried a new tack. “I never thanked you for bringing me home that night.”

“If you’ll excuse me for saying so, my lady, you were too busy railing against Devil to thank me.”

She pursed her lips. “I was very angry with him.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“It had nothing to do with you.”

“No, my lady.”

“He left me that night.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Just like he’d left her again and again. She met John’s gaze. “He left me again last night.”

Something flickered in the man’s dark eyes. Something suspiciously like pity. No. Felicity wasn’t having anyone’s pity. “He thinks to tell me what is good for me. I don’t care for that.”

John smirked. “I don’t imagine you do.”

“You shouldn’t ever tell your wife what’s good for her. Not if you know what’s good for you, John.”

He laughed at that, deep and full. Felicity kept talking, as much to herself as to him. “He’s addlepated, of course, as he’s more than good enough for me. He’s the best of men.” She looked to John again. “He’s the best of men.”

“Only the Bastards and Nik have keys to this lock.” John watched the rooftops for a long time.

“May I convince you to at least patrol the back side of the building while I pick it, then?”

“That lock is unpickable.”

She smiled. “As we become more acquainted, John, I think you’ll find that I’m quite good with locks.”

“I’ve seen you with Devil, my lady. I have no trouble believing that.”

The words set her heart racing, and sadness filled his large brown eyes. He wasn’t going to do it. He was too loyal to Devil to allow her in, even when he could see that her intentions were good.

“Please, John,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

A nightingale sang, and Felicity looked up at the strange sound, so unexpected here, in the yard of a rookery warehouse. When she found nothing out of the ordinary, she turned back to John, who was . . . smiling.

Her brow furrowed. “John?”

“Lady Felicity.” A growl came from above and she looked up to see Whit coming down the side of the warehouse to land next to her.

“I am going to require trousers if I’m going to run with you lot, aren’t I?”

He inclined his head. “It’s not the worst of ideas.”

His tacit acceptance of her premise filled her with joy. “I was just telling John that I love your brother quite madly.” One of Whit’s black brows rose. “As a result, I fully intend to pick this unpickable lock and go in there and tell him he’s cabbage-brained for not loving me back. But that will take some time, and when one decides one would like to fight for the man one loves, one likes to do it as quickly as possible, you can imagine.”

“I can. But he isn’t here. He’s at home.”

She shook her head. “No, he isn’t; I went there first.”

He grunted disapprovingly.

“So you can see why I would appreciate it if you would let me in.”

His brow furrowed. “Did you knock?”

“I did.”

He raised a fist and pounded a thundering knock on the door. “And he didn’t answer?”

Felicity did not like the look on his face. “No.”

His key was in the lock instantly, the door opening to the cavernous warehouse in seconds. Silence and darkness greeted them. “Devil?” he called out.

No answer. Felicity’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. She turned back to John. “Light. We need light.”

The big man was already turning to fetch a lantern.

Whit called after him. “Did he leave?”

John’s reply was firm and clipped. “No one’s been in or out since you lot left.”

“Devil!” Whit called out.

Silence.

John passed Felicity a lantern, and she lifted it high. “Devil?”

“He must have left,” Whit said. “Goddammit, John, there’s a hundred thousand pounds worth of goods down there and you lot are sleeping at the watch enough that you didn’t see someone leave through the only damn door to the place.”

“He didn’t come through that door, Beast,” John protested. “My men know their work. And they do it well.”

Felicity stopped listening to the two men spar, heading deeper into the darkness to the far corner of the space. To where the door inset in the warehouse floor stood open, a yawning blackness below.

Devil had been adamant that that door never stand open. That it being open underscored that there was something below the warehouse itself.

“Devil?” She stood at the edge of the hole and called into the void for him. He wouldn’t be down there. He hated the hold. He hated the darkness.

And still . . . she knew he was down there. Without question.

She was down into the darkness instantly, running along the long, dark tunnel, holding her lantern high, her heart in her throat. “Devil?” she called again.

And that’s when she saw it. The flash of light on the ground in front of her. The gleam of silver. The lion’s head at the handle of his walking stick. The weapon, discarded on the ground.

Next to the door to the ice hold.

She reached for the handle. Pulled. It was locked. From the outside. Six heavy steel padlocks in a neat row.

She pounded on the door in great, heavy blows. “Devil?”

No answer.

More pounding. “Devil? Are you in there?”

Again, no answer.

“Devil?” She knocked again, pressing her ear to the door, unable to hear anything over the pounding of her heart.

She dropped the lantern to the ground and reached for her hairpins without hesitation. She knocked on the door again, as hard as she could, shouting, “Devil! I am here!” before calling for Whit and John. But she could not wait for them.

Instead, she dropped to her knees and began working the locks. All the while talking to the door, hoping he would hear her. “Don’t you dare die in there, Devon Culm. I’ve things to say to your face, you terrible, wonderful man . . .”

The first lock clicked open and she pulled it from its latch, tossing it down the corridor and immediately setting to work on the next.

“. . . you think you can simply turn up at my brother’s home and tell him you love me without telling me first? You think that is fair? It’s not . . . and I’m going to punish you by making you tell me every minute of every hour for the rest of our lives . . .”

The second lock came loose and she immediately set her picks to the third, calling out, “Devil? Are you there? Love?” She banged on the door.

Silence. She tossed the third lock to the side.

“I love you, do you know that?” She slid her picks into the fourth lock, then the fifth.

“Are you cold, my love?” She shouted for Whit again. And John. “I’m coming,” she whispered, now on the sixth lock, feeling for the latch inside the springwork within—this one different from the others. She scraped the tools together, whispering again, “I’m coming.”

Done. She tossed the lock to the side and opened the door, heaving the great heavy slab to the side, the air instantly colder as she revealed the inner door, another line of locks. She immediately came to her knees in the cold mud there.

She couldn’t even see the locks anymore; she worked them by touch. Calling out to him. “Devil? Please, love—are you there?” Her heart pounded and she refused to allow the tears to come. Refused to believe she might have lost him. “Devil, please—I’m working as fast as I can. I’m here.” She repeated it. “I’m here.” Again and again.

And then, barely there, almost impossible to believe, she heard it. A knock. As light as butterflies’ wings. As a moth’s. Her moth.

“Devil!” she shouted, banging on the door. “I hear you! I shan’t leave you. I’m never leaving you again. You’ll never be rid of me.”

One lock. A second. A third. Her hands were steadier than they’d ever been, the picks flying through the lockwork.

“Goddammit. No one keeps ice behind this many locks, Devil. You’re definitely a smuggler. Probably a thief, too. God knows you’ve stolen my heart. And my future. I’m here to take it back.”

The lock sprang and she was on to the fourth. At this point, any of her hairpins would have been bent or broken, rendered useless. But these pins were perfect. He was perfect.

“You’re going to have to marry me, you know. I’m through letting you make decisions related to our mutual happiness because when you do, I am only left sad, and you are left . . .” She tossed aside the fourth. Moved to the fifth. “Well . . . locked inside ice dungeons. I assume this is the work of my former fiancé?”

A pause, while she discarded the fifth lock and set her picks to the last. “Just one more, Devon. Hold on. Please. I’m coming.”

Click.

She flung the lock away and threw the heavy latch at the bottom of the door, pulling it open with all her strength. It came with a blast of frigid air and Devil, falling through the door, into her arms.

She clutched him to her and they both fell to their knees under his weight. He trembled with cold, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. He whispered one word, over and over, like a benediction. “Felicity.”

Her arms wrapped around him, desperate to hold more of him. Desperate to warm him. “Thank you for my lockpicks.”

“Y-you s-saved m-me.” He was so cold.

“Always,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cool temple. “Always.”

“F-Felicity,” he chattered her name. “I—”

She rubbed his arms with her hands, spoke to the top of his head. “No . . . don’t speak. I have to get Whit.”

He stiffened. “N-no.” He swallowed, and she saw the struggle of it. “It was so dark.”

Tears welled. “I know. I’ll leave the lantern.”

His arms turned to steel, the strength of his grip surprising and immensely comforting. “N-not the lantern. You’re the light. Don’t leave me.”

“I can’t carry you,” she said. “You have to let me get Whit.”

His eyes opened, dark in the dim light. “Don’t l-leave me ever again.”

She shook her head. “Never. But love, it is so cold here. We must warm you.”

“You’re fire,” he whispered. “You’re flame. I love you.”

The words thundered through her, and she could not stop touching him, stop running her hands over him, fast, furiously attempting to warm him. “Devil.”

He pulled away, his gaze finding hers. “I love you.”

Her heart redoubled its pounding. “Devil, I need to get you somewhere warm. Are you hurt?”

“I love you,” he whispered again. “I love you. You’re my future.”

Her heart pounded. He’d gone mad. “My love, there is time for that once we are aboveground.”

“There will never be enough time,” he said, pulling her to him, his teeth chattering, his heartbeat fast and furious. “I will never be able to tell you enough.” He kissed her, his lips cold to the touch, and somehow still setting fire to her. She reached up, stroking her hand over his cheek.

When he released her, it was to press his forehead to hers and whisper, again, “I love you.”

She could not stop the smile that came—here, in the dark, dank, frigid hold that had nearly killed this man, that also happened to be the most perfect place for him to tell her he loved her. “You told my brother first.”

“Yes.”

“I’m very angry with you about that, you know.”

“So you said.”

“I’m so angry, I came to tell you how angry I am about it. The money, too.”

He shivered, pressing his face to her neck. “I wanted you to be free of all of it.”

“I don’t want your money, Devil.”

“I didn’t need it anymore. It meant nothing without you.”

“You beautiful, ridiculous man,” she said. “Then why not have me, instead?”

“Ages ago . . . you asked me why I chose you.” His words were slow and measured, as though it was important that she hear them. “That night, I wanted it to be because I thought you could win him. Because you looked the kind of woman easily sacrificed.”

She nodded. Forlorn Felicity. Wallflower and unfortunate.

“But it wasn’t,” he continued. “It never was. It was because I wanted you close. It was because I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone having you. Anyone but me.” He pulled her close again, his cold face at the warm skin of her neck. “Christ, Felicity. I’m so sorry.”

“I am not.”

He snapped to attention. “You’re not?”

“No. You’ve a lifetime to make it up to me, and I intend to be a proper Devil’s bride.”

He grinned. “I shall adore every minute of that.”

“I want you out of this place. I want you warm.”

He pulled her close, wrapping his arms about her. “I have thoughts on how you might get me warm.”

He lowered his lips to hers, and she was so grateful that he was able to think of kissing in that moment that she gave herself up to it, sliding her hands up his chest to his broad shoulders and up, up to his rough-hewn jaw and into his hair, where she discovered a wet patch.

“Well. This isn’t what I expected to find down here.” Whit had arrived.

Devil released her from the kiss. “Go away.”

“No, don’t go away, Whit,” she said. “We need you.”

“We do not need him,” Devil said, moving to stand, sucking in a breath at the pain of the movement, making her heart ache.

She moved her hand to the light, blood shining black on her fingertips. “You’re bleeding.” She turned to Whit. “He’s freezing. And he’s bleeding.”

Whit immediately came forward, catching Devil’s arm over his shoulder. “What the hell happened to you?”

He put his fingers to his temple, wincing. “Ewan.” He reached for Felicity. “He didn’t come for you.”

She shook her head. “Why would he? I ended our engagement. I hit him.”

He grinned at that. “I know, love. I’m very proud of you for that bit.”

“He deserved it. And more, for what he’s done to you.”

“Grace took to the rooftops last night.”

Devil nodded. “I let Ewan think her dead.” He pulled her close and kissed her temple before looking to Whit. “He’s furious.”

Whit nodded. “He’s left. The watch reported this morning, he rode out from the Mayfair house at dawn.”

Devil nodded. “He’ll be back. He’ll want to punish us.”

Whit lifted the lantern to look at Devil’s face. “Christ, he knocked you good.”

Felicity scowled. “Never has a man needed punishment more than that one.”

He looked at her, then to Whit. “He received it today.”

Whit grunted, seeming to understand whatever that meant. Felicity did not, however, and her temper flared. “He knocked you over the head and locked you in an ice hold where you could have died. Whatever you did to him is not comparable.”

“That’s spoken like someone who’s never been desperate for the woman he loves.”

She did not hesitate. “Well, I’ve been desperate to get to the man I love, so I think I have an idea.”

The brothers watched her for a long moment, and then Whit said, “I like her.”

Devil grinned, then winced at the movement. “As do I.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re bleeding from the head. There isn’t time for liking me.”

“There will always be time for liking you, Felicity Faircloth.”

With Whit’s help, they moved Devil up into the warehouse, and then out into the courtyard, now bright with sun.

Felicity was already calling for John. “We need a hack! Or something—Devil needs a surgeon, immediately. And a decent one, not some lumbering fool with a bloodletting box.” Instead of moving to help, however, John rocked back on his heels, a wide smile on his face.

Felicity’s brow furrowed in confusion. “John, please.” And then she turned to follow the direction of his gaze, to find Devil standing perfectly still, ten paces behind her.

She flew to his side, her skirts billowing around them both. “What is it?” she said, running her hands over his arms, his shoulders. “Are you hurt somewhere else? Is it your head? Can you stand?”

He grasped her hands in one of his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Stop, love. You’ll make the boys think me soft.”

Whit grunted. “The boys already think you soft when it comes to her.”

“Only because they don’t think I’m worthy of her.”

“They know you’re not worthy of her.”

Felicity shook her head. “What is wrong with you both? He needs a doctor!”

“I need you, first,” he said.

“What?” He was mad.

“You came back for me.”

“Of course I did. I love you, you imbecile.”

Whit coughed a laugh, and Devil pressed another kiss to her fingers. “Well, we’re going to have to work on you questioning my intelligence a bit.”

“I don’t question your intelligence,” she said. “I think you’re brilliant. Except for when you think to suggest that I don’t know my own mind.”

“I love you, Felicity Faircloth.”

She smiled. “When we are married, do you intend to call me by both of my names?”

“Only if you ask me very nicely.” He leaned in close. “I think I’ve loved you since the moment I found you on that balcony, having picked the lock and found your way from the light to the darkness.”

“To freedom,” she said, softly.

“That night, in your bedchamber, I jested about rescuing the princess from her tower—”

“You did that,” she interrupted.

He shook his head. “No, love. You rescued me. You rescued me from a world without color. Without light. A world without you.” He brushed a thumb over her cheek. “Beautiful, perfect Felicity. You rescued me. I wanted you from the start. It was only a matter of time before everything—everything—was second to me wanting you. To me keeping you safe. To me loving you.” Tears filled her eyes as he continued. “And all I wanted was your happiness. Mine was nothing compared to yours.”

“But my happiness is tied to yours. Don’t you see?”

He nodded. “I can’t give you Mayfair, Felicity. We’ll never be welcome there. You’ll always have gone slumming, no matter how rich we are.” He paused, lost in thought, and then said, “But I’ll give you everything else. The wide world. You have only to ask.” His beautiful eyes glittered in the sunlight. “You rescued me from the past. You gave me a present. And now . . . I wish you to promise me the future.”

“Yes,” she whispered, unable to keep the tears from spilling over. “Yes.”

He stole her lips in a wicked kiss that left them both breathless, and Whit grumbled, “Find a bed, will you?”

Felicity pulled away, a blush high on her cheeks, and said, “Just as soon as we find a doctor.” She moved to leave the yard, to head for the street.

“Wait,” Devil said. “I could swear that you insisted we marry down there, in the darkness, while you were saving my life.”

She smirked. “Well, you were quite cold and are suffering from a head wound, so I wouldn’t be so certain that you heard what you think you heard.”

“I’m certain, love.”

“Women do not typically propose to men. Certainly not women like me. Certainly not men like you.”

“Women like you?”

“Wallflower spinsters. Forlorn Felicitys.”

“Lady Lockpick, did you or did you not ask me to marry you?”

“I believe it was less asking and more telling.”

“Do it again.”

Her blush turned to flame. “No.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Please?”

“No.” She pulled away from him and kept walking.

“So traditional,” he scoffed. And then, after a moment, he called after her. “Felicity?”

She turned back to find him on his knees in the brightly lit courtyard. She took a step toward him, already reaching for him, thinking for a moment that he had fallen again.

He clasped her outstretched hand and pulled her closer, until her skirts were billowing around him. She froze, staring down into the face of the man she loved as he said, “I haven’t much. I was born with nothing, was given nothing. I haven’t a name worthy of you, nor a past I’m proud of. But I vow here, in this place that I have built, that used to mean everything and now means nothing without you, that I will spend the rest of my life loving you. And I will do all that I can to give you the world.”

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

“What, then?”

“You,” she said, simply. “I want you.”

He smiled, the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen. “You’ve had me since that first night, love. Now tell me what else you want.”

She blushed.

Her heart pounded when he removed the band from his ring finger, immediately transferring it to her thumb, following the kiss of warm silver with his own kiss, to the metal and then to her knuckles. There would be a wedding, no doubt, but this moment, here, in this place, felt like ceremony, blessed by sunlight and air.

And when the husband of her heart rose to his feet—towering over her with broad, beautiful shoulders, his hands coming to her cheeks, cupping her jaw, tilting her face up to his—Felicity gave him the kind of kiss a queen of Covent Garden gave her king.

When it was over, he turned to the rooftops, and Felicity’s gaze followed his to the rooftops around the warehouse yard, where dozens of men stood at scattered intervals, rifles at their sides, grins on their faces, watching.

She blushed, and the blush turned to flame as he called out, as strong as ever, “My lady.”

He kissed her, long and slow and deep, until the men assembled pounded their feet and shouted their congratulations down into the yard, creating a magnificent, cacophonous echo reverberating around the buildings, so thunderous that the tremors in her toes sent wild pleasure through her—pleasure that turned to fire when he pulled her close and whispered at her ear. “Your world awaits, my love.”