He did, seeing what anyone might see in such a situation. A dark garden, a darker house beyond. He didn’t understand immediately—not until he looked to her, his gaze locking on her in profile, her skin glowing pale in the light from Warnick House, her eyes tracking the darkness, as though she could see every nuance of the home and gardens without need for light.

There was more than that, though. Alongside the perusal was something else entirely—desire.

“This is the house,” he said.

She turned to him. “Number forty-six Berkeley Square. The former home of Baron Claybourne.”

“And you want it.”

She nodded. “I do.”

“And you want the business.”

She met his eyes, honesty clear and unyielding in her gaze. “I do.”

And why couldn’t she have it? Why shouldn’t she? “Take it.”

She cut him a dry look. “I had intended to. Augie was going to step aside and tell my father to give it to me. If I kept you from him.” She gave a little shrug. “That’s all gone pear-shaped.”

Whit’s fists clenched. He could not guarantee that if he ever met August Sedley he wouldn’t put a fist directly into the man’s face. What kind of a man sent his innocent sister to wage his war? The same kind of man who came for the Bastards without thinking.

No. August Sedley did not come away from this unscathed. Even if he hadn’t thrown his lot in with Ewan, Augie could not be trusted to run one of the biggest shipping businesses on the docks, and run it well to keep men in work and families in health.

But Hattie . . . Hattie, who loved French beans in Covent Garden and bought day-wilted flowers for thruppence—she could be trusted.

She wanted the business and Whit could give it to her.

“And if I helped?”

Suspicion flared in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”

Because I want you to have everything you desire. “Because you should have it. Because Sedley Shipping would thrive with you at the helm. Because the docks need businessmen who know that workers make a world. And you’re strong enough to be one of them.”

She met his gaze. “To be the best of them.”

One side of his lips lifted in a small smile. “Yes.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“So what, you add it to the list of demands for my father? My brother gives up your true enemy, and my father installs me as his successor, and you don’t bring the whole thing down around us?”

Clever girl. A pause fell, the truth in it.

“So I get it . . . because of your benevolence.”

A thread of unease whispered through him. “For God’s sake, Hattie, who cares how you get it?”

She smiled, the expression without humor. “That is spoken like a man who has never had to prove that he earned what he had.” She paused. “I want the business on my own merit, or not at all.”

“Do you doubt you deserve it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then take it. And prove your merit as its head.”

She watched him for a long moment, until Whit became uncomfortable with her unyielding gaze. Still, he resisted the urge to look away. He was a Bareknuckle Bastard, for God’s sake, and he refused to be stared down by a Mayfair lady—not even one who was about to run one of London’s biggest shipping businesses.

If her father agreed.

He’d agree. Whit would give him no choice.

Finally, Hattie whispered, “You can get it for me.”

“The Year of Hattie.”

She smiled, bright and beautiful. “And what will that make us? Business acquaintances?”

Why did that idea please him so much? He growled a little laugh and pulled her to him. “We already have a deal.” She gasped at the words—the reminder of the promise he’d made her all those nights ago to take her virginity. To give her dominion over her body.

“When?” The question was soft and sweet and full of anticipation, and punctuated by her face tilting up to his.

In an instant, Whit was aching for her, and he growled low and dark. “Not in a Mayfair garden.”

“If it isn’t soon, I shall have no choice but to find you again. A needle in a Covent Garden haystack.” The words cracked him open with their promise. When had he ever liked a woman so much as this one? When had he ever felt so well matched?

He dipped his head and sucked the full bottom lip of her smile, until she sighed.

“Soon,” he whispered, when he was through. Tonight maybe. Tomorrow.

She did not hesitate. “Please.”

What a magnificent word. “Go back to your ball, warrior,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. “I shall find you.”

He watched her make her way back through the gardens, up the stairs, and into the ballroom, his gaze not leaving the wine red silk of her beautiful dress. And for a moment, while he watched her, Whit’s thoughts wandered into places where he never allowed them to go. Places that tempted with words like happiness. And pleasure.

And wife.

He stiffened at the last, but did not push it away, instead letting it linger, circling over and over, until the last hint of her silk frock had been swallowed by the crowd and he was left alone, marveling at the singular feeling crashing through him—something he hadn’t felt in two decades.

Hope.

The foreign word stole his breath, and he unconsciously lifted a hand, rubbing at the tightness that came with it, at the way it threatened his certainty.

There was no time for hope. Not even when it came in beautiful, brazen packages, smelling like almonds and with ink stains on its wrists and wide, dimpled smiles. He told himself that as he turned away from the lights of the house.

And found Ewan standing in the darkness.

Chapter Fourteen

We shouldn’t be here.

Memory slammed through Whit at the look in his brother’s eyes, a brilliant amber, identical in color to those of Whit and Devil and the duke, their father. Instantly, he was transported to the moment years ago, when he’d been guided—small and full of nerves and something like hope—into a sitting room on the Marwick country estate to find the boys who would become his brothers and allies for the next two years. He remembered them like they were here now, in this Mayfair garden: Devil—brash and bold, hiding his fear, and Ewan—still as stone, assessing eyes taking in everything, brilliant and instantly favored by their father, who never seemed to see the cold fury that burned like fire in him.

That fire wasn’t cold anymore. Tonight, it threatened to burn down the world.

There’d been a time when Ewan was the largest of them—tallest and broadest and strongest. In Whit’s memories, he was godlike. Full of health and arrogance. Nothing like the man who stood before him, a pale approximation of the boy he’d once been. Lean—almost gaunt, with the way his clothes hung on his long frame—and hollow, unshaven and wild-eyed. Feral.

If twenty years on the streets had taught Whit anything it was this—men who had nothing to live for were the most dangerous of animals. Warning thrummed through him, and he reached inside his topcoat to collect one of his knives.

He was comforted by the cool, heavy weight in his hand, by the knowledge of the exact angle of the throw that would instantly lay his brother low. Ewan had been the best fighter among them years ago, never sending a fist flying without hitting his target. And when they’d planned their escape from their monster of a father, they’d believed in their success because of Ewan’s skill.