he could do nothing but sully her. He clung to the thought. To the hope that it would keep him from doing something mad. “Fourteen is more than old enough to throw a punch, Hattie.”
Her attention flickered to the cut on his swelling cheek. “And what of catching them?”
One side of his mouth went up in a cocky grin. “Don’ ’ave to if yer fast ’nough to get out the way.”
She smiled at the way his voice slid into the Garden. “And were you very fast?”
“I had to be. I wasn’t anything near strong. The runt of the litter.”
She made a show of assessing his broad frame. “I find that very difficult to believe.”
He lifted one shoulder and dropped it. “I grew.”
“I noticed.”
He felt the pleasure in the words keenly, and he went hard with a speed that surprised him. Before he could act on it, she said, “Go on,” and he had no choice but to obey.
“Devil and I were middling fighters. We could bob and weave, and when we landed a punch we knew how to put force behind it. We didn’t always win, but we always gave the crowd a show.” The tale should have been bleak—the story of brothers given no other choice but to fight for their beds and their supper—but it wasn’t. The fights were some of the best memories of those years.
“And now he is married to Felicity Faircloth.”
Surprise flared and faded. “I forget she was a toff.”
Hattie grinned. “I was always a bit jealous of her for being able to leave it. And for having such a good reason.” A pause, and then, “You have the same eyes.”
The Marwick eyes.
“I wish I’d spoken to him.”
“Dev?” He shook his head. “He’s not for you.”
She was vaguely insulted. “Why not?”
“He’s not good enough for you.”
Lips curved in a smile that nearly stole his breath. “And you are?”
“Not by miles.”
She lifted one hand at the words, slowly, as though she was afraid he might flee. Whit almost laughed at the idea. There was nothing that would take him from this moment. Nothing that he wouldn’t do to keep her there. To strip her bare and have her. Finally. And when her fingertips brushed his temple just barely, just enough to push a lock of hair back from his face, he held his breath, wanting her to pull him close. Wanting her to kiss him.
Instead, she said, “Bareknuckle Bastards. That’s how the two of you got your name.”
“Three of us.”
It took her a moment to understand. “Grace?”
“You’ve never seen a fighter like Gracie. She could take down a string of brutes and not break a sweat, and when she stepped into the ring, her opponents quaked. The world thinks us Kings of Covent Garden? It’s all bollocks. We’d be nowhere without Grace. She was born to rule it.” He smiled, small and private. “She gave me my first knife. Taught me to throw it—a weapon that didn’t require me to be the biggest or the strongest.”
Admiration flared in her violet eyes. “I rescind my earlier remarks about meeting your brother. I should much prefer to meet your sister.”
“Devil would be deeply offended to hear that.” He met Hattie’s gaze. “But Grace would enjoy meeting you. Of that I have no doubt.”
She smiled, and for a heartbeat, he wondered what it would be like if he’d met this woman in a different place, at a different time. If he’d gone to his lessons like his mother had asked. If he’d refused to leave with his father and fight for a dukedom he’d never had a chance at winning. Would he have become a merchant? A shopkeep? Something simple that kept food in their bellies and a roof over their heads? And would he have convinced this woman so far above him he could barely see her that he was a worthy match?
Would he have come home each night, tired and happy, and found comfort with Hattie, read a book by the fire, shared a sack of sweets as they discussed the weather, or the noise of the market, or the news, or whatever normal people did on a normal day.
What might have been.
An ache bloomed in his chest at the thought, one that came with a desire so keen for something so impossible that he should have put an end to the evening right then. Because he was suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he might ache forever if he let Hattie Sedley come closer.