“West is a friend,” Cross added. “But he is also a newspaperman. And a good one.”
“I realize that,” Temple said.
He wasn’t a monster. Once she was ruined, he would protect the boys. He would build them a palace outside the city. He’d fill the damn thing with sweets and hounds.
And pigs.
He imagined her, holding that damn piglet, a smile on her pretty lips, and felt a pang of something close to guilt.
Damn.
He flexed the hand of his wounded arm, hating its stiffness.
“I’ll keep West from the orphanage,” he vowed. “He’s a decent man. He won’t do anything to harm two dozen children.”
Cross’s gaze fell to his hand, still opening and closing in careful rhythm. “How does it feel?”
“Eager to get me back in the ring, are you?” Temple joked, not feeling entirely humorous.
Cross did not smile. “Eager to get you back. Full stop.”
Temple looked down at the forearm of his ruined side, turning it over, considering it. Wondering if he should tell them what he suspected in the dark hours of the night, when it twitched and tingled and burned.
What would they say if he told them that he could not feel part of his arm? What would he be to them if he was no longer the unbeatable Temple? What would he be to himself?
No longer the friend they’d made, the man with whom they’d gone into business. No longer Britain’s legendary bare-knuckle boxer. No longer the man who spent his days in Mayfair and his nights in Temple Bar. Instead, he was something else. Some perversion of identity, born aristocrat and raised on the streets. The Duke of Lamont, who had not seen his land or his family in twelve long years.
No longer the Killer Duke.
Of course, he never had been.
A vision flashed, Mara in the ring, standing proud and unmoving. Stronger than any of his prior foes. Fiercer. Far more compelling.
Who would he be to her?
He ran his good hand over his face.
What had she done to him? What had he done to himself?
“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Bourne said quietly.
He looked in his friend’s direction. “Now you defend her? Shall I get you a mirror to remind you of the purple ring about your eye?”
Bourne smirked. “She is not the first to deliver such a blow. And she will not be the last.” That much was true. “All I am saying is that you can stop this. You can change it.”
“What’s put you in such a forgiving frame of mind?”
The marquess shrugged. “You care for the girl, obviously, or you wouldn’t be so destroyed by her. I know what that is like. And I know what it is to give up revenge for it.”
For a moment, he entertained the idea. He imagined what it would be like if he could change it. Imagined what life he would craft if given the opportunity. Imagined a little row of dark sons and auburn-haired daughters, each with strange, beautiful eyes and spines of steel.
Imagined their mother, leading their charge.
But imagination was all it was.
Reality was a different thing entirely.
The Duke and Duchess of Leighton had hosted their annual Christmas masque every December since their first year as man and wife, and the party had become so legendary that most of London made a point to return to the city despite the cold, dreary December weather to attend.
According to Lydia (who was much more of a gossip than Mara had ever realized), the Duchess of Leighton prided herself on filling out the guest list with dozens of impressive, if not aristocratic, London dignitaries. Lydia had actually used the phrase, “everyone who is anyone,” in the excitement that followed Mara’s receipt of Temple’s invitation—if a single line of black scrawl stating a time and the dress he would prefer she wear could be called such a thing—which Mara assumed meant that it was not coincidence that this was the event at which she would be unmasked to London. Literally as well as figuratively.
Except yesterday, before everything had gone pear-shaped, it might have been different. Yesterday, before she’d reminded him of their past—of the dozen ways they were enemies—they might have been friends.
And he might have reconsidered this moment.
Dream.
She gave a little huff of laughter at the thought. It was a dream. For there was nothing that would erase their past. That would erase what she had done. No amount of forgiveness that would change how this scenario played out. How this night ended.
With her ruin.
In all honesty, Mara was rather happy that the evening was finally here. Once her ruination was at hand, she would no doubt have a chance to return to her ordinary life, and be forgotten by the rest of Britain.
Forgotten by him.
It would be best. A boon, perhaps.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
She’d told herself that as she turned the orphanage over to Lydia that day, articulating the ins and outs of the place—pointing out the histories of all the boys, the files where she kept their work and the remnants of their past. The evidence of their birth.
She’d told herself that as she promised Lydia the funds she’d earned from Temple, even as Mara ached at the idea of calling the debts due. She hadn’t a choice. The boys needed coal, and Lydia needed funds if the orphanage was to be hers to run.
She’d told herself that as she’d packed her small traveling case and tucked away enough funds to get her to Yorkshire, to the place to which she’d fled twelve years earlier. To the place where she’d reinvented herself. Where she’d become Margaret MacIntyre.
She’d told herself that when the dress arrived in a beautiful white box, complete with a gold-embossed H and an elaborate golden mask in delicate filigree that she’d had to resist touching.
There’d been underclothes, too—silks and satins and lace—clocked stockings and perfectly embroidered chemises at once stunning and utterly unnecessary. It had been more than a decade since she’d worn such softness against her skin, and she’d luxuriated in the feel of the fabrics against her even as their purpose echoed in her thoughts.
They were underclothes designed to be seen. By men.
By Temple.
And the cloak—a stunning green shot through with golden threads to match the rest of the ensemble, lined with ermine, worth more than a year’s worth of the orphanage’s bills. Mara had been shocked to find it in the box, as it had not been discussed when she’d been at Madame Hebert’s for her thoroughly embarrassing fitting.
Her cheeks went warm at the memory of his eyes on her in that dimly lit room. And when that memory gave way to one from later that evening, of his lips on hers, her cheeks burned.
And she told herself that she was happy to meet her executioner as she stood in the foyer of the MacIntyre Home for Boys, waiting, Lydia perched on the steps to the upstairs, Mara’s case at her feet, Lavender on her lap.
Now, as she stood in the foyer of this place she’d built with work and tears and passion, she realized that she was no longer Margaret MacIntyre, and no longer Mara Lowe. No longer headmistress, no longer sister, no longer caretaker, no longer friend.
She was blank again.
Her heart constricted. And somehow, none of it mattered but one, devastating truth: She was nothing to Temple, either.
She turned to Lydia. “If my brother comes, you’ll tell him I’ve left? You’ll give him my letter?”
Kit’s message had been waiting for her when she’d returned from The Angel, requesting funds to leave the country. Promising that this was the last he’d ask of her.
Mara had written him a letter articulating the truth—that she had no funds to spare, and that they were both in a place where they had to flee. She’d thanked him for the years he’d kept her truths from the world, and she’d said good-bye.
“If he does, so be it. I would rather he come after me than you. Than this place,” Mara said, adding quietly. “Than Temple.”
The words brought the echo of that night, her knife high in Temple’s chest, Kit gone, disappeared into the crowd as Mara panicked. This was the solution. It would end it. It would free Temple.
Kit would never bother him again.
And after tonight, neither would she.
She sighed, desperate to resist the emotions that came more and more readily at the thought of him.
“And everything else—”
Lydia nodded and set Lavender down, coming to Mara, taking her hands. “And everything else.” They stood like that for a long moment. Friends. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We could fight it.”
Tears threatened, and Mara blinked them back.
“But I do. For you. For the boys.” She spread her hands down the smooth silk of her skirts, forcing herself to remember that tonight, he would make good on his promise. And she would make good on hers. Finally.
Tonight, it would end.
Lydia knew better than to argue. “It’s a beautiful dress.”
“It makes me look like I’m for sale,” Mara said.
“It does not.”
Lydia was right. Yes, the neckline was low, but Madame Hebert had somehow given in to Temple’s request without making Mara appear indecent. But Mara did not wish to acknowledge the fact that the dress was stunning.
“It makes you look like a princess.”
She pulled the cloak around her. It was her turn to say, “It does not.”
Lydia grinned. “A duchess, then.” Mara cut her a look, but she kept speaking, scooping Lavender up from where the piglet danced at their feet. “Cor. Imagine that. You, married to his father.”
“I’d rather not,” Mara said.
“The man’s stepmother.”
She closed her eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“Imagine that life—filled with impure thoughts about one’s stepson.”
“Lydia!” Mara protested, grateful for the distraction.
“Oh, tosh,” Lydia said. “The man’s older than you are.”
“It doesn’t mean—”
Lydia waved one hand. “Of course it does. Look at him. He’s enormous. And handsome as sin. Are you honestly telling me you haven’t had a single impure thought?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
Of course she was a liar. She’d had more than impure thoughts about him. She’d had impure deeds with him. And worse.
She loved him, somehow.
What an unfortunate turn of events that was.
And then the object of her thoughts appeared, saving her from having to think too much on the last.
Her heart was in her throat as she took him in, in his black trousers and waistcoat and coat, perfectly tailored despite his sling—also black. Dear Heaven, his shoulders were broad. The black was broken only by the stark white of his shirt and cravat, starched and tied as though by one of London’s best valets.
She could not imagine him with a valet. He did not seem the kind of man who ever needed another’s assist, let alone for something as frivolous as a perfectly tied cravat.
But perfectly tied it was, nonetheless.
“Your Grace,” Lydia said with an enormous smile. “We were just speaking of you.”
He tilted his head. “Were you? What were you saying?” He bowed low over Lydia’s hand, missing the gleam in her eye as Mara glared at her over the wide expanse of his back, willing her not to say any more.
“We were discussing the fine puppetry of fate.”
He stroked Lavender’s little furry snout, and the piglet turned traitor, leaning into the touch with a snuffle before Temple gave his attention to Mara. “Fine puppetry indeed.” His gaze swept over her, leaving her alternately hot and cold in its caress. Nervous, she clutched the ermine trim together at her neck, feeling as though he could see straight through the fabric. His attention fell to her hand, and he hesitated for a long moment before saying, “You are ready?”
“As I might ever be,” she said quietly, but he was already moving to the door, no doubt eager to get her destruction under way. No doubt tired of her. No doubt tired of living his life without all the privilege into which he’d been born.
She followed him, knowing with each step tonight, her life would change. Tonight, she would no longer be able to escape her past. She would have to claim it. And with it, she would likely lose everything for which she’d worked.
Because of him.
At the door, Lydia stopped her, throwing her arms around her, and whispering in her ear, “Courage.”
Mara nodded around the knot in her throat, and lifted Lavender into her arms for a long cuddle and a kiss on the head before relinquishing the pig to the new proprietress of the MacIntyre Home for Boys.
The coach was silent as a tomb, and Mara tried not to notice him.
She tried not to notice the way his chest rose and fell beneath the crisp linen of his shirt and the soft wool of his jacket. The way his breath came in long, slow inhales and exhales. The way his strong thighs engaged as the carriage rocked along the cobblestone streets. The scent of him—clove and thyme and Temple.
She tried not to notice him until he leaned forward in the darkness, across the unspoken line of demarcation between his side of the carriage and hers, and said, gruffly, “I brought you a gift.”
It would be rude not to notice one with a gift, after all.
And sure enough, he punctuated his words by extending a long, slim box toward her. She recognized it immediately, the white with gold embossing, the mark of Madame Hebert, and she shook her head in confusion as she accepted the parcel. “I’m wearing everything you ordered. More.”
The words were out before she could keep them back—before she could stop herself from reminding them both that she was wearing his clothes. Clothes he’d chosen as she stood half naked in front of him in a dark room.
He could have taken the moment to push her on the topic. To force her to admit each scrap of clothing was his before it was hers. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back on the seat and said, “Not everything.”
She opened the box, pulling back gossamer-thin paper to reveal a pair of beautiful satin gloves, perfectly matched to her dress with stunning embroidery and dozens of little buttons all along the inside of them. She lifted them gently from the box, as though they might fall apart in her hands.
“You never wear gloves,” Temple said. “I thought you might require some.”
These were not workaday gloves, however, these were gloves for one night, for one ensemble. For one man.
She pulled one glove on before realizing that she would not be able to fasten them one-handed. But before she could say anything, he was leaning forward again, extracting a button hook from his coat pocket, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world for a man to carry. He crowded her in the small, dark space, reaching for her hand. He’d freed his arm and folded back the sleeve of her cloak, using his bad arm to hold her steady as he set to work on the task of buttoning the endless line of little green buttons.
She wanted to hate him for controlling even this, even her gloves.
But instead, she loved him all the more for it, her heart heavy in her chest, knowing this was their last evening. Perhaps the last time they would be alone together.
“Thank you,” she said softly, uncertain of what else to do as she sat, her free hand worrying the paper from the box.
He was quiet, focused on his task, and she settled into watching the top of his dark head, unable to take a deep breath for his nearness, wishing he weren’t so very close to her imperfect, scarred hands. Gra
teful for the fact that she had covered the years of history written on her palm before relinquishing the extremity to him.
Utterly unsettled by his gentle, deft touch.
She could feel the softness of his breath on the skin of her wrist as he hid it from view, the soft touch of his fingers along the inside of her arm the last thing chased away by silk.
No. Not chased away. Imprisoned by it.
Because it felt that way, as though the glove itself was protecting his touch from ever escaping.
He finished the first glove after an eternity and she released the long breath that she had not known she had been holding, realizing that he had clasped her other hand in his without any warning. She tugged on it, but his grip was steel. “Thank you, I can—”
“Let me,” he said, lifting the second glove from her lap.
No, she wanted to say, don’t look at it.
Heat washed across her cheeks, and she was thankful for the darkness of the carriage.
He saw it anyway. “You are embarrassed of them,” he said, the pad of his thumb rubbing softly—maddeningly—across her palm.
She tugged on the hand again. Futilely.
“You needn’t be, you know,” he said, that slow, circling stroke an endless torture. “These hands helped you survive for twelve years. They worked for you. They won your funds and shelter and safety for more than a decade.”
Her eyes flew to his, coal black in the dim light. “Women’s hands aren’t supposed to show their work.”
He continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “But what I cannot understand, Mara, is why you required it of them?”
Fear. Fate.
Folly.
“I wish they were untried. Soft. The way ladies’ hands should be.”
The way you no doubt prefer them.
No. She did not care how he liked his hands. Her hands.
He slid the silk glove over her hand, working her fingers into the fabric channels, pressing his own fingers into the valleys between hers. Who could have imagined that the skin in those places was so sensitive?
“They are your hands,” he said, lifting her hand, lowering his head, whispering to the bared skin at her palm. “They are perfect.”
No Good Duke Goes Unpunished Page 26