No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (16 page)

“Now all of you take a turn.”

The boys were thrilled to punch at the air, bouncing back and forth on their newly light feet. He watched them for a long while, gaze lingering on the eldest—Daniel. The dark-haired, serious boy was focused on his jabs, eager for Temple’s approval, and there was something familiar there. Something Temple recognized as like him.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Eleven years old.

The boy had blue eyes, but otherwise, he had Temple’s coloring.

Eyes the blue of Mara’s.

She’d said the boy had been with her forever. He took that to mean since birth. Since she’d given birth to him?

Was the child his son?

And if he was, why had she hidden from him for so long? Didn’t she know he would have taken them in? Protected them? He would have married her. Immediately.

They would have been a family.

The thought held more power than he could have imagined, packed with images of breakfasts and dinners and happy occasions filled with laughter and more. And Daniel wasn’t alone. He had brothers and sisters, all dark-haired with eyes the color of summer. Greens and blues. And they were happy.

Happiness was a strange, fleeting thing.

But in that moment, his mysterious, missing family had it.

The sound of the boys’ boxing returned his attention to the present. He would get his answers from Mara Lowe. But now was not the time. “You look very good, gentlemen.”

He and Mara stood side by side for long minutes, watching their charges, before she said, quietly, “No wonder you are undefeated.”

He lifted one shoulder. Let it fall. “This is what I do. It is who I am.” It was the only thing he’d done well for twelve years.

“I don’t think so, you know.”

He turned to her, easily meeting her gaze, enjoying the way she looked at him. The way she focused on him. Wishing they were alone. Wanting to say a dozen things. To ask them. Settling on: “You try it.”

She raised her fists, shadowboxed weakly in the air between them.

He shook his head. “No.” He tapped his chest. “Me.”

Her eyes went wide. “You want me to hit you?”

He nodded. “It’s the only way to know if you’re doing it correctly.”

It was her turn to shake her head. “No.” She lowered her fists. “No.”

“Why not?”

She lowered her eyes, and he wondered at the spray of freckles across her cheeks. How had he not noticed them before? He attempted humor. “Surely, you like the idea of doing a bit of damage to me.”

She was quiet for a long moment, and his hand itched to reach out and tilt her face to his. Instead, he settled on whispering, “Mrs. MacIntyre?”

She shook her head, but did not look to him when she said, “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

Of all the words she could have spoken, those were the most shocking. They were a lie. They had to be. After all, they were enemies—brought together for mutual benefit. Revenge in exchange for money. Of course she wanted to hurt him.

Why keep so much from him, then?

Her lie should have made him angry.

But somehow, it came on a wave of something akin to hope.

He didn’t like that, either. “Look at me.”

She did. And he saw truth there.

If she didn’t wish to hurt him, what were they doing? What game did they play?

He stepped toward her, grasped her fist, and pulled it toward him until it settled, featherlight, at his chest, just left of center. She tried to pull it back, but he wouldn’t let her, and instead, she ended the false blow the only way she could, stepping closer, opening her palm, and spreading it wide and flat over his chest.

She shook her head. “No,” she repeated.

The touch was scandalous in that room, in full view of all those boys, but he didn’t care. Didn’t think of anything but the warmth of her hand. The softness of her touch. The honesty in it.

When was the last time a woman had touched him with such honesty?

She was destroying him.

He nearly pulled her into his arms and kissed her until she told him everything. The truth about that night twelve years ago and what it led to and how they’d come to be here. Now. About where they were. And where they were headed.

He lowered his head, she was inches away. Less.

She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, I’m sure you will not mind if I send the boys to tidy themselves. It is nearly time for luncheon.”

He released her like she was aflame. Dear God. He’d nearly— In front of two dozen children. “Not at all, we are finished for the day, I think.”

She turned to the boys. “I expect you all to remember the duke’s lesson. Gentlemen do not start fights.”

“We only finish them!” George announced, and the boys were off instantly, dispersed in their separate ways, except little Henry, who headed straight for Lavender, at Temple’s feet.

Grateful for the distraction, Temple scooped up the pig. “I’m afraid not. Lavender remains with me.”

Henry pursed his lips at that. “We’re not allowed to lay claim to her,” he pointed out. “Mrs. MacIntyre does not like it.”

Temple met Mara’s gaze over Henry’s little blond head. “Well, Mrs. MacIntyre is welcome to scold me, then.”

Henry seemed fine with that plan, and hurried off in the direction of luncheon. Temple straightened, and faced Mara, who looked as flustered as he felt.

“He’s right, you know. The rule is, no using Lavender as booty.”

“Whose rule?”

“Mine,” Mara said, reaching for the piglet.

Temple stepped backward, out of reach. “Well, by my rules, I rescued her. And she is therefore mine.”

“Ah. The rules of scoundrels.”

“You seem to have no trouble playing by them when you see fit,” he pointed out.

She smiled. “I am quite aboveboard where Lavender is concerned.”

He stepped closer then, and his voice lowered. “You are the worst kind of scoundrel, then.”

She raised a brow. “How so?”

“You assume the mantle only when you require it. You lack conviction.”

He was very close now, looming over her. “Are you attempting to intimidate me into agreeing with you?”

“Is it working?”

She swallowed, and he resisted the urge to stroke the column of her neck. “No.”

“Men cower at the mere mention of my name, you know.”

She laughed. “The look of you now, cradling a piglet, might ease their fear.”

He looked down at the sleeping Lavender and couldn’t hold in his soft chuckle. Mara stilled at the sound, then cleared her throat. Temple found her gaze. She was aware of him. As aware of him as he was of her.

“Did you mean what you said about vengeance not being worth the trouble?”

He raised a brow. “I did not say that.”

“You said it rarely proceeded as expected.”

“Which is true,” he said, “but that does not mean that it does not end as such.” He had to believe it.

She looked straight ahead, her gaze settling at the indentation in his chin. “Where does this revenge end?”

I don’t know.

He would not admit that. Instead, he said, “It ends with me a duke once more. With what I was promised as a child. With the life I was bred for. With a wife.” He ignored the thought of strange eyes. “A child.” And dark hair. “A legacy.”

She did look at him then. “And for me?”

He thought for a long moment. Imagined them different. He a different man, she a different woman. Imagined they’d met under different circumstances. There was much to recommend her—she was brave and strong and deeply loyal to her boys. To this life she had built.

She was not his concern.

He wished that was not becoming so difficult to believe.

His free hand came to her face, tilted it up to meet him. Told her the truth. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have come here today.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I wanted to see you in your element. I wanted to meet your boys.”

“To what end?”

He did not have an answer to that. He shouldn’t want to know her better. To understand her. But he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps because they were forever linked. Perhaps because she’d made him, in a way. Perhaps because he wished to understand her.

But he hadn’t expected to begin to like her.

And he definitely hadn’t expected to want her so much.

Knowing he couldn’t say any of that to her, he chose another path—distraction—and he closed the distance between them and kissed her.

She leaned into the kiss, her lips a barely there promise, light and sweet enough for her to wonder if it could be called a kiss at all. It was more of a tease. A temptation that rolled in, surprising him with its power. With the way he wanted it. The way she wanted it. She sighed against him, and it was precisely that for which he was waiting.

She offered him entry; he took it.

The moment her lips parted, he captured them, deepening the caress, his hand sliding from her cheek to her neck and finally down her back to wrap around her waist and pull her close. Her sigh became his satisfaction, a deep, primitive growl that surprised him. She tested his control again and again.

And he enjoyed it.

Then his tongue was stroking across her lower lip and her hands were in his hair and she pressed against him, as though there were nothing in the world she wanted more than to be close to him. As though she weren’t afraid of him.

He gathered her closer, wanting to bask in her fearlessness, wanting to block out everything that had been and would be and live only in this moment. With this woman who seemed to want the same.

That’s when Lavender protested.

The piglet offered an outraged squeal and began to squirm quite desperately in her place between them, wishing to be either released or restored to her prior state of naptime abandon.

Mara and Temple tore apart from each other, her hand at her throat, his keeping Lavender from leaping to her death. He set the piglet down, and she scurried off, leaving them alone in the foyer, out of breath, staring at each other as though they did not know whether to run from the house or back into each others’ arms.

He wasn’t leaving that house.

Instead, he came at her once more, beside her in two long strides, lifting her in his arms—loving the weight of her there, the way his muscles bunched and tightened. The way they served a new, infinitely more valuable purpose. He took her mouth again, hard and fast, and tasted a frustration there—one he recognized because it mirrored his own.

Christ. He couldn’t stay.

He released her as quickly as he’d captured her, leaving her unsteady on her feet, capturing her face in his hand, staring deep into her eyes and saying, “You are trouble,” before punctuating the statement with a firm, final kiss and stepping away from her.

Her hand flew to her lips, and he watched the movement with desperation, loving the way those pretty fingers pressed against swollen flesh. Wishing they were anyone but them. Anywhere but here.

If wishes were horses.

He turned to leave. Knowing he had to. Not trusting himself to stay.

She called after him. “Will you join us for luncheon?”

“No, thank you,” he said, at sea. “My morning is complete.” Too complete. He should not have touched her. She was his ruin. His revenge.

Why couldn’t he remember that?

“You look hungry.”

He nearly laughed. He’d never been so hungry in his life. “I am fine.”

“Are you still afraid I might poison you?”

He inclined his head, the excuse welcome. “A man cannot be too careful.”

She smiled. He enjoyed that smile. Too much.

He had to stop this.

And so he said the one thing that he knew would do just that. “Mara.”

She met his gaze, trying not to notice how handsome he was. How tempting. “Yes?”

“That night. Did we make love?”

Her eyes went wide. He’d shocked her. She’d been expecting a dozen things, but not that. Not the reminder of their past. Of their deal.

She recovered quickly—quick enough for him to admire her. “Have you decided to forgive my brother’s debt?”

Like that, they were on solid ground once more. Thankfully. “No.”

“Then I am afraid I cannot remember.”

“Well.” He turned for the door, fetching his greatcoat from its hook nearby. “I certainly understand that predicament.”

His hand was on the handle of the door when she said, “Another two pounds, either way.”

He looked back, a thread of ice spreading through him. “For what?”

She stood tall and proud in the foyer. “For the kiss.”

He hadn’t been thinking of their deal when he’d kissed her, and he’d wager everything he had that she hadn’t been thinking of it, either. The discussion of funds made the moment base and unpleasant, and he hated that she’d returned them to this place.

“Two pounds sounds fine.” She needn’t know that he’d pay two hundred for another moment like that. Two thousand. “I shall see you tonight.” He opened the door and added, “Wear what arrives from Hebert today.”

Chapter 9

“Y
ou shouldn’t fight him.”

Temple did not look up from lacing his boots. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? Half the club is already ringside.”

The Marquess of Bourne, Temple’s oldest friend and co-owner of The Fallen Angel, leaned against the wall to one side of the door to the boxing ring, watching as Temple prepared for the fight. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. Tonight, you are welcome to fight all you like—though if I were a betting man, I’d have twenty quid on Drake falling in the first minute.” He pointed to the low table at the center of the room. “You shouldn’t accept the challenge from Lowe.”

Temple looked to the list of names there.
Christopher Lowe
at the top, as it had been for weeks. Calling him. Tempting him. Daring him to accept. Evidently, Mara had not told her brother that she’d arranged a deal with the Killer Duke, and that she was earning back their money. Either that, or Lowe wanted to free his sister from ruin—but Temple couldn’t imagine his sister’s reputation had anything to do with the young man’s plans.

Damned if he didn’t want that fight more than anything. Lowe deserved a sound trouncing.

“It would be the fight of the year,” Temple said. “The Angel would make sinful amounts of money.”

“I don’t care if the King and his royal guard sat ringside, with the crown jewels on the match. You shouldn’t fight him.”

Temple stretched against the leather strap hanging from the ceiling of his office, letting his weight loosen his shoulders, preparing him for what was to come. In a half an hour, he would enter the ring and fight, and every man in the audience would fight with him. Some would fight on his side, seeing themselves in the fallen duke who, despite shame and ruin and loathing, could be king here. But most would fight as his opponent, David to Temple’s Goliath. They, too, knew what it was to lose to the Angel. And even as they paid their dues and basked in the glow of the tables above, a small part of them ached for the club’s ruin.

“It is the game,” he said, pretending not to care about the words. “It is what they come for. It is what we agree to give them.”

“Bollocks,” Bourne said. “We agree to take the bastards’ money and give them a fight to watch. We don’t agree to put ourselves on show. And that’s what you would be doing.” He came off the wall toward Temple, lifting Lowe’s file from the table. “It would not be a fight. It would be a hanging. They would think that Lowe is finally getting a chance at retribution for his sister’s death. If you’re even considering fighting him, at least wait until the bitch is revealed. Then the world will be for you.”

Temple’s jaw set at the description, unwelcome. “I don’t care who they are for.”

“What a lie that is.” Bourne huffed a humorless laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “I know better than anyone how you want them to think of you.”

When Temple did not reply, Bourne continued. “I looked at Lowe’s file today. He’s lost everything that wasn’t attached to him by birth, and a fair amount of money that he’d earned, somehow. I’m surprised Chase hasn’t sent Bruno for the clothes from his back. Houses, horses, carriages, businesses. A fucking silver tea set. What the hell do we need with that?”

Temple smirked, working another long strip around his free hand. “Some people like tea.”

Bourne raised a brow and threw the file to the table. “Christopher Lowe is the unluckiest man in Britain, and he either doesn’t see it or doesn’t care. Either way, his dead father is rolling in his grave, willing to make a deal with the devil or worse to rise up and kill the stupid boy himself.”

“You take issue with a man losing everything at the tables? There’s an irony.”

Bourne’s eyes glittered with irritation. “I might have lost it all, but I earned it back. Tenfold. More.”

“Vengeance worked well for you.”

Bourne scowled. “I spent a decade dreaming of retribution, convincing myself that there was nothing in the world that would satisfy me more than destroying the man who robbed me of my inheritance.”

Temple raised a brow. “And you did just that.”

The other man’s voice grew soft and serious. “And I nearly lost the only thing that mattered.”

Temple groaned, and reached for the leather strap that hung from the ceiling of the room, using it to lean into a stretch. “If the men in the room beyond knew how you and Cross go soft every time you speak of your wives, the Angel would lose all power.”

“As we speak, my wife is warm and waiting. The men in the room beyond can hang.” He paused, then added, “Vengeance was my goal, Temple. Never yours.”

Temple met his friend’s gaze. “Goals change.”

“No doubt. But be prepared. Retribution is angry and cold. It makes a man a bastard. I should know.”

“I’m already a bastard,” Temple said.

One side of Bourne’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You’re a pussy cat.”

“You think so? Tell me that in the ring.”

Bourne ignored the threat. “It won’t end as you think it will.”

It would end precisely as Temple thought it would. Mara might have been the mastermind of his ruin, but her brother had played his part—weeping and wailing and feigning accusation and making all the world, Temple included, believe that he’d been dreadfully wronged.

Memory flared, Temple on the street five years earlier, in broad daylight, all of London giving him a wide berth. No one wished to cross the Killer Duke. No one wished to incite his anger. Christopher Lowe had exited a pub with his debauched friends, pouring out onto the road into Temple, so rarely touched in anything but violence or fear that he started at the contact.

Lowe had looked up at him, drunk and slurring his words, and blustered for the crowd’s approval, “My sister’s killer in the daylight. What a surprise.”

The crowd of idiot drunks had laughed, and Temple had gone cold, believing Lowe’s anger. Believing himself worthy of it.

Believing himself a killer
.

He looked to Bourne. “She might have stolen twelve years, but he kept them from me.”

“And both of them should suffer. God knows he deserves a thrashing, and yes, you’ll feel as though you’ve exacted your revenge, and you’ll trot the lady out through London as the second half of your master plan, and she’ll be shamed, and you’ll be welcomed with open arms and chased by marriage-making mamas. But you’ll still be angry.”

Revenge does not always proceed as expected.

The lesson he’d taught her boys.

The one he knew was true. He knew that this moment could not be undone. That it would forever mark him. That it would forever change him.

Bourne sat in a low, leather chair. “I’m simply saying you’ve everything you want. Money, power, a title that is growing dusty from lack of use, but yours nonetheless. And let’s not forget Whitefawn. You may not be there, but the place has made you a fortune in its own right—you’ve been a better master to it than your father ever was. You could take it all. Return to Society. Find yourself a wallflower. Wallflowers love scoundrels.”

Bourne was right. Temple could take it all back. Funds and a sullied title were more than most men had. Someone would have him.

But anger was a cunning mistress.

“I don’t want a wallflower.”

“What then?”

He wanted someone with passion. With pride.

Temple met his friend’s eyes. “I want my name.”

“Lowe can’t give it to you. Losing to you in the ring only makes him a martyr.” Temple was quiet for a long moment before he nodded once. He wanted the conversation done. Bourne added, “And the girl?”

A vision of Mara came, auburn hair wild, those strange, compelling eyes flashing. Never wearing gloves. Why did he notice that?

Why did he care?

He didn’t.

“We’ve a score to settle.”

“No doubt.”

“She drugged me.”

Bourne raised a brow. “A long time ago.”

Temple shook his head. “The night she revealed herself to me.”

A moment passed while Bourne registered the words. Temple gritted his teeth, knowing what was to come. Wishing he hadn’t said anything.

Bourne burst out laughing. “No!”

Temple rocked up on his toes, bouncing once, twice, swinging at the air. Pretending not to be infuriated by the truth. “Yes.”

The laugh turned booming. “Oh, wait until the others hear this. The great, immovable Temple—drugged by a governess. Where?”

“The town house.” Where she’d kissed him. Where he’d nearly taken more.

Bourne crowed, “In his own home!”

Goddammit.

Temple scowled. “Get out.”

Bourne crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, no. I’m not through enjoying this.”

A sharp rap sounded on the door, and the two men looked to the clock. It was too early for the fight to begin. Temple called out, “Come.”

The door opened, revealing Asriel, Temple’s man and the second in command of security at the Angel. He did not acknowledge Bourne, instead looking straight to Temple. “The lady you invited.”

Mara.

The thrill that coursed through him at the thought of her name grated.

“Bring her in.” He waited for Asriel to leave, then returned his attention to Bourne. “I thought you were leaving.”

Bourne sat in a nearby chair, extending his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “I believe I’ll stay to watch this,” he said, all humor. “After all, I wouldn’t like the woman to try to kill you again. You might require protection.”

“If you aren’t careful, you shall be the one requiring protection.”

The door opened before Bourne could retort, and Mara stepped over the threshold into his sanctum. She was wearing an enormous black cloak, the hood pulled up and low over her brow, but he recognized her nonetheless.

She was tall and beautifully made—all soft curves and pretty flesh—a woman to whom he would be naturally drawn if she weren’t the devil incarnate. And that mouth . . . wide and wicked and made for sin. He shouldn’t have tasted it. All it had done was make him starved for more.

She pushed the hood of her cloak back, revealing herself, her wide eyes immediately meeting his. He registered the nervousness in them—the uncertainty—and hated it as they moved to where Bourne sat, several feet away.

And suddenly, whether because of the excitement of the fight to come or something much more dangerous, Temple wanted to hit Bourne. Hard.

It had to be the coming fight, because it couldn’t possibly be Mara. He didn’t care who she looked at. Who looked at her. Indeed, his whole plan rested on all of London looking at her.

Bourne did not stand—a deliberate show of disrespect that set Temple on edge. “I am—”

“I know who you are,” she interrupted, not using Bourne’s title or the honorific he was due. A matching show of disrespect. “All of London knows who you are.” She turned to Temple. “What is this? You ask me to come here and watch while you brutalize some poor man?”

The words did not sit well. She was back, strong as steel, but he stood his ground, knowing she used bravado to cover her discomfort. He knew the tactic well. Had used it many times. “And here I was, hoping you would give me a token to wear into battle.”

Her gaze narrowed. “I ought to have your sabre tampered with.”

Temple raised a brow. “Sabre tampering, is that how they refer to it at the MacIntyre Home for Boys?”

Bourne snickered, and Mara cut him a look. “You are a marquess, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Tell me, do you ever act like it? I only ask because it does not seem that your friend cares much for behaving like a duke. I thought the immaturity was perhaps catching. Like influenza.”

Admiration flashed in Bourne’s gaze. He turned to Temple. “Charming.”

“And she’s armed with laudanum.”

Bourne nodded. “I shan’t drink anything she gives me, then.”

“And a knife,” she added, dryly.

He raised a brow. “And keep a vigilant watch.”

“It’s an intelligent plan,” Temple offered.

Mara gave a little huff of displeasure, one Temple imagined she often repeated with her young charges. “You are about to pummel a man to bits, and you stand here and make
jokes
?”

“It’s interesting that she takes the moral high ground, don’t you think?” Bourne said from his chair.

Mara turned on the marquess. “I wish you would leave, my lord.”

One of Bourne’s brows rose. “I would be careful with that tone, darling.”

Mara’s eyes flashed with anger. “I imagine you’d like me to apologize?”

Bourne stood, straightening the lines of his perfect coat. And nodded in Temple’s direction. “Apologize to him. He’s not as forgiving as I am.” He extracted his pocket watch and checked the time before turning to Temple. “Ten minutes. Is there anything you need before the fight?”

Temple did not speak. Nor did he move his gaze from Mara.

“Until after, then.”

Temple nodded. “Until after.”

The marquess left, closing the door behind him. Mara looked to Temple. “He did not wish you good luck.”

“We do not say good luck.” He moved to the table at the center of the room, and opened the mahogany box there and extracted a coil of wax.

“Why not?”

He pulled off two large clumps and set them on the table, pretending that he wasn’t utterly aware of her standing in the too-dark corner of the room. He wanted to see her.

He shouldn’t.

“
Good luck
is bad luck.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s fighting at the Angel.”

She did not say anything to that, instead crossing her arms across her chest. “Why am I here?”

He lifted a long, clean strip of linen from the wooden table at the center of the room, then laid one end across his palm and began to wrap the strip around his hand, being careful to keep it from twisting or folding. The nightly ritual was not designed merely to protect muscle and bone, though there was no doubt that in the heat of a battle, broken fingers were not unheard of.

Instead, the easy movement reminded him of the rhythm of the sport, of the way men had stood for centuries in this moment, minutes from battle, calming their mind and heart and nerves.