No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (18 page)

“And Temple wins,” the woman explained to Mara, “but not the way they like.”

“A win is a win, is it not?”

One brown brow rose in amusement. “Tell that to the men who just lost hours of entertainment in thirty seconds.” She returned her attention to the ring, as men throughout the room protested, waving scraps of paper in the air. “Those men have placed enormous bets on the fights—never against Temple, but on the number of rounds and the punches thrown . . . even the way Drake fell.” The lady paused. “They don’t care for short bouts.”

“Anna,” the man in the corner called out, and the lady turned to him.

He nodded once, and she returned her attention to Mara. “I am sorry. I’m afraid I have work to do.” Mara’s brow furrowed, and the lady tilted her head. “Unhappy patrons require . . . appeasing.”

And Mara understood. The woman was a prostitute. A highly paid one if Mara had to make a guess. “Of course.”

The woman tipped her head. “My lady.”

“Oh, I’m not . . .”

Anna smiled. “Those of us who are not must stick together.”

And then she was gone, leaving Mara with the aftermath of the fight and the keen knowledge that she deserved no kind of honorific considering the consequences of her long-ago actions.

Temple seemed not to care about the way the men screamed and fought around him, desperate for a way to regain their bets. Instead, he turned to face the mirror, black eyes scanning its breadth.

“Here it is!” a lady called from nearby.

He nodded once, sending titters and sighs through the room, leaving Mara breathless with the knowledge that with the bout now over, he was coming for her.

And with that knowledge came the memory of their last conversation. Of the words he’d used. Of the blow she’d dealt.

Of the bed she had made for them, where they were enemies. Where she did all she could to regain her funds, and he did all he could to exact his revenge.

Her anger returned.

“Poor Temple!” someone called. “He didn’t get his fight!”

“I should like to give him a fight,” another lady retorted, and the innuendo set the rest of the room tittering.

I don’t fight women.

How many times had he said it that first night?

But what if one were to challenge him anyway? In the open? What if a women were to offer to fight him for the money that was rightfully hers?

What if she were to back him into that corner where his red flag flew with cocksure arrogance?

Would he forfeit?

Could she win?

Her heart pounded in her chest.
She could
. This moment, this place was her answer. The Marquess of Bourne had climbed into the ring with him, and the two were in discussion.

Mara’s thoughts raced.

It could be that easy.

A reed-thin bespectacled man materialized at her side. “Temple requests that you meet him in his rooms. I am to take you there.”

Excellent. “I have every intention of meeting the duke.”

She intended to set him down. To prove him wrong. To prove herself stronger and smarter and more powerful than he thought her. To make him regret his words. To make him rescind them.

His kisses had distracted her too well. His strange, unexpected kindness had upended her keen awareness of this war they waged. But then he’d called her a whore. And she was reminded of his purpose. Of hers.

He wanted retribution; she wanted the orphanage safe.

And she would get what she wanted.

Tonight.

Her commitment redoubled, she and her guide emerged from the quiet passageway into a crush of bodies beyond, and Mara was grateful for her mask, the way it focused her view—men moving in and out of frame—the wheres and whyfors of their journey made irrelevant by her limited view.

The mask turned the entire evening into a performance of some kind—the men moving across a stage just for her, dressing for a larger, more important scene. For the main player.

Temple.

She let the man guide her back to Temple’s rooms, where he deposited her in the dimly lit space and closed the door behind her, throwing the lock without hesitation.

But Mara was already moving across the room, already heading for the steel door she’d watched from the other side of the ring. Knowing where it led.

She yanked it open, her plan clear in her mind—as clear as the plan twelve years earlier that had set her on this course. That had led her to here. To this moment. To this man.

She ignored the men on either side of the aisle that marked the clear path to the ring, grateful for her mask in those fifty short feet even as her gaze tracked no one but the enormous man still in the ring, his back to her as he reached for grasping, congratulatory hands.

The poor thing had no knowledge of what was to come.

She was so focused on Temple, she did not see the Marquess of Bourne before he stepped into her path, catching her by the arms. “I don’t think so.”

She met his eyes. “I won’t be stopped.”

“I don’t think you’d like to test me.”

She laughed at the words. “Tell me, Lord Bourne,” she said, considering her options. “Do you really think that you have any place in this? My entire life has led to this moment.”

“I will not let you ruin his retribution,” he said. “If you ask me, you deserve every ounce of it, for the devastation you’ve wrought.”

Perhaps it was the implication that he understood the long thread of past that stretched between Mara and Temple. Or perhaps it was the ridiculous entitlement in the words, as though the Marquess of Bourne could stop the globe from spinning on its axis if he wished. Or perhaps it was the smug look on his face.

She would never know.

But Mara did not hesitate, using all the strength and skill and lessons she’d learned from twelve years living on her own with no one to care for her, and from the man beyond, who’d refreshed them.

Bourne didn’t see the punch coming.

The smug aristocrat reeled back, a sound of shock and surprise coming on a flood of red from his nose, but Mara did not have time to marvel at her accomplishments.

She was ringside and through the ropes in seconds, and the moment she stood there, in the uneven sawdust, the room began to quiet. The men clamoring to claim their bets and call for a second bout turned to face her, like layers of onion peeling off for stew.

It took him a moment to hear the silence. To realize it was directed at him. At the ring.

A thread of uncertainty began at the back of her neck, starting its slow, curling journey down her spine. She willed it away.

This was her choice.

This was her next step.

She met his black eyes even as he started toward her, and she saw the surprise there. The irritation. The frustration. And something more. Something she could not identify before it was locked away in that unforgiving gaze.

She took a deep breath and spoke, letting her voice run loud and clear in the enormous room. “I, too, have a debt with The Fallen Angel, Duke.”

One black brow rose, but he did not speak.

“So tell me. Will you accept my challenge?”

Chapter 11

I
f he’d been offered ten thousand pounds to guess who would step into his ring next, he would not have imagined it would be she.

But when the room quieted and he turned from a collection of men on the other side of the ropes to see what had distracted them, he
knew
it would be she. Even as he was sure it couldn’t possibly be.

There she was, standing tall and proud and strong at the center of the ring, Drake’s blood splattered at her feet, as though she were in a tea shop. Or a haberdashery. As though it was perfectly ordinary for a masked woman to enter a boxing ring, in the middle of a men’s club.

She was barking mad.

And then she spoke, issuing her challenge in her calm, clear way, as though she were perfectly within her rights to do so. As though the entire club wouldn’t explode with the scandal.

Which it did, in a cacophony of harrumphs and guffaws and affronted grunts that quickly devolved into a chattering masculine din. Under cover of noise, Temple collected himself and approached her, his opponent in every way, and yet not his opponent at all.

He raised a brow.

She did not move, and he wished the mask gone so he could read her expression.

It could be gone. Instantly, if he willed it.

He could call her bluff, unmask her in front of the lion’s share of the most powerful men in London, and resume the life that had been frozen in time for twelve years.

And the one that had been frozen in time for less than a week.

But then he would not see how far she would go.

He tilted his head and spoke so only she could hear. “A bold move.”

She matched his movement, her lips curving gently. Teasing him. Tempting him. “Whores must be bold, I’m told.”

And with that, he understood. She was furious.

As well she should be. He’d called her a whore. Guilt threaded through him, somehow discernable from frustration and fascination.

She did not let him find the right reply. Which was best, as he wasn’t sure he could. Instead, she added, “As should an opening gambit, don’t you think?”

Guilt was chased away by the words. By the challenge in them. By the excitement that thrummed through him every time they faced each other. This was more powerful than any bout he’d ever had. “You think I will allow you to win?”

The curve became a smile. “I think you haven’t a choice.”

“You’ve miscalculated.”

“How so?”

He had her. “My ring, my rules.” He raised a hand to the room, and the collection of men—two hundred, perhaps more—went quiet. Her eyes went wide behind the mask at the way he controlled the space and its inhabitants.

“Gentlemen!” he called to the room at large. “It seems tonight’s entertainment is not complete.” He stepped closer to her, and the soft scent of lemons curled around him—clean where this place was filthy. Light where it was dark. She did not belong here. And somehow, she did.

Perhaps it was simply that he did not wish her to leave, even as he knew she should.

She was close enough to touch, and he pulled her close to him, sliding one leg between hers, loving the way her silk skirts clung to his trousers. Loving the feel of her in his arm, firm and right. Hating it, too, the way she seemed to consume his thoughts when she was near him. The way she distracted him from his goal.

Retribution.

He pulled her close, and she gasped, her bare hands coming up to rest on his bare chest, her touch cool and smooth against his sweat-dampened skin. He lowered his voice for her ears only. “You have made your bed.”

She stilled at the words, as though they meant something to her, for a half second. Maybe less. “Then by all means, Your Grace, it is time I lie in it.”

The words surprised him, the thread of daring and conflict and something more in them. He wondered if the imagery that clattered through his mind echoed in hers—both of them in bed. Naked. Entwined.

Glorious.

Equal
.

He turned to the crowd, hating the hungry gazes fixed upon her even as he knew they were necessary. “Shall I check her for weapons?”

A roar of approval came from the assembly of men, and he reached for her skirts, knowing the knife she carried so religiously would not be far. She gasped as his hands slid over her torso and hip, recognized the sound as one of pleasure. He met her gaze. “I never thought you an exhibitionist.”

She pursed her lips. “I would not begin to do so now.”

“Hmm,” he let the sound ooze over her. “Your actions tonight suggest otherwise.” In the pocket of her skirts, his fingers found the book that cataloged their story in pounds and shillings and pence.

She felt the touch and met his gaze. “Be careful, Your Grace, lest tonight cost you more than you think.”

He couldn’t help his smile as he found the hilt of her knife. Ubiquitous. “Hebert made you a pocket?”

She narrowed her gaze on him through the mask. “I thought I’d made it clear that I am quite skilled with a needle.”

He couldn’t stop the laugh that came then. The woman was remarkable. She’d received a dress that cost more than her salary for a year, and immediately installed a pocket to keep her weapon close.

He removed the knife and held it high above their heads. “The lady is equipped with steel.”

In more ways than one.

The men roared their own laughter as Temple tossed the knife across the ring, ignoring the way it slid through the sawdust. Too focused on her.

“A woman cannot be too careful, Your Grace.” It was her turn to raise her voice. To play to the crowd. To win their laughter. She smiled at him, bright and brilliant, and he wished they were anywhere but here. “But what of my challenge? Are we not evenly matched now that you’ve taken my blade?”

The crowd erupted in guffaws and a chorus of
oh-ho
s, and Temple realized what she was doing. “Not in the ring, my love. But perhaps we can find another place to . . . discuss it.”

The men chortled, and she stiffened in his arms, her words carrying across the room. “I don’t think so. You hold a debt of mine. I am here to win it back. ’Tis the way of the Angel, is it not?”

Oooh
, sang the crowd.

He shook his head slowly, playing to the crowd even as he spoke to her, quiet and serious. “I don’t fight women.” Remembering the first time he’d said it to her. The man he was then. Unsure of himself. Uncertain of his actions. No longer.

She curled one of the hands on his chest into a fist. “And tell me, Your Grace, have any of them ever challenged you here? In the ring?”

“She’s got a point, Temple!” someone in the assembly cried out.

“I’ll give you a hundred pounds to let me accept the challenge for you, Temple!”

“A hundred only? I’ve got five for a chit like that! I’d wager she’s glorious in the sheets!”

He released her and turned toward the words to find Oliver Densmore, the biggest ass in London, hanging on the ropes, tongue fairly hanging out of his mouth.

Temple resisted the urge to kick the man’s teeth in.

“Well, Your Grace?” Mara distracted him. “Have you ever had a challenge from one of my sex?”

The word
sex
rioted through him like a blow, and he was suddenly certain that she was the most skilled opponent he’d ever faced in this ring. “No.”

She turned in a slow circle to show her masked face to the room, finally stopping and facing the mirror where the women no doubt tittered and gossiped and wondered about her.

She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled, the expression wide and welcome, and for the first time since they’d met on that dark London street, he wondered what it would be like for that smile to be commonplace in his life. To know it well. “Ah,” she said, the words carrying through the room. “So you forfeit.”

He hesitated, not liking the thread of unease that came with the words. “No.”

She turned to the oddsmaker, whose wide eyes were in danger of escaping his head. “Is that not the way of the bouts, sirrah? The fight happens, or the fighter forfeits?”

The older man opened his mouth and closed it, looking to Temple for guidance.
Smart man.

Temple crossed his arms over his chest and saved the poor git. “There are other ways to fight. Other ways for me to win.”

She turned then, looking over her shoulder, those lips curved and calm and defiant. And unbearably tempting. “Other ways for
me
to win, you mean.”

The crowd went wild. They adored her, this mysterious woman who seemed to have Temple and the rest of the world wrapped about her finger.

And somehow, in that moment, he did, too.

He was beside her in an instant, collecting her in his arms, pulling her tight to him, and taking her lips. Claiming her in front of God and London. Tasting her sweetness. Her spice. The roar of those assembled faded away as he consumed her, the kiss too rough, too searing, until he realized that she was matching it with her own passion. Her own fervor.

She’d felt it, too.

She wanted him just as he wanted her.

What a disaster.
One he would worry about later.

He kissed her again and again, his hands coming to cup her face and hold her still as he claimed her with lips and tongue and teeth until the whole world had disappeared and there was nothing but her. And him. And this moment. And the way they matched.

The way she saw him.

The way he saw her.

But they weren’t alone, of course. And he was close to ravishing her in front of all of London.

Christ
. He was kissing her in front of
all of London
.

He was ruining her.

He stopped, lifting his mouth from hers, loving the way she followed his lips, loving the way she ached for him as he ached for her.

No.

She was ruined. As though she were the whore he’d called her. The whore he’d meant them to think her. Except now the plan seemed flawed.

Christ. What had he done?

It had been the goal, had it not? Retribution? But somehow, it was all wrong. The plan hadn’t included desire. Or passion. Or emotion.

What had she done to him?

She lifted one auburn brow. “Well, Your Grace? Do you fight? Or forfeit?”

“Neither.”

He did not wait for her to reply, instead lifting her into his arms, grateful that her mask was still affixed to her face, and carrying her from the ring, the cheers of all of London in his ears.

It would have been an excellent plan, if not for the man blocking his path.

Christopher Lowe.

H
eart pounding, Mara was caught up in Temple’s arms, too distracted by the strength of him and the excitement of their verbal bout and the euphoria of her unsettling him to realize that he’d stopped. She didn’t notice until he set her down, her body sliding along his until her feet found the sawdust-covered floor.

“Lowe,” he said, low and dark, and she spun toward the word. He was revealing her now? She supposed it was a good move. The checkmate of their game.

But disappointment came, nonetheless.

Until she realized he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her, over her right shoulder, into the eyes of her brother, who stood several feet away, on the edge of the ring, frustration and something worse in his gaze. Something unsettling. Something incalculable.

“You think you have won? You think you can take everything of mine . . .” He paused. “And my sister?”

The room went silent, every man present leaning forward to hear the conversation.

She stepped toward her brother, knowing that he was furious. Eager to calm him. To keep him from Temple. From ruining her plans. From ruining what she was building.

The good and the bad.

Temple stopped her with a hand on her arm, immediately placing himself between her and her brother. Kit was already shaking his head, coming forward, driven by stupidity, his voice loud and angry. “All of London thinks you a winner. A hero. But the Killer Duke is nothing more than a coward.” He looked to Mara, and she saw the loathing there, her father’s as much as Kit’s. “A coward and a whoremonger.”

The gasp that rippled through the room was Mara’s as much as any others’. The words were a blow, dealt from the one man who should have been concerned for her reputation. Temple would have to fight him now. He wouldn’t have a choice, and Kit knew it. One did not call a man a coward and not receive a fight. She stepped toward him, wanting to stop it. Wishing she could hurt him herself.

Temple’s arm came across her chest. He turned to her. Spoke softly, for her ears only. “No. This is my fight.”

There was anger in his gaze, too. But it was different, somehow.

It was for her.

Who was this man?

Kit did not see the anger, too blinded by his own bluster. “You won’t fight the one man who has an honest reason for it.” He lifted his fists. “But now I am here, and you can’t ignore me. You’ll fight me.”

The words unlocked the men assembled. They moved in a wave of humanity, bombarding the bookmakers around the room, each eager to place their bets.

“It’s the Fight of the Century!” someone called out.

“Two hundred on Temple for an immediate win!” Another cried, “A single round—repeated!”

“Fifty says Temple breaks three of Lowe’s ribs!” A deep voice called.

“I’ve seventy-five on the Killer Duke earning his moniker again!”

London had been waiting for this fight for a decade. For longer. The Killer Duke versus the brother of his kill. The ultimate David and Goliath.

Kit’s words from their meeting days earlier echoed through her.
I am not free of this. And now, neither are you.
He would ruin everything. Lose it all, again. And destroy everything she’d worked for in the process. Temple would get his vengeance; she would get nothing.

The thought should have brought resignation. Should have brought devastation. Should have come on the urge to flee. But instead, it brought sadness, for hadn’t there been a time, a moment, when she’d had a taste of what it would be to win it all? The money, the orphanage . . . the man?