No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

by Sarah MacLean

  His gaze narrowed, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. When he spoke, the words came like ice. “I assure you, I will never need you.”

  She ignored him. Forged ahead. “I shall tell the truth. Come forward with proof of my birth. And you shall forgive my brother’s debt.”

  There was a moment of silence as the words fell between them, and for those fleeting seconds, Mara thought she might have succeeded in negotiating with him.

  “No.”

  Panic flared. He couldn’t refuse. She lifted her chin. “I think it’s a fair trade.”

  “A fair trade for destroying my life?”

  Irritation flared. He was one of the wealthiest men in London. In Britain, for heaven’s sake. With women tossing themselves into his arms and men desperate to gain his confidence. He retained his title, his entail, and now had an entire empire to his name. What did he know of ruined lives?

  “And how many lives have you destroyed?” she asked, knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to keep herself from it. “You are no saint, my lord.”

  “Whatever I’ve done—” he started, then stopped, changing tack with another huff of disbelief. “Enough. You are as much an idiot now as you were when you were sixteen if you think you hold a position to negotiate the terms of our agreement.”

  She had thought that at the start, of course, but one look into this man’s cold, angry gaze made her see her miscalculation. This man did not want absolution.

  He wanted vengeance.

  And she was the path by which he would get it.

  “Don’t you see, Mara,” He leaned in and whispered, “You’re mine, now.”

  The words unsettled, but she refused to show him. He wasn’t a killer. She knew that better than anyone.

  He might not have killed you . . . but you haven’t any idea what he’s done since.

  Nonsense. He wasn’t a killer. He was simply angry. Which she’d expected, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she prepared for it? Hadn’t she considered her options before donning her cloak and heading out into the streets to find him?

  She’d been alone for twelve years. She’d learned to take care of herself. She’d learned to be strong.

  He moved away from her then, heading for one chair near the fireplace. “You might as well sit. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Unease threaded through her at the words. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you turned up outside my door, Miss Lowe. And I have no intention of letting you escape again.”

  Her heart pounded. “I’m to be your prisoner, then?”

  He did not reply, but his earlier words echoed through her. You’re mine, now.

  Dammit. She’d made a dreadful miscalculation.

  And he left her little choice.

  Ignoring the way he waved at the other seat by the hearth, she headed for the decanter on the far end of the sideboard, pouring first one, then a second glass, carefully measuring the liquid.

  She turned to face him, noting one dark brow raised in accusation.

  “I am allowed a drink, am I not? Or do you plan to take that along with your pound of flesh?”

  He seemed to think about his response before saying, “You are welcome to it.”

  She crossed the room and offered him the second glass, hoping he would not see the shaking in her hand. “Thank you.”

  “You think politeness will win you points?”

  She sat down on the edge of the chair across from him. “I think it cannot hurt.” He drank, and she exhaled, staring down at the liquid, marking time before she said, “I did not want to do this.”

  “I don’t imagine you did,” he said, wryly. “I imagine you’ve quite enjoyed twelve years of freedom.”

  That wasn’t what she’d meant, but she knew better than to correct him. “And if I told you I haven’t always enjoyed it? That it hasn’t always been easy?”

  “I would counsel against telling me those things. I find that I’ve lost my sympathetic ear.”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “You are a difficult man.”

  He drank again. “A symptom of twelve years of solitude.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did,” she said, realizing even as she spoke the words that they were revealing more than she’d been willing to reveal. “We did not recognize you.”

  He stilled. “We?”

  She did not reply.

  “We?” He leaned forward. “Your brother. I should have fought him when he asked. He deserves a trouncing. He was . . .” He hesitated. She held her breath. “He helped you run. He helped you . . .” He lifted a hand to his head. “ . . . drug me.”

  His black eyes went wide with shock and realization, and she shot up from her chair, heart pounding.

  He followed, coming to his full height—more than six feet, tall and broad and bigger than any man she’d ever known. When they were younger, she’d marveled at his size. She’d been intrigued by it.

  Drawn to it.

  He interrupted her thoughts. “You drugged me!”

  She put the chair between them. “We were children,” she defended herself.

  What’s your excuse now?

  He hadn’t given her any choice.

  Liar.

  “Goddammit!” he said, his glass falling from his hand as he lunged toward her, missing his mark, catching himself on the edge of the chair. “You did it . . . again . . .”

  And he collapsed to the floor.

  It was one thing to drug a man once . . . but twice did seem overmuch. Even in one lifetime. She wasn’t a monster, after all.

  Not that he would believe that when he woke.

  Mara stood over the Duke of Lamont, now felled like a great oak in his own study, and considered her options.

  He hadn’t given her any choice.

  Perhaps if she kept telling herself that, she’d believe it. And she’d stop feeling guilty about the whole thing.

  He’d threatened to keep her prisoner, like some monster.

  Which of them was the monster?

  Good Lord, he was enormous.

  And intimidating, somehow, despite being unconscious.

  And handsome, though not in a classical way.

  He was all size and force, even motionless. Her gaze tracked the length of him, the long arms and legs in perfectly tailored clothes, the cords of his neck peeking out from above the uncravatted collar of his shirt, the stretch of bronze to his strong jaw and dimpled chin, and the scars.

  Even with the scars, the angles of his face betrayed his aristocratic lineage, all sharp edges and long slopes—the kind that set women to swooning.

  Mara couldn’t entirely blame them for swooning.

  She’d nearly swooned herself, once.

  Not nearly. Had.

  When he was young, he’d been quick to smile, baring straight white teeth and an expression that promised more than pleasantry. That promised pleasure. His size, combined with that ease, had been so calm, so unpracticed that she’d thought him anything but the aristocracy. A stable boy. Or a footman. Or perhaps a member of the gentry, invited by her father to the enormous wedding that would make his daughter a duchess.

  He’d looked like someone who did not have to worry about appearances.

  It hadn’t occurred to her that the heir to one of the most powerful dukedoms in the country would be the most carefree gentleman for miles. Of course, it should have. She should have known the moment that they came together in that cold garden and he smiled at her as though she were the only woman in Britain and he the only man, that he was an aristocrat.

  But she hadn’t.

  And she certainly hadn’t imagined that he was the Marquess of Chapin. The heir to the dukedom to which she would soon become duchess. Her future stepson.

  The man sprawled across mahogany a
nd carpet didn’t look anything stepson-like.

  But she would not think on that.

  She crouched low to check his breathing, taking no small amount of relief in the way his wide chest rose and fell beneath his jacket in even strokes. Her heart pounded, no doubt in fear—after all, if he were to wake, he would not be happy.

  She gave a little huff of laughter at the thought.

  Happy was not the word.

  He would not be human.

  And then, with the giddiness of panic coursing through her, she did something she never would have imagined doing. Or, rather, she would have imagined doing, but never would have found the courage to do.

  She touched him.

  Her hand was moving before she could stop it. Before she really even knew what she was about. But then her fingers were on his skin—smooth and warm and alive. And ever so tempting.

  Her fingers traced the angles of his face, finding the smooth ridges of the inch-long white scar along the bone at the base of his left eye, then down the barely-there bumps and angles of his once-perfect nose, her chest tightening as she considered the battles that would have produced the breaks. The pain of them.

  The life he’d lived to wear them.

  The life she’d given him.

  “What happened to you?” The question came out on a whisper.

  He did not answer, and her touch slid to his final scar, at the curve of his lower lip.

  She knew she shouldn’t . . . that it wouldn’t do . . . but then her fingers were on that thin white line, barely there against rich skin, edging into the soft swell of his lip. And then she was touching his mouth, tracing the dips and curves of it, marveling at its softness.

  Remembering the way it had felt on hers.

  Wishing for—

  No.

  Her hand came away from him as though she’d been burned, and she turned her attention to the rest of him, to the way one arm spread haphazardly across the carpet, the victim of laudanum. He looked uncomfortable, and so she reached across him, intending to straighten that arm, to lay it flat against his side. But once his hand was in hers, she couldn’t help but consider it, the spray of black hair that dusted the back of it, the way the veins tracked like rivers across its landscape, the way the knuckles rose and dipped, scarred and calloused from years of fighting. Bruised with experience.

  “Why do you do this to yourself?” She ran her thumb across those knuckles, unable to resist, unable to remain aloof in the feel of him.

  In the memory of him—young and charming and handsome, with the world at his feet—tempting her like nothing else.

  Nothing else, but freedom.

  She shivered in the cool room, her gaze moving to the fire, where the flames he’d stoked had died away to a quiet ember. She stood and moved to add another log to the hearth, stirring the coals to raise the fire. Once golden flames licked and danced again, she returned to him, staring down at him arms akimbo, and took a moment to speak to him, finding the act much easier with his accusing eyes closed. “If you hadn’t threatened me, we would not be in this position. If you’d simply agreed to my trade, you’d be conscious. And I’d not feel so guilty.”

  He did not reply.

  “Yes, I left you holding the guilt for my death.”

  And still nothing.

  “But I swear I did not mean it to go the way I did. The whole thing got away from me.”

  Yet still she’d run.

  “If you knew why I did it—”

  His chest rose in a long, even breath.

  “Why I returned—”

  And fell.

  If he knew, he’d still be furious. She sighed. “Well. Here we are. And I am tired of running.”

  No answer.

  “I shan’t run now.”

  It seemed important to say it. Perhaps because there was a part of her—a very sane and intelligent part of her—that wished to run. That wished to leave him here on his cold, hard floor, and escape as she had so many years ago.

  But there was another part of her—not so sane, and not so intelligent—that knew that it was time for her penance. And that if she played her cards right, she could get what she wanted in the bargain.

  “Assuming you negotiate.”

  She turned to the sideboard, where the day’s paper sat, unread. She wondered if he were the kind of man who read his news each day. If he were the kind of man who cared about the world.

  Guilt flared, and she pushed it away.

  She tore the sheet of newsprint in half, then searched the drawers in the room until she found what she was looking for—a pot of ink and a quill. She scrawled a note, haphazardly waving the wet ink in the air as she returned to him, still as a corpse.

  Extracting a hairpin, she crouched beside him again. “No blood this time,” she whispered to him. “I hope you’ll notice that.”

  Still, he slept.

  She pinned the note to his chest, reached into his boot to extract her knife, and made to leave.

  Except she couldn’t.

  At the door, she turned back, noting the chill in the room. She couldn’t leave him like this. He’d catch a death of cold. On a chair in the corner, there was a green and black tartan. It was the least she could do.

  She had drugged the man, after all.

  She was across the room and had the blanket in her hands before she could change her mind. She spread it across him, tucking it around his body carefully, trying not to notice the size of him. The way he exuded warmth and the tempting scent of clove and thyme. The memory of him. The now of him.

  Failing.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  And then she left.

  Chapter 3

  He dreamed of the ballroom at Whitefawn Abbey, gleaming sun-bright in the shade of a thousand candles and the sheen of silks and satins in a myriad of color.

  The room belied the darkness that lurked beyond the enormous windows overlooking the massive gardens of the Devonshire estate—the country seat of the Duke of Lamont.

  His estate.

  He descended the wide marble stairs to the ballroom floor, where a crush of bodies writhed in time to the orchestra situated behind a wall of greenery at the far end of the room. The heat of the revelers overwhelmed him as he made his way through the throngs, pressing against him, pulsing with laughter and sighs, hands reaching for him, touching, grasping. Wide smiles and unintelligible words beckoned him deeper into the mass of people—welcoming him into its center.

  Home.

  There was a glass in his hand; he lifted it to his lips, the cool stream of champagne quenching the thirst he hadn’t noticed before, but was now nearly unbearable. He lowered the glass, letting it fall into nothingness as a beautiful woman turned and stepped into his arms.

  “Your Grace.” The title echoed through him, coming on a wave of pleasure.

  They danced.

  The steps came from distant memory, a slow, spinning eternity of long-forgotten skill. The woman in his arms was all warmth, tall enough to make him a proper match, and curved enough to fit his long arms.

  The music swelled, and still they danced, turning again and again, the sea of faces in the ballroom fading into blackness—the walls of the room falling away as he was distracted by a sudden, heavy weight on his sleeve. He turned his attention to his forearm, wrapped in black wool, pristine but for a sixpence-sized white spot.

  Wax, fallen from the chandeliers overhead.

  As he watched, the spot liquefied, spreading across his coat sleeve in a thread of molten honey. The woman in his arms reached for the liquid—her long, delicate fingers stroking along the fabric, her touch spreading fire as it crept toward the spot, hot wax coating her fingertips before she turned them up to his gaze.

  She had beautiful hands.

  Beautiful skin.
r />   She wore no gloves.

  He followed the line of her long arm from wrist to shoulder, taking in her piecemeal perfection—the curves and valleys of her collarbone; the long rise of her neck; her angled jaw; her wide, welcoming mouth; long, equine nose; and eyes like none he’d ever seen. One blue, one green.

  Her lips curved around the words he’d craved and feared for so long. “Your Grace.”

  And, like that, she was in focus.

  Mara Lowe.

  He woke on the floor of his library, coming to his feet in a mad rush, a foul curse echoing in the blue fog of breaking dawn.

  A green and black tartan fell to his feet as he rose, and the fact that the woman had covered him with a blanket after drugging him in the dead of night was no kind of comfort. He imagined her standing over him at his most vulnerable moment, and wanted to roar his anger.

  She had drugged him and left.

  Again.

  On the heels of that thought came another.

  Dear God. She was alive.

  He hadn’t killed her.

  Relief burst full and high in his lungs, warring with frustration and ire.

  He wasn’t a killer.

  He ran one hand down his face to ease the tightness of the emotion, and noticed that she had not simply left him.

  She’d also left a note, scrawled across yesterday’s news, and pinned to his chest with a simple hairpin, as though he were a package to be delivered by post.

  He tore the missive from its mooring, knowing that whatever she had to say would do little to assuage his anger.

  I had hoped it would not come to this, but I will not be intimidated, and I will not be strong-armed.

  He resisted the urge to crumple the note and throw it into the fire. She thought she was the one being strong-armed? When it was he who had been knocked out on the floor of his own study?

  The offer is a trade, and nothing less.

  When you are in a negotiating frame of mind, I welcome your visit for a discussion of equals.

  That would be impossible. He was not nearly mad enough to be her equal.

  You will find me at No. 9 Cursitor Street.