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.
But there was nothing calm about his nerves with Mara Lowe in the room. He looked to her, enjoying the way her gaze locked on the movement. “Come.”
She met his eyes. “Why?”
He nodded to his hand. “How much to wrap it for me?”
She watched the movement. “Twenty pounds.”
He shook his head. “Try again.”
“Five.”
He wanted her close, despite the fact that he shouldn’t want any such thing. And he could afford it. “Done.”
She approached, removing her cloak to reveal the mauve dress Madame Hebert had promised him. She was beautiful in it, with skin like porcelain. His heart pounded as she came closer, pausing an arm’s length from him and extracting that little black book that she carried everywhere. “Five,” she repeated, marking the amount in her register. “And ten for the evening. As always.”
Reminding him that she had her own reasons for being here.
She returned the book to its place and reached for his hand. No gloves. Again. Skin against skin, this time. Heat against heat.
He was paying for it.
Perhaps if he remembered that, it would help him forget her. The feel of her. The smell of her, lemons in winter. The taste of her.
She resumed his ritual, careful to wrap the linen about his wrist and around his thumb, keeping the long strips flat and firm against his skin. “You’re very good at that,” he said, his voice unfamiliar even to him. She did that to him. She made him feel unfamiliar.
“I have wrapped broken bones. I assume it’s a similar principle.”
Again, a little snippet of Mara, of where she’d been. Of who she’d been. Enough to make him want to ask a dozen questions she wouldn’t answer. So he settled on: “It is.”
Her fingers were soft and sure on his hands, making him ache for them in other places. Her head bowed over her handiwork, and he stared down at the top of her head, into auburn curls that he itched to touch. He wondered what her hair would look like spread in wide waves across his pillow. Across the floor of this room. Across his bare chest. Across hers.
His gaze moved to her shoulders, to the way they rose and fell with each breath, as though she lab
ored far more intensely than she did.
He recognized that breath. Experienced it himself.
She wanted him.
She tucked the end of the linen gently into the rest of the wrap, and he tested the binds, impressed.
Another thing she did expertly.
He turned away from her, lifted the other length of linen. Passed it to her and held out his free hand. Watched her repeat her ministrations in silence, muscles aching as he tensed beneath her touch, desperate for more of it. Desperate to touch her in return.
Christ, he needed another stretch.
That wasn’t all he needed.
But it was all he was getting. He extracted a mask from a nearby drawer. “Put that on.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
“You will have your first moment before London tonight.”
She froze, and he did not like the way it made him feel. “Masked?”
“I don’t want you seen yet.”
I don’t want it to be over.
“Tonight,” she repeated.
“After the fight.”
“If you don’t lose, you mean.”
“Even if I lose, Mara.”
“If you aren’t brutalized and left for dead. That’s the goal, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t, but he didn’t correct her. “All right; if I don’t lose.” He inclined his head. “But I won’t lose.”
“What is your plan?” she asked.
“You’ll see The Fallen Angel. Many women would kill for the opportunity.”
She lifted her chin, proudly. “Not I.”
“You’ll enjoy it.”
“I doubt it.”
Her obstinacy made him smile, and to hide it, he pulled his shirt off, yanking it over his shoulders, baring his chest to her. She immediately looked away, playing the prim and proper miss perfectly.
He laughed. “I am not naked,” he replied, smoothing the waist of his trousers and pretending to inspect a long-healed scar on one of his arms while watching her. “You have seen it before, have you not?”
No Good Duke Goes Unpunished Page 16
