Daring and the Duke EPB

by MacLean, Sarah

  A candle on the bedside table flickered out. They’d been in her rooms for a long time. Two hours. Maybe more. She looked to the clock across the room. Half three. The party would still be in full swing below.

  But here, time had stopped.

  “Sometimes, I play that week over in my head. I remember every moment with such clarity.” He looked to her. “Do you remember? We were planning to leave.”

  She nodded. “You’d decided it was time. Before winter came and he decided to make an example of one of you.”

  “It had been two years there,” he said. “Two years, and we were all old enough for school, and Devil and I were already growing taller.”

  She remembered. “You wouldn’t soon be easily hidden.”

  “That, and we knew that if we could just get to the Garden, we were able-bodied now. We could all work.” He looked at her. “And we were big enough to protect you.”

  She smiled at that. “It turned out it was Covent Garden that needed protecting from me.”

  He stroked his hand over her skin again, pulling her tight against him. “I wish I had been here. I wish I had seen you take this place by storm.”

  She grew serious. “I wish that, too.”

  “Instead, he found us out.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You and me.”

  He set her hand to his left shoulder, where his scar still burned.

  “I remember that night with crystal clarity,” she said. “Chaste kisses and sweet words, and being wrapped in your arms.” In the darkness, whispering their plans for a future. Together. Far from Burghsey and the dukedom.

  “Do you remember what I said to you? Before he found us?”

  She nodded, meeting his eyes. “You told me you’d find a way to make us safe.”

  “And what else?”

  She smiled. “You told me you loved me.”

  “And you told me the same,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple and breathing deep in her hair.

  “Then he found us, and he hurt you. And in hurting you, he hurt me, as well.” She lifted her hand from where he’d been marked, and kissed the scar there once more. “I am sorry.”

  “Do not ever, ever apologize for that. I would take a hundred like it if it meant keeping those memories of you. The happiest of my life . . . until now.”

  She stroked her thumb over the raised skin of his scar. “And now? What is the happiest memory of your life?”

  His hand came to her cheek, and she looked up to find him staring at her. “Tonight. In this place that you have built—a palace of pleasure and power and pride—this place you have entrusted to me, this world you have shared with me. This is my happiest night.”

  Tears sprang at the words, full of sorrow and regret—what might they have had if they’d run together? What might have happened?

  “What happened, Ewan?” she asked again. “How did everything change?”

  “He chose me. And in choosing, made it impossible for me to come with you.” He brushed her hair back from her face, and whispered, “I couldn’t come with you.”

  Confusion flared, the words not making sense. Why not? She shook her head, confusion and disbelief on her face. “Why? Because of the title?”

  “Because of the man,” he said, lifting her hand and setting it to his left shoulder, mirroring his own touch on his own mark. “Because of the monster.”

  “Tell me.”

  He took a deep breath, and then, softly, “He left my mother with nothing.”

  Grace didn’t understand why he began there, but he did, and she would have lain in his arms and listened forever, if he’d asked her to.

  Or, perhaps he chose to start there because it was where he started. Where they started—like strands of silk, woven together by fate.

  “She went out for a walk, mistress to the Duke of Marwick, and returned home to discover that her home had been emptied of its contents,” he said, the words cool and easy, as though he’d heard them a hundred times before, and she imagined he had—a story burned into his memory by its heroine. “Everything was gone. Jewels, furniture, art. Anything of value. Gone.”

  Grace’s fingers stroked over his chest, running back and forth through the dusting of brown hair there, his voice vibrating against them and in her ear. And as he spoke, she wished she had a healing balm for this—for the stories of the past that harbored anger and pain . . . and sometimes, the pain of others—always stinging, and never to be assuaged.

  He gave a little humorless laugh to the room. “My mother talked about that day more than she talked about anything else. The day the duke had tossed her out. That day and the days before, with the parties and the privilege and the power she held over Mayfair—the Duke of Marwick’s impeccable mistress.” He paused, and then, “I don’t imagine she took kindly to knowing that he had been consorting with Devil’s and Whit’s mothers at the same time.”

  She couldn’t help her dry, “Well, his wife wanted nothing to do with him . . . what else is an able-bodied aristocrat to do?”

  He grunted, and she thought she heard real humor in it. “Not able-bodied for long, though.”

  Scant months later, Grace’s mother, the Duchess of Marwick, had used a pistol to ensure that the old duke never had the opportunity to take advantage of another woman.

  “The Lord’s work,” Grace said. “One of the few things I know about my mother, and the thing of which I am most proud.”

  His fingers traced circles on her shoulder. “I imagine you take after her in strength and righteousness.”

  “And aim,” she teased.

  “And aim.” She heard the smile in his voice, turned dry as sand when he said, “I imagine that my mother would have liked to have been her second in that gunfight. She would have liked to have punished him as he punished her.” He stilled, and she did not move, except for her fingers, circling in light, languid strokes.

  When he continued, he was whispering. “She hated him for betraying their contract. Ducal mistresses were to be paid handsomely in their retirement. They were to be given row houses in Earl’s Court, and two thousand pounds a year, and an open account on Bond Street. But he gave her none of those things. Instead he punished her.”

  The old duke had punished every woman he’d ever interacted with. He’d been a brute. Grace opened her mouth to tell Ewan just that, to help ease the pain he clearly carried with him.

  Before she could, he continued, “He punished her because of me.”

  “No.” Her head snapped up as the word flew from her lips. “You weren’t—”

  He stopped her. “He left her a single trunk of clothing. And do you know,” he said, not looking at her, “for years, when she would tell me this story, I thought she told me about that trunk to point to my father’s sympathy. The dresses, decorated with pearls and shot through with gold—all sold by the time I could understand what pearls and gold meant.

  “I always hoped she told me that story to underscore his humanity—knowing what life he was sending her to. One that she hadn’t chosen.”

  She took a deep breath. God knew Grace had seen the best and worst of the Garden, but since the Bastards had started running the Rookery, they’d done their best to ensure that people who found their way there could make their own choices.

  Choice made for honest work. And safe.

  And it was too rare that women were afforded it.

  Ewan went on, “But now, as a grown man, I know it had nothing to do with his humanity. He was furious. And he wanted her to live every day for the rest of her life with that trunk full of aging silks, and remember what she’d given up. Because of me. He wanted her to regret me.”

  She shook her head. “She didn’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” she said, forcefully, unwilling to let him win on this count. “I know it because I’ve lived in the Garden longer than you have, and I’ve seen more here than you ever did. And I know that women who don’t wish to have chil
dren don’t have to have them. I know your mother knew that—and how. And that is why I know she made a choice.”

  She put her hands to the sides of his face, willing him to hear her. “The duke didn’t leave her with nothing, Ewan. He left her with you. Her choice.”

  “And what good was I?” he said, anger flooding his tone. “She died here, in this place with nothing but the memory of her choice. I wasn’t even here.”

  Grace nodded. “She did, and I dearly hope your father is rotting in hell for that and a thousand other things. But you didn’t die here.” She had tears in her eyes. “You didn’t die, Ewan, and that is the gift she gave you.”

  He was lost to thought for an age, until finally, Grace could not stop herself from filling the silence and telling him her own story, softly. “I went looking for her, you know.”

  His eyes snapped to hers.

  “She was already gone,” she said. “Fever.”

  “I know,” he replied. “She died while we were at Burghsey. He took pleasure in telling me that one night, not long after you’d left; I hadn’t taken his beating with enough contrition.”

  She winced. “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head, waving away the words. “Why did you come after her?”

  “I thought if only I could . . .” she started, then trailed off.

  “Tell me.”

  She could not have denied him anything in that moment. “I thought you might come back for her.”

  He swallowed at the words. “I couldn’t.” The same thing he’d said earlier.

  Grace refused to let him look away. “You couldn’t come with us. You couldn’t come back for her. Tell me.”

  “You were all in danger,” he said, his chest tight with guilt. “And I was the reason why. He knew where you were.” The hate in the words was like ice, spreading cold through her. “At least, he told me he did, and I believed him. And he told me that if I ever left, he’d find you and do what I had failed to do.” He stopped. “What I would never have done.”

  Understanding dawned. “He wanted me dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he wanted you to do it.”

  “My final task,” he said. “To kill you.”

  The placeholder. “To eliminate any possibility of anyone ever discovering that you weren’t the true heir,” she said.

  “Not just that,” he said. “To make sure that I had no one left.”

  Grace’s heart pounded at the words—confusion and anger and sadness warring within her, because that had been the result even though she lived. She and Devil and Whit had run, and what had happened to Ewan in the balance?

  “Title first, last, and always,” he said. “Heir, first, last, and always.”

  Her mind raced, playing over that moment, years earlier. Him coming for her, blade in hand. Whit on the floor, ribs broken. And then Devil, blocking him. Taking the blade.

  Ewan had pulled the punch.

  “Devil’s face.”

  “I miscalculated,” he said, the words barely sound. “It was never intended to be so long. He came at a different angle than I expected.”

  “Intended.” She met his eyes. “Expected.”

  He did not look away. “I had to make it look real.”

  “For your father to believe it.”

  He shook his head. “For you to believe it.”

  Confusion flared. “Why did that matter?”

  “Because I knew that if you didn’t believe it, you’d never leave without me.” He watched her for a long moment, and then added, “I knew that if you didn’t believe it, you’d never stop trying to get back. And you would never be safe from him.”

  It was the truth. “I would have fought for you, Ewan. We all would have.”

  “I know. And he would have taken everything from you.” He paused, his hands coming to her hair, toying with it as he said, “And in that, he would have taken everything from me. I could not be the reason he punished another person I loved.”

  His meaning flared, hot and angry and devastating. That monster of a duke had stolen his mother’s future. Because of Ewan. And then he’d threatened Grace’s.

  “So you stayed.”

  He nodded. “I stayed, and I lived the life he asked of me, and every few months he would trot out some new piece of information about you.”

  She shook her head. “Why? Why not just kill us?”

  “Because if you died, he lost his hold on me. Your safety was the only way he could keep me in line. To ensure that I understood that you survived by his will. And my own actions.”

  “Because he knew what we all knew. That you were good.” How often had they said it, she and Devil and Whit, as they sat in the dark, dank streets of the Garden and wondered what had happened that had turned him against them.

  “I am not good.”

  He was, though. It had never occurred to them that he’d made a sacrifice.

  “You came for me after he died.” Not to destroy her. To love her.

  “The moment he died. He drew his last breath and I cursed him to hell and came to London. He’d told me for years he knew where you were, but he’d never told me, and I tore the city apart looking for you. But you were already gaining power here, tucked away from anyone who was not part of the Garden. And this place did well keeping you all safe—and I grew more and more wild as the years passed, searching for you.

  “I am not good,” he repeated. “When I thought it was all for naught—when I thought you were dead . . . I, too, was a monster. I came for Devil, for Whit, for this place—wanting to lay them all low. To punish them for not keeping you safe.”

  Her chest tightened at the confession.

  “I am cut from the same cloth as my father.”

  “No,” she said, sitting up at the words. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true, though. Like him, I was willing to destroy for what I wanted. Like him, I am alone. And like him, I deserve it.”

  “No.” The word was loud and furious. “You are nothing like him. You are nothing like him and I regret ever thinking you were. I regret believing that you manipulated and betrayed us. I regret believing that you were consumed with greed. I regret thinking you returned for revenge and not for something far more powerful.”

  She looked down at him, consumed with her own frustration and deep sadness that she had spent a lifetime believing that the boy she’d loved had been her enemy. Consumed by something else, as well. “No masks,” she whispered.

  His hand found hers where it pressed against his heart. “No masks.”

  “I love you.”

  The words hung between them for a long moment, and he went still as stone. But her hand was over his heart, and she felt the pounding there, instantly stronger. Instantly faster.

  Her own heart in her throat, she elaborated. “And when I say that, I do not refer to the boy you once were, but the man you are now.”

  And then he laughed, perfect and wonderful and like nothing in the wide world.

  There was nothing in the wide world like his laugh.

  He pulled her close. “Say it again.”

  “I love you,” she whispered, the words at once strange and wildly familiar.

  “You do?” he whispered back, that beautiful smile in his eyes now, like perfection. And she wanted him so much—she wanted that smile warming her and wooing her for a lifetime. For longer. He repeated himself, amazed laughter beneath it. “You do.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh, too, suddenly light and free. “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes.”

  And he was sitting up and kissing her and she was kissing him, and he rolled her onto her back and she gave herself up to him. To them. To a fresh start. A second chance, without names or titles or history between them.

  To happiness, ever after.

  A knock came on the outer door to her chambers.

  His lips were in the crook of her neck, whispering nonsense, making her giggle with the pleasure. “Send them away.”

&n
bsp; “It might be important,” she whispered.

  “More likely it is Devil and Whit, come to put their fists into my face for despoiling their sister.”

  “Pardon me, sir. If anyone did any despoiling tonight, it was me.”

  “That much is true.”

  A shout echoed up from Dominion, which remained in full celebration below, the sound punctuated by another knock, this one on the door to her private rooms. She stilled, and he lifted his head.

  It was not a knock anymore. It was full-on pounding.

  She was out of the bed immediately, heading to dress. Ewan just behind her, pulling on his trousers.

  “Dahlia!” came Veronique’s voice through the door. “It’s a raid!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “It’s fucking mayhem down there.”

  Veronique spoke the moment Grace yanked open the door leading into her office, hastily dressed and heading for her desk. Veronique was flanked by two of the security detail, armed women whose job it was to keep the membership safe.

  Grace looked from one to the other as she passed. “You two get back downstairs. We need to fight back and get the members out.” From beyond the door, she heard shouts and screams, and an enormous crash. “Now.”

  “You need protection.”

  Grace shot her a look as she collected a stack of ledgers and journals.

  “She’s got it,” Ewan said from the doorway, surprising everyone with his presence and his impenetrable tone as he followed Grace across the room.

  She shook her head. “You cannot stay.”

  “Like hell I can’t,” he said, instantly.

  “If you stay, you’ll be seen. You’ll be discovered.”

  “So?”

  She looked to the ceiling, frustration flaring. “You’re a duke, Ewan. All they want is to be able to turn your power against you.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m a duke. I hold all the power.”

  It was so arrogant. So arrogant and so wrong, here on the dark streets where a duke could be tossed into the river just as easily as he could find his way home to Mayfair, and she hated that he fell back on that title that had ruined so much.