No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Chapter 11

If 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-hos, 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.

Heart 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?

She pushed the thought away.

He was not for winning. Certainly not by her.

She didn’t deserve him.

Now, after this, he would be rid of her.

Temple turned to her, pushing her back to the ropes. “Temple,” she said quietly, not knowing how she would finish.

This wasn’t my plan.

I didn’t know he was here.

Win.

He didn’t look at her. It was as though she didn’t exist. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. All she wanted was for him to see her. All she wanted was to go back. To the dressmaker. To the night on the street outside his home. To twelve years earlier.

All she wanted was to change it.

“Temple,” she said, again, wishing his name said all of it.

He ignored her, lifting her over the ropes and passing her down to the Marquess of Bourne standing on the other side. Bourne caught her and held her, keeping her safe from the throngs around them. “He should kill you for setting him up.”

Dear God. They couldn’t possibly think she’d planned this.

He couldn’t possibly.

Except, it was precisely what she would have thought, if the situation was reversed.

And she and Temple were two sides to the same coin.

She would tell him everything once he’d won. All of it. From the beginning. She would tell him that the money belonged to the orphanage. That she fought for the boys, and nothing else. That she did not wish him ill.

That she wished him to win.

But for now, she had no choice but to watch the bout. Temple faced Kit—faced her—and she saw that this was nothing like the fight with Drake. There was emotion in his eyes this time. Anger. Fury.

More.

He dragged his foot through the sawdust in a powerful, undeniable beginning.

Or perhaps it was an end.

The fight began, and even now, Temple followed his own rules. Allowing Kit the first move. Her brother grabbed at Temple with vicious intensity, landing a blow to the eye.

She hadn’t expected the sound of flesh on bone, the way fists fell with hollow thuds. The way knuckles slapped against bone. The sound turned her stomach as she watched Temple take first one hit, then another, then a third. And then, as though he’d been counting the blows, offering them for free before forcing her brother to pay for them, he came at Kit the way she’d always heard he fought.

His fists landed like thunder, pummeling Kit’s abdomen and sides, until her brother turned from the assault, taking a moment to find his breath. To find his strength. And went at Temple again.

Perhaps he was named because he was built like stone, impenetrable. Unbeatable. As though the world could come to an end, and Temple alone would survive. His fists rained down upon her brother. Jabbing and crossing and cutting until Kit fell away, coming to rest on the ropes mere inches from her, one eye nearly shut from the blows.

She might hate him at times. He might no longer be the boy she’d known—the one she’d left—but he was still her brother. And she did not wish him dead. She pled with him. “Kit! Stop this! He’ll kill you!”

He met her gaze, and she expected to see pain or regret or surprise there . . . but instead, she saw something unexpected. Hatred. “You chose him.”

She shook her head, instinctively. “No.” It wasn’t true. Was it? She’d chosen the boys. She’d chosen their safety.

And then . . . somehow, she’d chosen Temple.

The thought shocked her. Dear God. Had she chosen him?

Would he allow it? Her gaze flickered to him, coming at them. Coming to fetch Kit. Temple’s eyes found hers instead. Cold. Hard.

Betrayed.

She hated that look. Couldn’t face it. Turned back to her brother, who smiled, the way he always had when they were children and he was about to do something that they would enjoy, but that would no doubt earn him a beating from their father.

And then he reached for the floor of the ring.

For her knife.

She saw the gleam of silver before anyone else.

Mara gasped and screamed out, “No!”

But it was too late. He went at Temple without finesse—with sheer, unmitigated force.

Her gaze flew to Temple, who was not watching Kit.

He was watching her.

Dear God.

“He’ll kill you!” The same words, now with a different meaning. “No!” She was a madwoman, breaking free of Bourne’s grasp and pushing toward the ring, grasping at the ropes, trying to get to Temple.

Trying to save him.

The words were lost in the roar of the crowd, in the way they seethed and barked and howled like dogs on the hunt for blood.

Kit gave it to them.

The knife landed hard and deep in Temple’s chest, blood blooming from it like a perverse blossom.

She froze at the sight, halfway into the ring as someone caught her by the waist, pulling her back with wicked strength. She didn’t notice her scream until it was out and earsplitting.

And, for the first time since he’d taken to the ring twelve years earlier, the Killer Duke fell.

She couldn’t stop watching, unable to tear her gaze from the awkward angle of his legs and the river of blood pouring from him, spreading dark and ominous over the sawdust on the floor. A tall, ginger-haired man was in the ring then, on his knees at Temple’s side, stripping off his coat, barking orders, bending over to inspect the wound.

And then Mara couldn’t see at all, her view blocked by the dozen men already in the ring, trying to get to him. Each eager to be the first to make the call.

“He’s dead!”

“No,” she whispered, refusing to believe it.

What had she done?

Temple was too strong, too big, too alive for it to be true. She struggled against the arms holding her in an iron grip, desperate to be free. Desperate to get to him. To prove the words wrong. “No. It can’t be true.”

The arms around her tight almost to the point of pain. Bourne’s voice was a vicious promise at her ear. “You shall pay dearly if it is.”