No Good Duke Goes Unpunished Page 15

  Was it possible?

  “What next, Your Grace?” The boys recaptured his attention.

  He made his own fists, holding them high at his face. “You protect your head always. Even when taking your punch.” He moved his left leg forward. “Your left arm and leg should lead. Knees bent.”

  The boys moved into position, and he went down their line, adjusting a shoulder here, a fist there. Reminding them to keep knees bent and stay fluid on their feet. And when he was through with the last of the boys, he turned to Mara, who stood, fists up, waiting for him.

  As though they were in constant battle.

  Which they were.

  He came toward her. “It’s more difficult with ladies,” he said softly, “as I cannot see your legs.” What he wouldn’t give to see her legs. He moved behind her, settling his hands to her shoulders. “May I?”

  She nodded. “You may.”

  There were two dozen watchful boys with them, all playing chaperone. Nothing about touching her should feel clandestine, and yet the contact sizzled through him.

  He rocked her back and forth on her feet, one knee sliding forward to test the length of her stride, the slide of fabric against his trouser leg enough to make his mouth dry. He was close enough to hear her quick intake of breath, to smell her—the light scent of lemons even now, in December, when only the wealthiest of Londoners had them.

  If she were his, he’d fill the house with lemon trees.

  If she were his?

  What nonsense. She was tall and lithe and beautiful, and he would want any woman of her ilk if she were this close.

  Lie.

  He stepped away. “Keep your fists high and your head down. Remember that a man fights from his shoulders.”

  “And what of a woman?” she asked. “Do they fight from somewhere else?”

  He looked to her, finding her gaze light with humor. Was she teasing him? The idea was strange and incongruous with their past, but no—those blue-green eyes were fairly twinkling. She was teasing him.

  “In my experience, women fight dirty.”

  She smiled, then. “Nonsense. We simply fight from the heart.”

  He believed that about her. Without question. This was a woman who fought for what she wanted, and for those in whom she believed. She would fight for these boys, and—it seemed—for her brother, despite his being thoroughly despicable.

  But she fought with purpose. And there was honor in that.

  He wondered what it would be like to have her fight for him.

  It would be like nothing else.

  He pushed the thought from his mind and returned his attention to the boys, even as he couldn’t stop himself from touching her. He adjusted her head, making it seem utterly professional, even as each touch rocketed through him. “Keep your heads tilted forward.” Had her hair always been so soft?

  “Don’t hold your chin up, or you’ll risk being clocked here . . .” He brushed his knuckles beneath her chin, where soft skin tempted him like a pile of sweets. “And here.” His fisted fingers slid down the long column of her neck, to where her pulse pounded strong and firm beneath his touch.

  She inhaled sharply, and he knew she felt it, too.

  The pleasure.

  The want.

  Who was this woman? What were they doing to each other?

  With difficulty, he pulled away from her. Raised his voice. Spoke to the boys. “The blow doesn’t come from your arm. It comes from your body. From your legs. Your arms are simply the messenger.” He threw a punch into the air, and the boys gasped.

  “Cor! That was fast!”

  “You must be the strongest man in the world?”

  “Now all of you take a turn.”

  The boys were thrilled to punch at the air, bouncing back and forth on their newly light feet. He watched them for a long while, gaze lingering on the eldest—Daniel. The dark-haired, serious boy was focused on his jabs, eager for Temple’s approval, and there was something familiar there. Something Temple recognized as like him.

  Dark hair. Dark eyes. Eleven years old.

  The boy had blue eyes, but otherwise, he had Temple’s coloring.

  Eyes the blue of Mara’s.

  She’d said the boy had been with her forever. He took that to mean since birth. Since she’d given birth to him?

  Was the child his son?

  And if he was, why had she hidden from him for so long? Didn’t she know he would have taken them in? Protected them? He would have married her. Immediately.

  They would have been a family.

  The thought held more power than he could have imagined, packed with images of breakfasts and dinners and happy occasions filled with laughter and more. And Daniel wasn’t alone. He had brothers and sisters, all dark-haired with eyes the color of summer. Greens and blues. And they were happy.

  Happiness was a strange, fleeting thing.

  But in that moment, his mysterious, missing family had it.

  The sound of the boys’ boxing returned his attention to the present. He would get his answers from Mara Lowe. But now was not the time. “You look very good, gentlemen.”

  He and Mara stood side by side for long minutes, watching their charges, before she said, quietly, “No wonder you are undefeated.”

  He lifted one shoulder. Let it fall. “This is what I do. It is who I am.” It was the only thing he’d done well for twelve years.

  “I don’t think so, you know.”

  He turned to her, easily meeting her gaze, enjoying the way she looked at him. The way she focused on him. Wishing they were alone. Wanting to say a dozen things. To ask them. Settling on: “You try it.”

  She raised her fists, shadowboxed weakly in the air between them.

  He shook his head. “No.” He tapped his chest. “Me.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You want me to hit you?”

  He nodded. “It’s the only way to know if you’re doing it correctly.”

  It was her turn to shake her head. “No.” She lowered her fists. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She lowered her eyes, and he wondered at the spray of freckles across her cheeks. How had he not noticed them before? He attempted humor. “Surely, you like the idea of doing a bit of damage to me.”

  She was quiet for a long moment, and his hand itched to reach out and tilt her face to his. Instead, he settled on whispering, “Mrs. MacIntyre?”

  She shook her head, but did not look to him when she said, “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

  Of all the words she could have spoken, those were the most shocking. They were a lie. They had to be. After all, they were enemies—brought together for mutual benefit. Revenge in exchange for money. Of course she wanted to hurt him.

  Why keep so much from him, then?

  Her lie should have made him angry.

  But somehow, it came on a wave of something akin to hope.

  He didn’t like that, either. “Look at me.”

  She did. And he saw truth there.

  If she didn’t wish to hurt him, what were they doing? What game did they play?

  He stepped toward her, grasped her fist, and pulled it toward him until it settled, featherlight, at his chest, just left of center. She tried to pull it back, but he wouldn’t let her, and instead, she ended the false blow the only way she could, stepping closer, opening her palm, and spreading it wide and flat over his chest.

  She shook her head. “No,” she repeated.

  The touch was scandalous in that room, in full view of all those boys, but he didn’t care. Didn’t think of anything but the warmth of her hand. The softness of her touch. The honesty in it.

  When was the last time a woman had touched him with such honesty?

  She was destroying him.

  He nearly pulled her into his
arms and kissed her until she told him everything. The truth about that night twelve years ago and what it led to and how they’d come to be here. Now. About where they were. And where they were headed.

  He lowered his head, she was inches away. Less.

  She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, I’m sure you will not mind if I send the boys to tidy themselves. It is nearly time for luncheon.”

  He released her like she was aflame. Dear God. He’d nearly— In front of two dozen children. “Not at all, we are finished for the day, I think.”

  She turned to the boys. “I expect you all to remember the duke’s lesson. Gentlemen do not start fights.”

  “We only finish them!” George announced, and the boys were off instantly, dispersed in their separate ways, except little Henry, who headed straight for Lavender, at Temple’s feet.

  Grateful for the distraction, Temple scooped up the pig. “I’m afraid not. Lavender remains with me.”

  Henry pursed his lips at that. “We’re not allowed to lay claim to her,” he pointed out. “Mrs. MacIntyre does not like it.”

  Temple met Mara’s gaze over Henry’s little blond head. “Well, Mrs. MacIntyre is welcome to scold me, then.”

  Henry seemed fine with that plan, and hurried off in the direction of luncheon. Temple straightened, and faced Mara, who looked as flustered as he felt.

  “He’s right, you know. The rule is, no using Lavender as booty.”

  “Whose rule?”

  “Mine,” Mara said, reaching for the piglet.

  Temple stepped backward, out of reach. “Well, by my rules, I rescued her. And she is therefore mine.”

  “Ah. The rules of scoundrels.”

  “You seem to have no trouble playing by them when you see fit,” he pointed out.

  She smiled. “I am quite aboveboard where Lavender is concerned.”

  He stepped closer then, and his voice lowered. “You are the worst kind of scoundrel, then.”

  She raised a brow. “How so?”

  “You assume the mantle only when you require it. You lack conviction.”

  He was very close now, looming over her. “Are you attempting to intimidate me into agreeing with you?”

  “Is it working?”

  She swallowed, and he resisted the urge to stroke the column of her neck. “No.”

  “Men cower at the mere mention of my name, you know.”

  She laughed. “The look of you now, cradling a piglet, might ease their fear.”

  He looked down at the sleeping Lavender and couldn’t hold in his soft chuckle. Mara stilled at the sound, then cleared her throat. Temple found her gaze. She was aware of him. As aware of him as he was of her.

  “Did you mean what you said about vengeance not being worth the trouble?”

  He raised a brow. “I did not say that.”

  “You said it rarely proceeded as expected.”

  “Which is true,” he said, “but that does not mean that it does not end as such.” He had to believe it.

  She looked straight ahead, her gaze settling at the indentation in his chin. “Where does this revenge end?”

  I don’t know.

  He would not admit that. Instead, he said, “It ends with me a duke once more. With what I was promised as a child. With the life I was bred for. With a wife.” He ignored the thought of strange eyes. “A child.” And dark hair. “A legacy.”

  She did look at him then. “And for me?”

  He thought for a long moment. Imagined them different. He a different man, she a different woman. Imagined they’d met under different circumstances. There was much to recommend her—she was brave and strong and deeply loyal to her boys. To this life she had built.

  She was not his concern.

  He wished that was not becoming so difficult to believe.

  His free hand came to her face, tilted it up to meet him. Told her the truth. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have come here today.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because I wanted to see you in your element. I wanted to meet your boys.”

  “To what end?”

  He did not have an answer to that. He shouldn’t want to know her better. To understand her. But he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps because they were forever linked. Perhaps because she’d made him, in a way. Perhaps because he wished to understand her.

  But he hadn’t expected to begin to like her.

  And he definitely hadn’t expected to want her so much.

  Knowing he couldn’t say any of that to her, he chose another path—distraction—and he closed the distance between them and kissed her.

  She leaned into the kiss, her lips a barely there promise, light and sweet enough for her to wonder if it could be called a kiss at all. It was more of a tease. A temptation that rolled in, surprising him with its power. With the way he wanted it. The way she wanted it. She sighed against him, and it was precisely that for which he was waiting.

  She offered him entry; he took it.

  The moment her lips parted, he captured them, deepening the caress, his hand sliding from her cheek to her neck and finally down her back to wrap around her waist and pull her close. Her sigh became his satisfaction, a deep, primitive growl that surprised him. She tested his control again and again.

  And he enjoyed it.

  Then his tongue was stroking across her lower lip and her hands were in his hair and she pressed against him, as though there were nothing in the world she wanted more than to be close to him. As though she weren’t afraid of him.

  He gathered her closer, wanting to bask in her fearlessness, wanting to block out everything that had been and would be and live only in this moment. With this woman who seemed to want the same.

  That’s when Lavender protested.

  The piglet offered an outraged squeal and began to squirm quite desperately in her place between them, wishing to be either released or restored to her prior state of naptime abandon.

  Mara and Temple tore apart from each other, her hand at her throat, his keeping Lavender from leaping to her death. He set the piglet down, and she scurried off, leaving them alone in the foyer, out of breath, staring at each other as though they did not know whether to run from the house or back into each others’ arms.

  He wasn’t leaving that house.

  Instead, he came at her once more, beside her in two long strides, lifting her in his arms—loving the weight of her there, the way his muscles bunched and tightened. The way they served a new, infinitely more valuable purpose. He took her mouth again, hard and fast, and tasted a frustration there—one he recognized because it mirrored his own.

  Christ. He couldn’t stay.

  He released her as quickly as he’d captured her, leaving her unsteady on her feet, capturing her face in his hand, staring deep into her eyes and saying, “You are trouble,” before punctuating the statement with a firm, final kiss and stepping away from her.

  Her hand flew to her lips, and he watched the movement with desperation, loving the way those pretty fingers pressed against swollen flesh. Wishing they were anyone but them. Anywhere but here.

  If wishes were horses.

  He turned to leave. Knowing he had to. Not trusting himself to stay.

  She called after him. “Will you join us for luncheon?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, at sea. “My morning is complete.” Too complete. He should not have touched her. She was his ruin. His revenge.

  Why couldn’t he remember that?

  “You look hungry.”

  He nearly laughed. He’d never been so hungry in his life. “I am fine.”

  “Are you still afraid I might poison you?”

  He inclined his head, the excuse welcome. “A man cannot be too careful.”

  She smiled. He enjoyed that smile. Too much.

>   He had to stop this.

  And so he said the one thing that he knew would do just that. “Mara.”

  She met his gaze, trying not to notice how handsome he was. How tempting. “Yes?”

  “That night. Did we make love?”

  Her eyes went wide. He’d shocked her. She’d been expecting a dozen things, but not that. Not the reminder of their past. Of their deal.

  She recovered quickly—quick enough for him to admire her. “Have you decided to forgive my brother’s debt?”

  Like that, they were on solid ground once more. Thankfully. “No.”

  “Then I am afraid I cannot remember.”

  “Well.” He turned for the door, fetching his greatcoat from its hook nearby. “I certainly understand that predicament.”

  His hand was on the handle of the door when she said, “Another two pounds, either way.”

  He looked back, a thread of ice spreading through him. “For what?”

  She stood tall and proud in the foyer. “For the kiss.”

  He hadn’t been thinking of their deal when he’d kissed her, and he’d wager everything he had that she hadn’t been thinking of it, either. The discussion of funds made the moment base and unpleasant, and he hated that she’d returned them to this place.

  “Two pounds sounds fine.” She needn’t know that he’d pay two hundred for another moment like that. Two thousand. “I shall see you tonight.” He opened the door and added, “Wear what arrives from Hebert today.”

  Chapter 9

  “You shouldn’t fight him.”

  Temple did not look up from lacing his boots. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? Half the club is already ringside.”

  The Marquess of Bourne, Temple’s oldest friend and co-owner of The Fallen Angel, leaned against the wall to one side of the door to the boxing ring, watching as Temple prepared for the fight. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. Tonight, you are welcome to fight all you like—though if I were a betting man, I’d have twenty quid on Drake falling in the first minute.” He pointed to the low table at the center of the room. “You shouldn’t accept the challenge from Lowe.”

  Temple looked to the list of names there. Christopher Lowe at the top, as it had been for weeks. Calling him. Tempting him. Daring him to accept. Evidently, Mara had not told her brother that she’d arranged a deal with the Killer Duke, and that she was earning back their money. Either that, or Lowe wanted to free his sister from ruin—but Temple couldn’t imagine his sister’s reputation had anything to do with the young man’s plans.