More lies. But he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Then why?”
She spread her hands wide. “You told me that nothing I could say—”
The memory flashed, intertwined on the platform in Hebert’s shop, at odds. He’d been furious with her. “Christ. I told you there was nothing you could say to make me forgive you.”
She nodded once. “I believed you.”
He released a long breath, a cloud in the cold air. “So did I.”
“And there is a part of me that believed I deserved to pay for his sins. I turned him into that as much as I turned you into this,” she said. “I left you both that night, and my father no doubt punished him brutally just as London punished you.” She grew quiet. “My mistakes seem never to end.”
He was quiet for a long time. “What utter nonsense.”
Shock coursed through her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You didn’t make him. You saved yourself. The boy made his own choices.”
She shook her head. “My father—”
“Your father is the greatest bastard in creation, and if he weren’t dead, I’d take great pleasure in killing him myself,” he said. “But the man was not a god. He did not mold your brother from clay and breathe life into him. Your brother’s sins are his and his alone.” He paused, the words echoing in the darkness, and added, softly, “As are mine.”
She shook her head, moved toward him. “Not so. If I hadn’t drugged you. Left you. Failed to return . . .”
“You are not a god, either. You are just a woman. As I am just a man.” He exhaled, harsh in the darkness. “You didn’t make me. And we have made this mess together.”
Her eyes were liquid in the darkness, and he wanted to hold her. To touch her. To take her home and make her his.
But he didn’t. Instead he said, “I only wish it were over.”
She nodded. “It can be,” she said. “It’s time.”
She meant the unmasking. And perhaps it was time. God knew he’d waited long enough to have this life back—the one he’d been promised. The one he’d loved and missed with a stunning, stinging ache.
But as he stared down at her, it was all gone, lost to this woman, who owned him in some remarkable, unbearable way. He lifted his hand to stroke her cheek in a long, slow caress. She leaned into the touch, and his thumb traced the curve of her lips, lingering.
Something had happened.
He whispered her name, and in the darkness it sounded like a prayer. “I can’t.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, betraying her confusion. Her frustration. “Why not?”
Because I love you.
He shook his head. “Because I find I no longer have a taste for vengeance. Not if it will hurt you.”
She went still beneath his touch, and he saw the myriad of emotions race through her before she reached for his hand. He pulled away before she could catch it and reached into his jacket pocket.
He extracted the bank draft—the one he’d planned to give her after her unmasking this evening. The one he had to give her now. The one that would release them both from this strange, painful world. Handed it to her.
Her brow furrowed as she took the paper in hand, reading it. “What is this?”
“Your brother’s debt. Free and clear.”
She shook her head. “It’s not what we negotiated.”
“It’s what I’m giving you, nonetheless.”
She looked up at him then, sadness and something else in her gaze. Something he hadn’t expected. Pride. She shook her head. “No.”
“Take it, Mara,” he urged. “It’s yours.”
She shook her head once more and repeated herself. “No.” She folded the draft carefully and tore it in half, then in half again, then in half again.
What in hell was she doing? That money could save the orphanage a dozen times. A hundred of them. He watched as she continued her tearing, until she was left with little bits of paper, which she sprinkled on the snowy ground.
His heart pounded in his chest as he watched the little white squares dust the toes of his boots. “Why would you do that?”
She smiled, sad and small in the darkness. “Don’t you see? I’m through taking from you.”
His heart pounded at the words and he reached for her, wanting her in his arms. Wanting to love her as she deserved. As they both deserved.
She let him catch her, pressing her lips to his in one long, lush kiss that stole his breath and flooded him with desire. He wanted to lift her and carry her away, and he cursed his wounded arm for making it difficult to make good on that desire.
Instead, he held her close and reveled in the feel of her lips on his, in the smell of lemons that consumed him, in the soft promise of her fingers in his hair. He ravished her mouth until she sighed her pleasure and melted against him. Only then did he release her, loving the way her fingertips found her lips, as though she’d never been kissed quite that way before.
As though she did not know that he was going to kiss her that way forever.
He reached for her once more, her name already on his lips, wanting to tell her just what she could expect from his kisses in the future, but she stepped backward, out of reach. “No,” she said.
He had waited for twelve years. He did not want to wait any longer.
“Come home with me,” he said, reaching for her. Wanting her. “It’s time we talk.”
It was time they did more than talk. He’d had enough of talk.
She danced back from his touch, shaking her head. “No.” He heard something firm in the word. Something unyielding.
Something he did not like.
“Mara,” he said.
But she was already turning away. “No.”
The word came on a whisper in the darkness as she disappeared for the second time that night.
Leaving him alone, and aching.
Chapter 17
“You appear to have lost your coat.”
Temple emptied his third glass of champagne, trading it for a full one from a passing footman’s tray, and ignored his unwelcome companion. Instead, he watched the throngs of revelers spinning and swirling across the ballroom floor, their excitement having risen to a fever pitch as wine flowed and time marched.
“You also seem to have lost your companion,” Chase added.
Temple drank again. “I know you are not here.”
“I’m afraid I am not a hallucination.”
“I told you to stay out of my affairs.”
Chase’s eyes went wide behind a black domino identical to Temple’s. “I was invited.”
“That’s never stopped you from avoiding events like this before. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t very well miss your crowning moment.”
Temple turned away, returning his gaze to the room at large. “If you’re seen with me, people will ask questions.”
Chase shrugged one shoulder. “We are masked. And aside from that, in mere minutes, you shan’t be such a scandal. Tonight is the night, is it not? The return of the Duke of Lamont?”
It was supposed to have been. But somehow everything had gone sour, and he’d found himself in the gardens, staring down at the woman upon whom he’d placed twelve years of anger . . . no longer having the stomach for retribution.
If only that were all.
If only he hadn’t stared down at that woman and seen someone else entirely. Someone he cared for far too much. So much that he didn’t seem to mind that she’d sent her brother into the darkness, free.
All he minded was that she’d left as well.
Because he wanted her back.
He wanted her. Full stop.
Christ.
“I told you to leave me alone.”
“How very dramatic,” Chase said, the words dr
ipping with sarcasm. “You cannot avoid me forever, you know.”
“I can try.”
“Would it help if I apologized?”
Surprise flared. Apologies from Chase were uncommon. “Do you plan to?”
“I’m not fond of the idea of it, I’ll tell you.”
“I don’t particularly care.”
Chase sighed. “All right. I apologize.”
“For what, precisely?”
Chase’s lips went flat. “Now you’re being an ass.”
“I find it is best to fight fire with fire.”
“I should have told you she was in London.”
“You’re damn right you should have. If I’d known—” He stopped. If he’d known, he would have fetched her.
He would have found her. Earlier.
It might have been different.
How?
“If I’d known, this mess might have been avoided.”
“If you’d known, this mess might have been worse.”
He cut Chase a look. “I thought you were apologizing.”
Chase grinned. “I am still learning the ins and outs of it.” The smile faded. “What of the girl?”
He imagined Mara was halfway returned to the orphanage, desperate to claim her freedom. Worse, he imagined he’d not have a reason to see her again. Which should not grate nearly as much as it did. “I let her go.”
There was no surprise in Chase’s gaze. “I see. West will be sorry, no doubt.”
Temple had forgotten the newspaperman. He’d forgotten everything once she’d looked up at him with her beautiful blue-green eyes and confessed the fear that had set this entire play in motion. “No one deserves the humiliation I had planned.”
Especially not Mara.
Not at his hands.
“So. The Killer Duke remains.”
He’d lived under the mantle of the name for twelve years. He’d proven himself stronger and more powerful than the rest of London. He’d built a fortune to rival that of the dukedom that he would not touch. And perhaps, now that he knew that she was alive, that he was not a killer, the name would sting less.
She was alive.
She should have come to him that night and told him the truth. He would have helped her. He would have kept her safe.
He would have taken her as his own.
The thought wracked him, along with the images that came with it. Mara in his arms, Mara in his bed, Mara at his table. A row of children with auburn hair and blue-green eyes. Hers.
Theirs.
Christ.
He thrust his good hand through his hair, trying to erase the wild thought. The impossible thought. He met Chase’s eyes. “The Killer Duke remains.”
With a barely-there nod, Chase’s gaze flickered over Temple’s shoulder, drawn by something across the ballroom. “Or does he?”
The words sent a thread of uncertainty through Temple, and he turned to follow his friend’s gaze.
She hadn’t left.
She stood at the far end of the ballroom, at the top of the stairs that led down into the revelers, his coat dangling from her fingers, tall and beautiful in that stunning concoction of a dress, several fat curls having escaped from her coif, now long and lovely against her pale skin. He wanted to lift those curls in his hand, run his lips across them.
But first—
He took a step toward her. “What in hell is she doing here?”
Chase stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. She’s magnificent.”
She was that. She was more.
She was his.
Temple turned back. “What have you done?”
“I swear, this is not my doing. This is all the girl.” Chase’s attention returned to Mara, a surprised smile flashing. “I wish it were my doing, honestly. She’s going to change everything.”
“I don’t want her changing anything.”
“I don’t think you can stop her.”
The orchestra’s music came to a close, and Temple’s gaze flew to the enormous clock on one side of the ballroom. It was midnight. The Duchess of Leighton was making her way up the steps toward Mara, no doubt to lead the revelers in their raucous unmasking. Mara met her halfway, whispering in the duchess’s ear, giving her pause.
The Duchess of Leighton pulled back in surprise, and asked a question. Mara replied, and the duchess asked another, all seriousness and shock. And all of London watched the exchange. Finally, the hostess nodded, satisfied, and turned to face the crowd, a smile on her lips.
And Temple knew it was happening.
“She might just be the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” Chase said, all admiration.
“I told her I didn’t want her doing it. I told her I wasn’t going to do it,” Temple said, angry. Amazed.
“It seems that she does not listen well.”
Temple didn’t reply. He was too busy pulling off his own mask, already pushing through the crowd, knowing he was too far from her.
Knowing he couldn’t stop her.
“My lords and ladies!” The duchess was calling out to the world below as she took her husband’s hand, and began the proceedings. “As you know, I am a great fan of scandal!”
The room laughed, thrilled by the mysterious events, and Temple kept moving, desperate to get to Mara. To stop her from doing something reckless.
“To that end,” the duchess continued, “I’ve been assured there will be a truly scandalous announcement tonight! Before we unmask . . .” She paused, no doubt adoring the excitement, and waved a hand to Mara. “I present . . . a guest whose identity even I did not know!”
Temple attempted to increase his pace, but all of London seemed to be in the room with them, and no one wanted to give up a spot so close to promised scandal. He lifted a woman out of the way with his good arm, ignoring her squeak of surprise.
Her companion turned to him, all bluster, but Temple was already moving forward, whispers of The Killer Duke trailing behind him.
Good. Maybe people would get out of the goddamn way.
Mara came forward and spoke, her voice clear and strong. “For too long, I have hidden from you. For too long, I have allowed you to think that I was gone. For too long, I have allowed you to place blame on the innocent.”
The clock began to chime midnight, and Temple began moving faster.
Don’t do it, he willed her. Don’t do this to yourself.
“For too long, I have allowed you to believe that William Harrow, the Duke of Lamont, was a killer.”
He stopped at the words, at the sound of his name and title on her lips, at the gasps and shock rolling through the crowd as though they were thunder.
And still, the clock chimed.
She lifted her hands to the mask, untying the ribbons. Finishing her announcement. “But you see, he is no killer. For I am very much alive.”
He couldn’t reach her.
She removed the mask, and sank into a deep curtsy at the feet of the Duchess of Leighton. “My lady, forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Mara Lowe, daughter of Marcus Lowe. Sister to Christopher Lowe. Thought dead for twelve years.”
Why would she do it?
She met his gaze through the crowd. Saw him.
Did she not always see him?
“Not dead. Never dead,” she said, sadness in her gaze. “Indeed, the villain of the play.”
The last bell of midnight echoed in the silence that followed the announcement, and then, as though they’d been set free, the crowd moved, exploding into excitement and scandal and madness.
She turned and ran, and he couldn’t reach her.
Gossip and speculation exploded around him. He heard it in snippets and scraps.
“She ruined him—”
“—how dare she!”
??
?Using one of us!”
“Ruining one of us!”
This was it . . . what he’d thought he wanted for her. What he’d wished for in the dead of night on the street outside his home all those nights ago. Before he’d realized that her ruination was the last thing he wanted. Before he’d realized he wanted her. He loved her.
“That poor man—”
“I always said he was too aristocratic to have done any such thing—”
“Aye, and too handsome as well—”
“And the girl!”
“The devil herself.”
“She’ll never be able to show her face again.”
She’d ruined herself. For him.
Only now, once he had it, once he heard the loathing in their voices, he hated it. And he hated them. And he had half a mind to battle the entire room.
He’d battle all of Britain for her if he had to.
A hand came down on his shoulder. “Your Grace—” He turned to face a man he did not know, all good breeding and aristocratic bearing. Hating the title on his lips. “I’ve always said you didn’t do it. Join us for a game?” He indicated a group of men around him, and nodded toward the card rooms off the ballroom.
This was it . . . the goal for which he’d wished.
Acceptance.
Absolution.
As she’d promised.
As though none of it had ever happened.
Killer Duke no more.
But she wasn’t there. And it was all wrong.
He turned away from his title. From his past. From the only thing he’d ever wanted.
And he went after the only thing he’d ever needed.
She should have left immediately.
He was trapped in the ballroom with all of London hoping to reconcile, and she could have outrun him. She had meant to. But she couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.
And so she stood in the shadows outside his town house in Temple Bar, blending into the darkness, promising herself that she would only look. That she wouldn’t approach him.
That she’d leave him. Redeemed.
She’d given him everything she could.
She’d loved him.
And that, plus one short glimpse of him in the night, on gleaming cobblestones, would be enough.