No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Chapter 8

When Mara entered her office the following morning, it was to discover that Lydia was a traitor.

Lydia was perched on the edge of a small chair on one side of Mara’s desk, in casual conversation with the Duke of Lamont, as though it was perfectly ordinary for a man of his size and ilk to loiter in an orphanage, and equally ordinary for a governess to keep him company. Lydia was tittering, fairly hanging on every one of his words, when Mara shut the door behind her with a snap.

Temple stood, and Mara ignored the warmth that spread through her. It was December. And bitterly cold, as the coal delivery had not yet arrived. This man was not warming. She redirected her attention to Lydia. “We’re allowing just anyone in these days?”

Lydia had worked alongside Mara for long enough not to be cowed. “The duke indicated that you had an appointment.”

“We don’t.” She rounded her desk and sat. “You may leave, Your Grace. I am quite busy.”

He did not leave. Instead, he returned to his chair and overflowed the delicate piece of furniture. “Perhaps you don’t remember. We agreed that I would return today.”

“We agreed you would return this evening.”

“Miss Baker invited me in.”

“He was outside when I woke,” Lydia explained. “It’s bitterly cold, and I thought he might like tea.”

Temple had clearly addled the other woman’s brain.

“He does not want tea.”

“Tea sounds lovely.” There was perhaps no word stranger on this enormous man’s lips than lovely.

“You don’t drink tea,” Mara pointed out.

“I’m thinking of starting.”

Lydia stood. “I shall ring for it.”

“No need, Miss Baker, I can’t drink it.”

Lydia looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

Mara answered for him. “Because he’s afraid I’ll poison him.”

“Oh,” the other woman said. “Yes, I can imagine that is a worry.” She leaned toward Temple. “I would not poison you, Your Grace.”

He grinned. “I believe you.”

Mara huffed her disapproval, glaring at Lydia. “This is a betrayal.”

Lydia seemed to be enjoying herself entirely too much. “It’s only fair, considering we are putting him to work today.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mara could not help her exclamation. Nor the way she shot to her feet.

Temple stood, as well.

“He’s offered to help with the boys.”

Mara sat. “He cannot.”

Temple sat.

She looked to him. “What are you doing?”

He shrugged. “A gentleman does not sit when a lady stands,” he said, simply.

“So you’re a gentleman now? Yesterday you were a self-professed scoundrel.”

“Perhaps I am turning over a new leaf.” One side of his mouth rose in a small smile. “Like tea.”

A smile that brought attention to his lips.

Those infuriating lips about which she had no intention of thinking.

Dear God. She’d kissed him.

No. She wouldn’t think on it.

She scowled at him. “I highly doubt that.”

He was infuriating. She stood again.

As did he, patient as ever.

She sat, knowing she was being obstinate, but not much caring.

He remained standing.

“Shouldn’t you sit, as a gentleman?” she snapped.

“The standing-sitting rule does not hold true in reverse. I think it might be best if I remain standing while you—frustrate.”

Mara narrowed her gaze on him. “I assure you, Your Grace, if you wait for me to cease frustrating, you may never sit again.”

Lydia’s blue eyes gleamed with unreleased laughter.

Mara glared at her. “If you laugh, I shall set Lavender loose in your bedchamber in the dead of night. You shall awake to pig noises.”

The threat worked. Lydia sobered. “It is simply that the gentleman offered, and it occurs to me that the boys could benefit from a man’s tutelage.”

Mara’s gaze went wide. “You must be joking.”

“Not at all,” Lydia said. “There are things the boys should learn for which we are—not ideal.”

“Nonsense. We are excellent teachers.”

Lydia cleared her throat and passed a small piece of paper across the desk to Mara. “I confiscated this from Daniel’s reader yesterday evening.”

Mara unfolded the paper to discover a line drawing of— “What is . . .” She turned the paper and tilted her head. Temple leaned over the desk, his head now dangerously close to her own—and turned the page once more. At which point everything became clear.

She folded the paper with military efficiency, heat spreading furiously across her face. “He’s a child!”

Lydia inclined her head. “Apparently, boys of eleven are rather curious.”

“Well, it is entirely inappropriate for him to address their curiosity.” She waved a hand in Temple’s direction, refusing to look at him. Unable to look at him. “Not that he isn’t well qualified to serve as an expert, I imagine.”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” he said, far too close to her.

She turned in her chair to look up at him. “It was not meant as one. I was merely pointing out your libidinous ways.”

His brows rose. “Libidinous.”

“Roguish. Rakish. Scallawaginous. Scoundrelly.”

“I’m certain that some of those words are not words.”

“Now you’re angling for a position as governess?”

“If the boys are learning words like scallawaginous, it might not be the worst idea.”

Mara turned to Lydia. “He is leaving.”

“Mara,” Lydia said. “He’s ideal. He’s a duke, and, I imagine, was trained as a gentleman.”

“He’s a fighter for heaven’s sake. He owns a gaming hell. He’s no kind of tutor for young, impressionable men who must be models of gentlemanliness.”

“I was quite skilled in the gentlemanly arts, once.”

Mara cut him a look. “You, sirrah, could have fooled me.”

The words were out before she could stop them—knowing instantly that she’d reminded him of the night that had caused all this difficulty, that had set them on the path to this moment, where he appeared destined to overtake every aspect of her life.

His gaze darkened. “I might remind you that I was the one who was fooled that evening, Mrs. MacIntrye.” The emphasis on the false name had her pressing her lips together as he addressed Lydia. “I am free for the day and happy to tutor your young charges in any aspect of gentlemanliness required.”

The entire situation was out of control.

She did not want him here. Close. Anywhere near her. The man was plotting her demise. She didn’t want him near her boys or her friend or her life.

She didn’t want him. Full stop.

It did not matter that she’d spent much of the night tossing and turning in her little bed, thinking on the kiss they’d shared. And the way he’d handled the boys, clamoring in and out of his coach yesterday.

It did not matter that when she forgot about their past, she rather liked him in the present. None of it mattered. Not when he held her future and the future of this orphanage in his hands.

“Has it escaped both of your attentions that I am the mistress of this orphanage? And that I have no intention of allowing this man to stay for the day?”

“Nonsense,” Lydia said. “You wouldn’t limit the boys’ access to a duke.”

“Not exactly the most in-demand duke of the ton.” The words were out before she knew they’d formed. Temple stiffened. Lydia’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. And Mara felt like an ass. “I did not mean—”

His gaze found hers, guarded. “Of course not.”

“I know better than any that—”

He did not speak. She turned to Lydia, hoping for help, and the governess simply shook her head, wide-eyed. And guilt spread through Mara, hot and unpleasant. She had to repair the damage. She returned her attention to Temple. “You are schooled in the courtly arts?”

He met her gaze for a long moment before executing a perfect bow, and looking more ducal than Mara had ever seen him. “I am.”

A truce.

“And appropriate conversation with ladies?” Lydia was grateful for the détente, her gaze flickering to the paper in Mara’s hand. “We may need a bit of that.”

“I have had few complaints.”

He was an excellent conversationalist. Mara had no doubt.

Lydia continued. “And sport? I think sport has been neglected from the boys’ education for far too long.”

Mara huffed at that. “The man is built like a Greek god. I think sport is the one thing he can teach them.”

The words rattled around the room, shocking everyone. Lydia’s eyes went wide. Temple went still.

Mara’s mouth dropped open.

She hadn’t said it.

A Greek god?

It was his fault. He’d scrambled her thoughts. And he was interjecting himself into every aspect of her life—every bit for which she’d worked so hard and fought so long. Surely that was what had made her say it.

A Greek god??

She closed her eyes and willed him to lose the power of speech. Immediately and irreversibly. “Obviously, I didn’t mean—”

“Well. Thank you.”

In the entire history of time, had willing ever worked?

She straightened. Soldiered on. “I would not take it as a compliment. The Greek gods were a strange bunch. Always turning into animals and abducting virgins.”

Dear God. Could she not keep her mouth shut?

“It’s not such a terrible fate, that,” he said.

Lydia snickered.

Mara glared at her. “You just asked him to teach the boys to be gentlemen.”

Lydia turned enormous eyes on Temple. “Your Grace, you do realize you cannot speak to the boys in such . . . innuendo.”

“Of course,” he said. “But you do realize that your employer started it.”

Mara wanted to tread upon his foot. But seeing as he was a great giant of a man, she doubted he would feel it at all.

“Well then. It’s settled,” Lydia said, as though it were. Which it seemed to be, despite Mara being against the entire thing. “You shall spend the morning with the boys, and they will no doubt learn a great deal.” She turned to Mara, immense meaning in her eyes as she finished, casually, “And perhaps once you have spent the day with the boys, you and Mrs. MacIntyre can discuss a charitable donation to our very good work.”

Lydia was nothing if not shrewd. Where Mara looked at Temple and saw a dangerous foe, Lydia saw a wealthy potential ally. A man who could pay all their bills.

Temple raised a brow. “Your business acumen rivals that of your employer.”

Lydia smiled. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

She shouldn’t, of course.

Temple would not simply decide to give to the orphanage. He, too, was shrewd. And their best chance of paying their bills was for Mara to continue on her path. A thread of unease slid through her at the mercenary thought. She ignored it.

This was about the orphanage and the boys’ safety.

Her means would justify that end.

Lydia stood then. “Well. This is a treat. It’s not every day a duke gives up his title to take on work.”

“I hear it happens quite often in novels,” Temple said.

“This is not exactly a novel,” Mara said. In a novel, she’d be a perfect, beautiful maid with an unblemished past to match her complexion. And he’d be a handsome, brooding duke.

Well, the last bit was rather like real life, she supposed.

“Really?” he teased, “I confess, the events of the last week have been strange enough to convince me otherwise.”

Lydia laughed. “Indeed.”

Mara pointed at her. “Do not come to like him.”

The laugh turned into a grin. “That might prove difficult.”

Temple bowed.

They were flirting now, and it occurred to Mara that if this were a novel, she would not be the heroine. Lydia might be. The kind, pretty, blond governess, with bright laughs and big eyes, just the thing to turn the brooding duke around.

Mara scowled. It was not a novel.

“Lydia, prepare the boys for a special lesson with His Grace,” she said, meeting Temple’s eyes. “You remain here.”

Curiosity flooded Lydia’s expression, but she knew better than to linger, leaving immediately to collect her charges. Once the door closed behind her, she came around the desk to face him. “You needn’t do this.”

“It’s kind of you to think of my comfort.”

“I did not mean to imply that I was doing that.”

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I shall infer it nonetheless.”

He was distracting. She could smell the clove and thyme on him—the salve she’d spread on his wound while he’d waited patiently, her fingers sliding over his warm, smooth skin.

And from there, it was a quick leap to the memory of his lips on hers.

She couldn’t believe she’d kissed him.

Could believe even less that he’d kissed her in return.

And she would not think on the fact that she’d liked it.

Or that like seemed not at all a strong enough word for how the caress had made her feel.

He was smirking now, as though he knew the thoughts that were running through her mind.

She cleared her throat. Straightened her shoulders. “The boys do not have much time with gentlemen. They will be interested in you.”

He nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Don’t . . .” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Don’t make them like you.”

His brows rose.

“It will only make it harder when you leave and never return. Don’t let them grow attached to you.” Suddenly, the possibility of becoming attached to him did not seem so unrealistic.

There was a thick hesitation before he said, “It’s just a morning, Mara.”

She nodded, ignoring the way the words twisted in the air between them. “I’ll have your word on that.”

He exhaled on a little huff. Humor? Frustration? “As a gentleman? Or a scoundrel?”

“As both.”

He nodded. “My word, as both.”

She opened the door, turned back to him, trying not to notice how handsome he was. How tempting. “I hope at least one of them sticks.”

He left, and she closed the door behind him. After several moments of wanting to follow him, she turned the lock, and returned to her desk.

One hour.

That was how long it took for her curiosity to get the better of her, and for her to go hunting for him.

She found Lydia standing sentry in the main hall of the orphanage.

“Where are they?” Mara asked.

Lydia tipped her head in the direction of the firmly shut door to the dining room. “He has been with them for three-quarters of an hour.”

“Doing what?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

She approached her friend, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I cannot believe you asked him this.”

Lydia shrugged. “He seems a decent man.”

He was. “You don’t know that.”

Lydia’s blue gaze turned knowing. “I know indecent men. And you yourself said he did not do what the world thinks he did.” She paused, then added, “And he’s rich enough to save us all.”

If only he knew they were in danger.

Nothing you could say will make me forgive.

Nothing she could say would make him help.

Lydia was still talking. “ . . . but they seem to be enjoying it.”

Laughter and excited chatter streamed from the dining room, returning Mara to the present. She knocked and opened the door, the laughter noise immediately subsiding.

Temple looked up from his place at the head of the table and immediately stood when she entered. The boys followed suit. “Ah,” he said, “Mrs. MacIntyre. We were just finishing our discussion.”

She looked from one boy to the next, each more tight-lipped than his neighbor, appearing as though they’d been instructed in a series of mysterious arts. When her gaze fell on Temple once more, she said, “I trust all is well?”

He nodded, circumspect. “I believe it was a success.”

She left them again, vowing to leave them alone.

That vow lasted a full two hours, until she could no longer stop herself from leaving her office to ostensibly check on the status of luncheon, which happened to take her through the main foyer of the orphanage, where she was unable to miss the line of serious, attentive boys snaking along its edge, each one watching Temple, who stood in the middle of the room, Lavender in hand, Daniel and George with him.

She hesitated at the foot of the stairs, immediately backing away from the space to watch.

“He made me angry,” George was saying, simply. It was not the first time he and Daniel had gone head to head. It would not be the last.

Temple nodded, his attention focused on the boy. “And so?”

“And so I hit him.”

Shock flooded Mara. Physical aggression was not allowed inside MacIntyre’s. Obviously, allowing a bare-knuckle boxer into the orphanage was a horrible idea. She started into the foyer when Temple said, “Why?”

She stopped at the strange question, one she would not have though to ask. One George had trouble answering. He shrugged, looking down at his shuffling feet.

“A gentleman looks into the eyes of those with whom he is speaking.”

George looked up at Temple. “Because I wanted to make him angry, too.”

Temple nodded. “You wanted revenge.”

If the building had collapsed in that moment, Mara could not have stopped watching.

“Yes,” George said.

“And Daniel, did he have it?”

The other boy did not hesitate, pulling himself up straight. “No.”

Temple wanted to smile at the bravado; Mara could see it. Instead, he turned to face the other boy. “Truly? Because you seemed to grow quite angry once you were hit.”

“Of course I did!” Daniel said, as though Temple were mad. “He hit me! I was defending myself!”

Temple nodded, “Which is your right. But do you feel better now that you hit back?”

Daniel scowled. “No.”

Temple turned to George. “And do you feel avenged for whatever slight Daniel inflicted?”

George considered the question, his head tilted as he looked at Daniel for a long moment before he realized the truth. “No.”

Temple nodded. “Why not?”

“Because I am still angry.”

“Precisely. And what else?”

“And now Daniel is angry as well.”

“Exactly. And Lavender?”

The boys looked to Lavender.

“We didn’t see her!” Daniel said.

“She came from nowhere!” George cried.

“And she was nearly caught in your fray. Which could have been painful for her. Perhaps worse.” The boys were horrified. “Let that be the lesson. I am not telling you not to fight. I am simply telling you that when you do, you should do it for the right reasons.”

“Revenge isn’t the right reason?”

He went quiet for a long moment, and Mara held her breath, waiting for his answer. Knowing that he was thinking of something bigger than whatever had started the sparring match between the two boys. “In my experience,” he said, finally, “it does not always proceed as expected.”

What did that mean?

Another pause, and he added, “And sometimes it ends with a piglet in danger.” The boys smiled, George reaching out to pat Lavender’s little pink head as Temple moved on. “Now, more importantly, I would imagine your fists hurt no small amount.”

George shook out his hand. “How did you know that?”

Temple held out his own hand, the size of one of the boys’ heads. He made a fist. “You tucked your thumb inside.” He opened his hand and closed it again. “If you leave it on the outside, the blow hurts less.”

“Would you teach us how to fight?”

He did smile then, one side of his mouth turning up. Lord, he was handsome. And from here, tucked behind the stairs, she could look her fill. No one ever need know.

“I would be happy to.”

She should stop him before she had a battalion of well-trained pugilists on hand. And she might have, if he hadn’t turned to look at her, his gaze finding hers quick and true, sending her heart straight into her throat.

“Mrs. MacIntyre,” he said, “why don’t you join us?”

She’d been watching him for an age, quiet and still in the corner. If she were another woman, perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed.

But she was Mara Lowe, and he’d resigned himself to the realization that he would always notice her. That he was consumed with awareness of her, even as he wished he wasn’t. Even as he mistrusted her, and doubted her, and raged at her.

Even as he stood in her place of business and willed her to tell him the truth.

And so, when her young charges gave him an opportunity to bring her closer, he used it, enjoying the look of surprise on her face when she realized she’d been seen.

She came forward, doing her best to seem as though she hadn’t been eavesdropping. “Good afternoon, gentlemen!”

They faced her like little toy soldiers, each executing a perfect little bow. “Good afternoon, Mrs. MacIntyre,” they intoned as one.

She came up short. “My goodness! What a fine greeting.”

She loved the boys; that much was clear. A vision flashed. Mara, smiling down at a row of boys on the wide green grounds of Whitefawn Abbey. A row of dark-haired, dark-eyed boys, each happier than the next. His boys.

His Mara.

He shook his head and returned his attention to the situation at hand. “Mrs. MacIntyre, the boys are asking for a lesson in fighting, and I thought perhaps you would like to help.”

Her gaze went wide. “I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

The woman carried a knife on her person. Temple was willing to wager everything he had that she knew precisely where to begin. “All the more reason for you to learn.”

The boys, who had remained quiet up until that point, began to protest. “She can’t learn; she’s a girl!” one called out.

“Right,” another chimed in, “girls learn things like dancing. And sewing.”

The idea of Mara Lowe sewing anything but a knife wound was fairly laughable.

“She can learn,” George said, “but she doesn’t need to. Girls don’t have to fight.”

He did not like the memory that came quick and powerful, of Mara trapped on a Mayfair street by two animals stronger than her by half. He wanted her safe. Protected. And he could give her the tools to keep herself that way. “First, gentlemen don’t refer to ladies as girls,” Temple pointed out. “Second, you will all be learning to dance soon enough, I would think.” That bit drew a chorus of groans from his pupils. “And third, everyone should be prepared to protect him or herself.” He turned to Mara, extending his hand, “Mrs. MacIntyre?”

She hesitated, considering his hand for a long moment before making her decision, approaching, sliding her fingers into his. Once again, she was not wearing gloves, and in that moment, he wished that he wasn’t wearing them, either.

Perhaps this had not been a good idea. He’d meant to unsettle her, to draw her out.

He had not expected to be the one unsettled.

But this was the way of things with Mara Lowe.

He turned her to face the boys, and wrapped his hand around hers, moving her fingers into position, until she made a perfect fist. He spoke as he did so, attempting to ignore her nearness. “Try to keep all the muscles loose when you make your fist. It’s not the tightness of it that hurts your opponent, but the force. The tighter your fist, the more the blow will hurt you.”

The boys were nodding, watching, making their own fists, arms flailing about. Not so Mara. She held her fists like a fighter—close to her face, as though someone might come at her at any moment. She met his gaze, focused on him. Warming him.

He turned back to the boys. “Remember that, lads. The angrier you are, the more likely you are to lose.”

Daniel paused in his shadowboxing, his brow furrowed with confusion. “If you aren’t to fight when you’re angry, why then?”

An excellent question. “Defense.”

“If someone hits you first,” one of the other boys said.

“But why would they hit you first?” George countered. “Unless they’re angry, and breaking the rules?”

“Perhaps they’ve bad manners,” Daniel suggested, and everyone laughed.

“Or they’ve poor training,” Temple added with a smile.

“Or you’re hurting someone they care for,” Henry said. “I would hit someone if they hurt Lavender.”

The boys nodded as one.

“Protection.” Temple’s knuckles still ached from the night of Mara’s attack. He looked to her, grateful for her safety. “That’s the very best reason to fight.”

Her cheeks pinkened, and he found he enjoyed the view. “Or perhaps they’ve made a mistake,” she said.

What did that mean?

Something was there, in those strange, beautiful eyes. Regret?

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.”