No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Chapter 20

The floor of the Fallen Angel was packed with gamers. During Temple’s recovery, in the absence of a fight on which to bet, club members were perfectly content to throw their money away on dice and cards. When wagering was involved, The Angel was more than happy to accommodate desire, and all of the staff—from footmen and croupiers to companions and cooks—was on hand to help do so.

Temple made his way through the owners’ entrance of the club, Lavender at the crook of his arm, pushing his way onto the main floor of the hell, gaze sliding over the throngs of men clad in their perfectly tailored suits, all in danger of losing their fortunes to the casino, and all enjoying every second of it.

On any other night, he would have enjoyed the view. Would have found Cross and asked him about the evening’s take. Would have played a round or two of vingt-et-un himself.

But tonight, he prowled the edge of the room, silent, frustrated.

Furious that now the rest of the aristocracy seemed to accept him, tipping heads and patting his shoulder in acknowledgment.

He was one of them, again, as though the last twelve years had never happened.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as he couldn’t find her.

He ached from a day on horseback in the rain, from his futile search for her, a beautiful needle in the filth-ridden haystack of London in December. He’d gone to the orphanage, and to West, and to the orphanage again. He’d checked the post, paid a fortune to the postmaster for information on his human cargo for the day, worried that she might have left the city already.

An eloping couple and two gentlemen had left on the North Road, headed for Scotland. But, even though apparently the female half of the elopers was quite attractive, the postmaster assured him that she was not auburn-haired, and her eyes were perfectly ordinary.

She was not Mara.

He should have been happy she was still here. But, instead, he was furious that she had so easily disappeared. There was no sign of her. It was as though she had vanished like smoke. If he didn’t know better, he might think she’d never been there in the first place.

Except she’d left her gloves. And her pig.

And a hole in his chest. His lips twisted wryly as his wound throbbed at the thought. Two holes, he supposed—one healing, and one life-threatening.

He rolled his bad shoulder under his coat, the pain from the wound radiating down his arm and stopping at the elbow. He worked his fingers in his sling. Nothing. Exhaustion did little to help the damage to the feeling there, he knew, but he could not rest. Not before he found her.

If he was crippled when it was over, so be it.

At least he’d have her.

Frustration flared at the thought. Where in the hell was she?

He looked up to the ceiling, his gaze falling on the great stained-glass window that marked the center of the main room of The Fallen Angel. Lucifer, falling from Heaven. In a stunning array of stained glass, the Prince of Darkness was depicted in free fall, halfway between paradise and inferno, a chain about his ankle, his scepter in one hand, and his wings wide and useless behind him as he tumbled into the pit of the casino.

Temple had never thought much about the window, except to appreciate its message to the members of the club—while the aristocracy might have banished him, Bourne, Cross, and Chase, the scoundrels who owned London’s most legendary gaming hell, would reign more fearful, more powerful, than ever before because of it.

Chase had a flare for the dramatic.

But now, as he considered the great stained glass, as he watched Lucifer fall, he realized how massive he was. How strong. Somehow, the window maker had captured the rise and fall of muscle and sinew in the mottled panes of glass. And Lucifer’s strength was useless in this moment. He could not catch himself. Could not stop himself from landing wherever it was that God had cast him.

And standing there with his weak arm and the utter sense of futility that washed over him as he realized that he could not find the woman he loved, Temple felt for the Prince of Darkness. All that beauty, all that power, all that strength. And still he landed himself in Hell.

Christ.

What had he done?

“You brought a pig into my casino.”

Temple looked to Chase. “Has anyone seen her?”

Chase’s gaze grew serious. “No.”

Temple wanted to shout his fury at the truth in the words to the rafters. He wanted to tip over the nearest hazard table and rip the curtains from the walls.

Instead, he said, “She disappeared.”

They stood, side by side, watching the floor of the casino. “We still have men looking. Perhaps she will turn up on her own.”

He cut the founder of The Fallen Angel a look, knowing that such a thing was virtually impossible. “Perhaps.”

“We shall find her.”

He nodded. “If it takes me the rest of my life.”

Chase nodded and glanced away, no doubt uncomfortable with the emotion in his words. Not that Temple cared. “But you did find a pig.”

He looked down at Lavender’s sleeping face. “Her pig.”

Chase’s blond brows rose. “The lady owns a pig?”

“It’s ridiculous.” It was even more ridiculous that he had come to care for the little creature. His only link to her.

“I think it’s charming. She’s an intriguing woman, your Miss Lowe.”

Except she wasn’t his. Temple handed Lavender to his friend. “She needs to eat. Take her to the kitchens and see if Didier can find her something to eat.” He was already turning back to the crowd, looking for someone who might know Mara. Perhaps she’d had a friend when she was a child—someone who might have offered her a bed.

But what if no one offered her a bed? What if she was on the streets even now, cold and without a place? He’d slept on the cold London streets once. The idea of her alone—freezing—

She didn’t even have gloves.

His heart pounded with panic and he shook his head to clear it. She was no fool. She would find somewhere to sleep.

But with whom?

Panic flared once more.

Chase was still talking, and Temple listened if only to have something else to think on. “Didier is French. The pig might end up in a stew.”

Temple looked back. “Don’t you dare let her cook my pig.”

“I thought it was Miss Lowe’s pig?” Temple was tempted to clear the smug smile from his friend’s face.

“As we are to be married, I prefer to think of her as our pig.”

Chase grinned. “Excellent. I shall do my best to help.”

“Don’t help. I’m through with you meddling. Feed the pig. That’s all.”

“But—”

“Feed the pig.”

For a moment, Temple thought Chase might ignore the instructions and meddle anyway, but the club’s majordomo appeared at their shoulders. “We’ve a visitor.”

For a moment, Temple thought it might be Mara. “Who?”

“Christopher Lowe. Here to fight Temple.”

Chase’s gaze narrowed. “Bring him to my offices. And fetch Asriel and Bruno. He’ll get his fight. But it won’t be with Temple. And it won’t be fair.”

“No.” Temple said.

Chase looked to him. “Your arm isn’t healed.”

“Bring him to me,” Temple said, ignoring his partner’s words. “Now.”

Within minutes, Lowe was on the floor of the club, flanked by Bruno and Asriel. “You made a mistake in coming here.”

“You turned my sister into a whore.”

Temple’s good hand fisted, and he desperately wanted to destroy this boy. “Your sister is going to be my duchess.”

“I don’t care what she will be. I’ve no use for her.” The words were slurred and angry. Lowe had been drinking, possibly since he’d left his sister the night before. “You ruined her. Probably did twelve years ago. Probably took all the valuable bits before you passed out.”

Fury flared. “You should not be allowed to breathe the same air she breathes.”

Lowe’s gaze narrowed. “She sent me away, you know. With a few shillings. Barely enough to get me from the city.”

“And you lost it.”

Lowe did not have to admit it. Temple could see it in the boy’s face before he whined, “What was I to do? Head off to make my fortune with three shillings? She wanted me to wager it. She wished me to lose.” His eyes turned hateful. “Because of you. Because you turned her into your whore.”

Temple’s desire to destroy Lowe grew with every word. “Call her a whore again, and I shall make your poverty the least of your concerns.”

Drink and desperation made Lowe stupid enough to smile at that. “Then you will fight me? I get my chance at my debt, you get your chance to protect my sister’s honor?” He stilled. “Where is the bitch, anyway?”

Fury came hot and instant, and Temple grabbed Lowe’s wilted cravat in his good hand, lifting him clear off the floor before saying, “You should have taken the chance she gave you. You should have run. I promise you, whatever you face out there is nothing compared to what I shall do to you in the ring.”

Temple dropped the other man in a heap to the ground, ignoring the coughing and sputtering from below as he followed him down, crouching, taking Lowe’s chin in hand and tilting him up to face him. “Get yourself a second. I’ll meet you in the ring in a half an hour.” If he couldn’t have her, he could have his fight. Temple stood, adding, “You’re lucky I don’t lay you out here and now. It will teach you to speak ill of the woman I love.”

“Cor! Listen to that! You love her,” Lowe sneered. “What utter shite.”

Temple did not look back, instead stalking away, heading for his rooms, already removing his cravat. The casino was silent as a grave, all the gamers having stopped their bets to watch Temple go mad.

Because of that, he heard it when Chase said quietly, “Well.”

He did not turn back, instead calling over his shoulder, “Feed the damn pig.”

When Mara arrived at The Fallen Angel, it was to a street virtually empty of people and noise, the opposite of how she imagined the exterior of one of London’s most exclusive gaming hells would be.

She wondered, fleetingly, if she was too late. If Temple had closed the club and left. If he’d decided to end this underground life of his and return to the light. Return to his dukedom. Return to his right.

That’s when panic set in.

Because in the damp, dark day, while she’d had nothing to do but walk and think, she’d realized that she loved this man beyond measure. And that she would do everything she could, for as long as she could, to make his life better than it ever would have been without her.

Of course, the moment she realized that, she realized that she was very very far away from the Angel.

But she was here now, and when she arrived, she knocked on the door, thrilled when a little slot opened in the steel. She stepped up to the space and said, “Hello. I am—”

The slot slid shut.

She hesitated, considering her next move. Knocked again. The slot opened. “I am here—”

The slot closed once more.

Honestly. Was every person having to do with this club obstinate? She knocked again. The slot opened. “Password.”

She paused at that. “I don’t—have one. But—”

The slot closed with a snap.

And that’s when Mara became angry. She began to bang on the door. Loudly. After a long moment, the little slot opened, the black eyes inside narrowed with irritation.

“Now look here, you!” she announced in her very best governess voice, underscoring her words with banging on the door.

The eyes in the slot went wide with surprise.

“I have spent the entire day on the streets of London, in the bitter cold!”

She punctuated the last with bang-bang-bang!

“And I have finally decided that it is time for me to face my desires, my past, my future, and the man I love! So, you will let!” Bang! “Me!” Bang! “In!”

She completed her tirade with a clattering of hits on the steel door with both fists. And added in a kick for good measure. She had to admit it felt rather good.

The eyes disappeared, replaced by a lighter, more feminine set—Dear God. Were they laughing at her? “Miss Lowe?”

She raised a finger. “I would think very carefully about the expression you present to me when you finally open this door.”

The locks on the door were finally thrown and she was allowed into the building to face a smiling Anna and a much more serious doorman. Indeed, he looked positively deferential when he said, “We’ve been searching for you.”

Mara shook out the skirts of her damp cloak and accepted a mask from him, settling it on her face before saying, all decorum, “Well, you’ve found me.” She turned to Anna. “Please take me to see Temple.”

Anna did as he was told, a look of smug satisfaction on her beautiful face as she reached into a nearby drawer and extracted a mask. Once Mara was protected from view, they made their way through the private passageways of the club, silent for long minutes before Anna said, “I am happy that you decided to return.”

“You didn’t tell him you saw me?”

Anna shook her head. “I did not. I know what it is like to have no say in one’s future. I would not bring it upon anyone.”

Mara considered the words for a long moment. “I don’t care about the future, as long as it is with him.”

The other woman smiled. “May it be long and happy. Lord knows you both deserve it.”

Warmth spread through Mara at the words, until Mara remembered that it was Temple who needed to accept her—Temple who needed to forgive her. For running. And for so much more.

If only someone would deliver her to him, so she could repair all the things she had broken. But Anna did not take Mara to him. She took her to the long, mirrored ladies’ side of the boxing ring, where it appeared all the people she had expected to see on the ground floor of the club had congregated.

She stepped into the dimly lit space, packed with women, her heart in her throat. She turned back to Anna. “There is to be a fight?”

“There is.” The prostitute guided her to the front of the room, to a place where two chairs sat close to the window.

At another time, Mara might be curious enough to watch it—curious enough to show interest in the fighters, whoever they may be. But they would not be Temple, who was too injured for fighting, and that was all she cared to know. She shook her head. “No. I don’t have time for this. I wish to see Temple,” she whispered. “I’ve waited too long. I want him to know I’ve changed my mind. I want him to know—”

I love him.

I want to be with him.

I want to start again.

Fresh. Forever.

Anna nodded. “And you will see him. But first, you will see this.”

The door to Temple’s rooms opened on the far side of the ring, and Mara came to her feet to see him approach the center of the room, her hands instantly pressed against the window.

“No,” she whispered.

He was naked from the waist up, devilishly handsome, and for a moment, all Mara could think of was how it had felt to slide against that skin, to touch him. To have him touch her. To want it again, the closeness. The pleasure.

The man.

And then her attention was on the bandage wrapped about his shoulder, protecting the wound he’d received in this very ring a week earlier. She turned to Anna. “No,” she repeated.

Anna was not looking at her. She was watching Temple ease into the ring. She tutted her displeasure. “He is favoring his right side.”

“Of course he is!” Mara said. “He is wounded! It shan’t be a fair fight!”

She should tell someone the arm was hurt. Demand to see the Marquess of Bourne. The elusive Chase. She should force the fight to be ended.

The women around them were making raucous noise, shouting out their lewd comments. “Cor! You can’t take the title from the man, but you certainly can take the man from the title.”

“He doesn’t look like any duke I’ve ever seen.”

“My lord, he’s a beauty.”

“He might not be one, but he does look a killer if ever there was one.”

“I’d happily turn myself over to him!”

“I don’t believe she’s really alive, you know,” someone interjected. “I think he simply paid some painted whore to arrive and claim to be Mara Lowe.”

“It’s her. I came out the season she was due to marry the dead duke. Everyone talked about those eyes.”

“Well, either way, I’m grateful to her. She’s made the Duke of Lamont a marriageable match once more.”

Mara burned with anger, wanting to take her fists to every one of these women.

Someone laughed. “You think you can land him yourself?”

“I heard that he loves her,” Anna said, her eyes on Mara, her words deceptively lazy.

As she loves him. Quite desperately.

“Nonsense,” one of the women replied. “Who could love someone who did such a thing? I’m sure he quite hates her.”

He should. But somehow—by some miracle—he doesn’t.

Mara began to fidget. She wanted this all done. She wanted him.

Immediately.

“And besides,” the first said, “I’m a marchioness. And terribly young to be widowed.”

As though all Temple should be considering for his future happiness was a title. Mara hated the thought.

“I imagine there is quite a queue lined up for the position of Duchess of Lamont,” another said happily. “And not just the widows. My sister has a daughter nearly eighteen, and she would kill for a ducal son-in-law.” The room laughed, and the speaker continued. “It is not a jest. I would not put honest murder past some of these mothers on the marriage mart.”

Mara swallowed back the words that rose to her tongue, desperate to be spoken. He didn’t need a title. He needed a woman who understood him. One who loved him. One who would spend the rest of her days making him happy.

One who would keep him safe from them.

From the ring beyond.

She turned to Anna. “You must stop it.”

Anna shook her head. “The challenge was made. The bets have been laid.”

“Bollocks the bets!” Mara said.

Anna’s gaze filled with respect. “You sound like Temple.”

“You’re damn right I sound like him,” Mara pushed, worry and irritation and frustration warring for dominant position in her emotions. “Take me to Chase. He shall listen to me.”

Anna’s eyes betrayed her surprise. “Trust me, Miss Lowe, Chase would change nothing about this night. There is a great deal of money on this fight.”

“Then he’s no kind of friend. Temple is not ready to fight again. His wound is still unhealed. He could set himself back days. Weeks. Worse.” She turned on Anna. “Was he forced to do this?”

The prostitute laughed. “Temple has never been forced to do anything in his life.”

“Then why?” Mara’s gaze moved to the ring, to where he stood half naked and proud and beautiful. She moved for the door, and the enormous security guard there blocked her from leaving. She turned back to Anna. “Why?”

She smiled at that, soft and sad. “For you.”

“For me!” Insanity.

“He avenges you.”

Even now. After all she’d done.

Her gaze fell on him, taking in the ripple of his muscles, the set of his jaw. The way his gaze tracked his opponent. But there was something different in this Temple. Something that she had not seen all the other nights.

Anger.

Desperation.

Frustration.

Sadness.

He loved her.

Just as she loved him. Mara closed her eyes. She might not deserve him, but she wanted him nonetheless.

She pressed her hands to the window. “He thinks I am gone.”

“Yes,” Anna said.

“Take me to him.”

“Not yet.”

That’s when the second fighter entered the ring. Her brother. “What is he doing here?”

“Showing his idiocy,” Anna said. “He came to the club and challenged Temple.”

She’d given him money. A chance to leave. And still, he’d come here out of greed and insolence and childishness.

She shook her head.

“Your brother insulted you.”

Mara had no doubt that Kit had done so with colorful aplomb. “Nevertheless, you must stop it.”

Anna looked to her, eyes suddenly wary. “Why?”

“Why?” Was the woman mad? “Because he shall hurt himself!”

“Who? Your brother? Or Temple?”

Had everyone in the entire world gone mad?

Mara faced Anna. “You think I don’t love him.”

“I think he is a man who deserves more love than most. And I think you are the reason why. So yes, I worry that you don’t love him enough. I worry that in this instance, you want the fight stopped for a different reason.”

She wanted the fight stopped so she could be with him. So she could love him. So she could finally, finally put the past to rest.

But the fight began before she could say so, and this new, angry Temple led the bout, coming out hard and fast, striking first with several blows, a right hook. A right jab. A right cross.

Always the right.

Kit recovered, coming at him with one blow, a second of his own, sending Temple dancing back across the ring. Mara watched the bandage, saw the linen ties that kept it in place loosen. Turned to Anna. “Please. Take me to Chase. We must end this.”

The prostitute shook her head. “This is his fight. For you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“And yet, you receive it all the same.”

Another right hook. A right jab.

That’s when Kit saw the pattern.

Mara looked away. A child could see the pattern.

He was going to lose.

How many times had he told her he did not lose? How many times had she heard of him, the great Temple, the winningest bare-knuckle boxer in Britain. In all the world. Unbeatable. Undefeated. Unbreakable.

Kit might be drunk, but he was no fool. He knew that Temple was weak on the left side, so he went for it, landing blows inexpert enough to have marked his own demise ten days prior. But now, those blows were hard enough to inflict pain. Hard enough to set Temple back.

He was not unbeatable. Not tonight.

But Kit had insulted her, and he would take the loss for himself before he would take it for her.

“Christ, why doesn’t he use the left? Why doesn’t he block on it?” Someone asked, and Mara heard the frustration in the woman’s voice.

“He can’t,” Mara whispered, her hand on the shaded window as she watched her love take another blow and another. For her. Again and again.

His arm wasn’t working correctly.

He was going to lose.

Kit landed another blow, and Temple came to his knees, the crowd counting the seconds he spent on the floor of the ring, before he looked up at his opponent and spoke. Kit danced away, and Temple pushed himself up to stand once more, blood running down his cheek.

He would fight until he was destroyed.

He would not give up. Not when Mara’s name was on the line.

He loved her.

His words from the prior night returned. What am I if not unbeatable? If not a fighter? If not the Killer Duke? What is my value then?

He would not stop. Not until her brother killed him.

Anna saw it then, the inevitable end. And when she looked to Mara, she said, “It will be over before we can stop it.”

Mara wouldn’t hear no.

The man she loved was ten feet away. Fewer. And he needed her.

Dammit, if she was the only one who would save him, she would.

She moved without thinking, lifting the chair in her hands before anyone in the room could predict her actions. Anna reached for it too late, calling out, “No!”

But Mara had one goal only.

Temple.

He was going to lose.

His left side was screaming in pain, the muscles protesting the bout—too soon after the stabbing. And that was without the nerves, sizzling in fits and starts down his arm, causing as much pain from the inside as Lowe was from the outside.

He was going to lose. He could not avenge her.

Not that it mattered; she had left him.

She’d run from him. Again.

Lowe landed two powerful blows to his left side, sending Temple to his knees. There, in the sawdust, he wondered when the last time was that he had been on his knees in the ring.

With Mara.

The afternoon they were alone here. The afternoon he’d driven her away the first time. The afternoon when he should have collected her in his arms and taken her to his bed and never released her.

He looked up at Lowe and said, “You may win today, but I will ruin you if you ever speak ill of her again.”

Lowe danced back from him and taunted. “That’s if I leave you alive.”

Temple came to his feet for what he knew would be the final portion of the bout, assuming Lowe had the stomach for it. But before any further blows could land, the room exploded.

The mirror hiding the ladies’ viewing room shattered in massive, ear-splitting perfection, every inch of it collapsing to the floor of the main room, like spun sugar. The sound was like nothing he’d ever heard, and he and Lowe—and the rest of the room—turned to watch as the window slid away, and the women inside went screeching and running for cover of darkness, not wanting to be seen or identified.

The men crowded around the fight stilled, hands in the air, clutching bets and markers, mouths frozen open in their perverse cheers, but Temple cared for none of that.

He cared only for the woman who had caused the devastation.

The woman standing alone at the center of that broken mirror, proud and tall and strong like a queen, the chair she’d used to shatter the window still in her hands.

Mara.

His love.

She was here. Finally.

She set the chair on the ground and used it to climb over the ledge and into the ring, caring not a bit about the men around her. Looking only at him.

He was moving toward her even as the last of the glass tinkled to the ground, caring only for her. Wanting to reach her. To hold her. To believe that she was there. She reached up and removed her mask, letting all of London see her for the second time in as many days.

A murmur of recognition moved like a wave through the room.

“I grew tired of waiting for you to come find me, Your Grace,” she said, loud enough for those near to hear her. But the words were for him. Only him.

He smiled. “I would have found you.”

“I’m not so certain,” she replied. “You seemed somewhat occupied.”

He looked over his shoulder. “What, him?”

Her gaze tracked his bleeding face, and he saw the worry in her eyes. Saw the way her hand lifted to touch. To soothe. “I thought I might help.”

His brows rose as she climbed into the ring and faced her brother. “You, Christopher, are an ass, and still the child you were when I left you twelve years ago.”

Kit’s gaze grew dark and foreboding. “Well, this child would have destroyed your duke if you hadn’t distracted us.”

She ignored the words and the glee in them. “How unfortunate, then, that I did distract you.” She looked around the room, taking in the hundreds of men who had come for the fight. Who had taken pleasure in watching Temple fall. “Let’s make it easy, shall we?”

Kit smirked. “Please.”

“One final blow. Whoever lands it wins.”

Her brother’s gaze flickered to Temple, battered and bloody. “I think that’s fair. If I win, I go free. And I should have my money.”

She turned to him, something warm and wonderful in her eyes, and he wanted this fight over more than anything he’d ever wanted. Because he wanted her. Now. Forever. “Temple?”

He no longer cared what happened to Lowe as long as Mara was his. He nodded. “I’ve always said you were an excellent negotiator.”

She smiled at that. “Excellent.”

And then damned if the woman he loved didn’t turn back to her brother and lay him flat. With one punch.

She was an excellent student.

Kit dropped to his knees, wailing from the pain. “You broke my nose!”

“You deserved it.” She stared down at him. “And you lose.” Asriel and Bruno were already entering the ring to ensure that Lowe did not leave the club. “Now I name my terms. You will stand trial. For the attempted murder of a duke.” She looked to Temple. “My duke.”

Her duke.

He was that.

He was whatever she wished.

Temple covered his shock with feigned disinterest. “It was almost over, anyway.”

She nodded, approaching him, not seeming to care that he was bruised and bloody. “I’ve no doubt you would have won. But I grew tired of waiting for that as well.”

“You are impatient today.”

“Twelve years is a long time to wait.”

He stilled. “To wait for what?”

“For love.”

Christ. She loved him. He came at her, caught her in his arms. “Say that again.”

And she did, in his ring. In front of the entire membership of The Fallen Angel. “I love you, William Harrow, Duke of Lamont.”

His unashamed, avenging queen. He stole her lips in a long, lush kiss, wanting her to understand now, and forever, just how much he loved her and she poured her love for him into the caress.

When he lifted his head, it was to press his forehead to hers. “Tell me again.”

She did not misunderstand. “I love you.” Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, reaching up to touch the place where his eye swelled shut. “He hurt you terribly.”

“It will heal.” He captured her fingers, pressed a kiss to them. “All things heal. Tell me again.”

She blushed. “I love you.”

He rewarded the honesty with another deep, soul-stealing kiss. And when he pulled away, he said, “Good.”

She put her hands to his chest, gently, her words matching the touch. “I couldn’t leave you. I thought I could. I thought it was for the best, that it would give you the life you wanted. Your wife. Your children. Your—”

He stopped the words with his kiss. “No. You are my legacy.”

She shook her head. “I thought that it would wipe the slate clean. That you could once again be the Duke of Lamont, and I could fade away—and never bother you again. But I couldn’t do it.” She shook her head. “I wanted you too much.”

His heart pounded at the thought of her fading away, and he tilted her face up to his. “Hear me, Mara Lowe. There is only one place for you. Here. In my arms. In my life. In my home. In my bed. If you were to leave, you would not give me the life I wanted. You would leave my life with an enormous, empty chasm at the center of it.”

He kissed her again, and said, softly, “I love you. I think I’ve loved you from the moment you attacked me on a dark London street. I love your strength and your beauty and your way with children and piglets.” She smiled, tears welling in her eyes. “You left your gloves at the home.”

“My gloves?”

He lifted her hands in his, pressing kisses to each set of bare knuckles. “The fact that you don’t wear them makes me at once mad with frustration and mad with desire.”

She looked down at her hands. “My bare hands make you mad with desire?”

“Everything about you makes me mad with desire,” he said. “Chase has Lavender, by the way.”

Confusion flashed in her beautiful eyes. “Why does Chase have Lavender?”

“It’s a bit of a tale, but the short version is that I couldn’t bear to be without her. Without some part of you.”

She laughed, and he realized he would carry that pig for the rest of his life if it would keep her laughing. “I love your laugh. I want to hear it every day. I want to be through all this darkness and devastation. I want happiness now. I want our due. I want what we’ve deserved from the beginning.” He paused and stared deep into her eyes, willing her to understand how much he loved her. “I want you.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He smiled. “Yes?”

“Yes! Yes to all of it. To happiness and life and love.” She hesitated, and he saw the dark thought spread through her. Saw it in her eyes when she looked up at him. “I’ve done so much to ruin you. To hurt you.”

“Enough.” He kissed her quiet, lifting his lips from hers only when she was loose in his arms. “Don’t hurt me again.”

The tears welled over. “Never.”

He wiped them away with his thumb. “Don’t leave me ever again.”

“Never.” She sighed. “I wish we could start anew.”

He shook his head. “I don’t. Without the past, there would be no present. No future. I don’t regret a moment of it. It all brought us here. To this place. To this moment. To this love.”

They kissed again, and he wished they were anywhere but here, in front of all of London.

She broke the kiss and smiled at him, bold and beautiful. “I won.”

He matched her smile. “You did. The first time anyone but me has won in this ring.” He waved a hand in the direction of the oddsmaker. “Mark it in the book. The win goes to Miss Mara Lowe.”

The crowd roared their disappointment, proclaiming foul play and bad bets. He didn’t care. Chase would manage them, and the most bitter among them would no doubt be gaming before the hour was out.

“What do I win?” she whispered in his ear.

He grinned. “What would you like?”

“You.” So simple. So perfect.

“I am yours,” he said, kissing her. “As you are mine.”

She laughed. “Always.”

And it was the truth.