No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Chapter 7

If he’d been asked to wager everything he owned on what would happen in that room that evening, he might have laid it on his kissing her.

He’d wanted to kiss her from the moment he’d taken her in his arms in that alleyway.

From before that.

From the moment she’d wrecked him with the hint that there might have been something more between them that night twelve years earlier.

From before that.

There was always an edge after a handy trouncing, one that did not go away until an opponent landed a strong, sure blow. The theory held true if the opponent was a woman, and the blow one of pleasure.

So he’d ignored the desire, sure it was no more than a need to ease post-fight tension. He’d experienced the edge enough to know that it would wane.

Except it hadn’t. It had roared through him as her hands had stroked down his arm in that dark alley, even as she’d worried his wound and sent pain coursing through him. And it had nearly consumed him as they rode to his town house—so much that he hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking her to join him inside.

The request had been salt in the wound, for he’d known that if she came, he would only desire her more. Her long legs and her pretty face and that hair that he itched to release from its moorings on a sea of auburn silk. And all that was nothing compared to the way her strength moved him. The way her sharp retorts and her smart words set him on edge. The way she made a strong, worthy opponent.

The desire had come to a head as she’d stitched his wound and kept her secrets. And when he’d finally touched her, it had coursed through him, undeniable and dangerous.

So, yes. He’d have wagered on kissing her.

But he wouldn’t have laid a penny on her kissing him. He would have miswagered, for it seemed that Mara Lowe was full of secrets, and willing to do anything to keep them from him.

Even kiss the Killer Duke.

And Christ, did she kiss him—her strong, soft hand tilting him down to her even as she lifted to meet him, capturing his lips with hers. Stealing his breath with the soft, tentative, devastating caress. Teasing him with the way her lips brushed across his, testing the waters. Questioning.

He willed himself still, refusing to touch her, to take control. Terrified that if he put his giant, brutal hands on her, he would scare her away. That she would run again. And then her mouth opened beneath his, unschooled and still so perfect, and the tip of her tongue edged along his bottom lip, a smooth, slick caress.

A man could only take so much.

His control snapped.

He caught her into his arms, a groan escaping from him, the sound low and likely terrifying for her, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop any part of it, not as he took hold of her, as he tilted his head and lifted her to him, and found the perfect angle at which he could kiss her like she was meant to be kissed.

Like he’d dreamed of kissing her.

Claiming her.

And damned if she didn’t claim him in return. Her hands wrapped around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair, and he settled into her mouth, stroking deep until she sighed her pleasure, the sound rushing through him, straight to the core of him, where he’d been heavy and hard for what seemed like days—any time he was around her.

He worried her lower lip with his teeth, loving the way she shivered in his arms, letting his hands find their way into her hair, scattering pins and setting loose a tide of curls. He traced the silken strands with his touch once, twice, until he couldn’t bear not to look any longer. He pulled back, loving the way she followed him, the way she resisted their separation. “Temple,” she sighed, an edge of irritation in the name.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Let me look at you.”

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His gaze devoured her, her dark hair spread wild around her shoulders, gleaming hints of red in the candlelight, her strange, gorgeous eyes filled with frustration and desire. Her lips swollen from his kiss—

He took those lips again, unable to resist them. Kissed her deep and thoroughly, memorizing the sound of her sighs, the spice of her, the feel of her against him, like nothing he’d ever felt before—

Except . . .

His head snapped up, and her eyes blinked open. “You really ought to stop stopping,” she said with a smile.

He shook his head. “At the dressmaker’s,” he began, hating the way her gaze cleared of sensuality at the words. “What you said . . .”

It is not the first time you’ve seen my underclothes.

“We’ve done this before,” he said.

Her eyes flickered to his arm, to his tattoo. “Yes.”

No. It couldn’t be the truth. He would remember this—the way her mouth felt right against hers. The way she felt right in his arms.

He kissed her again, this time a test. An experiment. He would remember her. Surely he would remember the taste of her. The sounds she made. The way she somehow drove the caress and gave herself up to it.

He would remember her.

He released her mouth, directing his kiss down the column of her neck, to the hollow of her collarbone, dipping his tongue into the indentation there, tasting her. Savoring the sigh that escaped from her lips as he slid his hands to the front tie of her bodice and released the tension there, sliding his hand into the fabric to caress the straining tip of one breast.

To bare it to the firelight.

Dear God. He would remember her.

He met her gaze, glassy with desire. “We’ve done this before.”

She hesitated, and the pause sent a thread of frustration through him. He wouldn’t let her avoid him. He wouldn’t let her lie. Not about this.

Suddenly, somehow, this seemed far more important than all the rest. He lowered the layers of fabric, watching as dark dress and pale chemise gave way to even paler skin. To perfect skin, tipped with straining flesh turned the color of honey gold in the firelight.

His mouth watered, and he lowered his lips to that place where she strained for him.

Where, somehow, he strained for her.

It took all his strength to pause there, a breath from her skin, and whisper, “We’ve done this before.”

“William.” She gasped his name in the firelight.

His real name.

He froze. As did she.

“What did you call me?”

She hesitated. “I—”

No one had called him that for a decade. For longer. Few had called him that before—but he’d always liked his women to do so. He’d liked the way the familiarity of the name brought them closer. Made them more accommodating. It had been an easy way to make them love his naïve, idiot self.

“Say it.” The command was not to be refused.

“William,” she said, beautiful eyes filled with fire, the curve of the syllables on her warm lips making him at once furious and filled with longing.

Christ.

This had happened.

He would remember her.

Except he couldn’t. Because she’d made certain he wouldn’t. She’d stolen that night from him. This moment from him.

He released her as though she’d burned him, and perhaps she had. Perhaps the not remembering that night was the most serious of her infractions, now that he knew just what it was he could not remember.

He stood, the blood rushing through him at the movement, making his head light and his frustration acute. This woman was too much for him. He turned from her, moving away, wanting to leave her and still feeling her pull. He paced one end of the room once, twice before turning back to her.

“What else happened that night?”

She remained quiet.

Goddammit. What had happened? Had he lain her bare? Had he kissed her in a half-dozen forbidden places? Had she reciprocated? Had they enjoyed each other on that last, final night before he had woken as the Killer Duke—never to touch another woman without seeing trepidation in her gaze?

Or had Mara simply used him?

Anger flooded him like a fever. “We kissed. I saw you in your underclothes. Did we—?”

She stiffened at the question, waiting for him to finish it with the cold, crass word he’d offered in the dressmaker’s salon. The wait was as much of a blow as the word, however. She did not respond. And he hated that he couldn’t leave the silence almost as much as he hated the sound of his wrecked voice when he added, “Did we?”

I’ve never met an aristocrat worthy of trusting.

Christ. Had he hurt her?

He couldn’t remember it—if she’d been a virgin, he would have hurt her. He wouldn’t have been careful enough not to. He ran a hand through his hair. He’d never been with a virgin.

Had he?

And what if—he froze. The orphanage. The boys.

What if one of them was his?

His heart began to race.

No. It was impossible. She wouldn’t have left like that. She wouldn’t have taken his child. Would she?

She restored her bodice and stood, calm and collected, as though they were discussing the weather. Or Parliament. Refusing to be insulted.

He came at her, stopping inches from her, resisting the urge to shake her. “You owe me the truth.”

For a moment, something was there in her gaze. For a moment, she considered it. He saw her consider it. And then, she stopped. And he saw her mind racing. Conniving. Planning.

When she spoke, she did not cow. She was not afraid. “We negotiated the terms of our agreement, Your Grace. You get your vengeance, and I get my money. If you would like the truth, I am happy to discuss its cost.”

He’d never met anyone like her. And damned if he didn’t admire the hell out of her even as he wanted to tie her up and scream his questions until she answered. “It seems you are no stranger to scoundrels after all.”

“You would be surprised by what twelve years alone can do to a person,” she said, those stunning, unusual eyes filled with fire.

They stood toe to toe, and Temple felt more equal to this woman than to anyone he’d ever known. Perhaps because they’d both sinned so greatly. Perhaps because trust was not a thing in which either of them had faith.

“I would not be surprised at all,” he replied.

She took a step back. “Then you are willing to discuss additional terms?”

For a moment, he almost agreed. He almost turned over the entire debt, houses, horses, all of it. She almost won.

Because he wanted the memories of that night more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. More than his name. More than his title. More than all his wins and money and everything else.

But she could not give him his memory any more than she could give him his lost years.

All she could give him was the truth.

And he would get it.

There was a man outside the orphanage.

She should have expected it, of course, from the moment she left him at his town house the night before, sent home in a cold carriage that yawned huge and empty with his absence. Should have predicted that he would have her followed the moment she tossed caution into the wind and offered him the truth about the night she’d left him—for a price. Of course he would watch her. She was more valuable to him now than ever before.

The past was the most valuable commodity of them all.

The carriage had waited as she’d entered the house and stood sentry as she’d climbed the stairs and pulled back the bedcovers. She’d fallen asleep with the lanterns of the conveyance swaying in the wind, casting shadows across the ceiling of her little room, upsetting her sanctuary.

Snow had come overnight, its light dusting marking the first day of December, and when she looked out her bedchamber window into the grey light of dawn, she was surprised to find the carriage was gone, its tracks covered by the white down, and it had been replaced by an enormous man, bundled in a heavy wool coat, hat low over his brow, scarf wrapped high on his cheeks, leaving only a swath of dark skin and watchful eyes.

He would catch his death out there.

She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised, as he had no doubt been sent to stand watch by Temple, out of a lack of trust that she would remain in London and take the punishment he planned to mete out.

She told herself she shouldn’t care, as she washed and dressed and mentally prepared her lessons for the day ahead, swearing to keep Temple from her mind. The memory of their constant sparring. The memory of his kiss.

The kiss was thoroughly out of her mind.

She spent the entire descent from the upper rooms of the home to the ground floor putting it out of her mind.

Lydia met her in the foyer, a stack of envelopes in her hands and a furrow between her brows. “We’ve a problem.”

“I shall send him away,” Mara said, already heading for the door.

Lydia blinked. “Whatever it is you think I am referring to, not that kind of problem.” She lifted the stack of papers, and Mara’s heart sank. It seemed Temple’s sentry was the smallest of their worries today.

She waved Lydia into her office and sat behind the desk. Lydia sat, too. “Not one problem. More like one large problem made up of many small ones.” Mara waited, knowing what was to come. “We’ve lost our credit.”

It was to be expected. They hadn’t paid their debts in months. There wasn’t any money for it. “With whom?”

Lydia began to sift through the bills. “The tailor. The bookshop. The cobbler. The haberdasher. The dairy. The butcher—”

“Good Lord, did they all attend some kind of citywide meeting and decide to uniformly come collecting?”

“It would seem so. But that is not the worst of it.”

“The boys shan’t be able to eat and that’s not the worst of it?”

Mara shivered and moved to the fire, opening the coal bin to discover it empty. She closed it.

Lydia held up a single envelope. “That’s the worst of it.”

Mara looked to the bin. Coal.

Again.

London winters were long and cold and wet, and the orphanage would require coal to keep the boys healthy. Hell. To keep the boys alive. “Two pounds, sixteen.” Lydia nodded, and Mara said what anyone would say in such a situation. “Damn.”

Lydia did not flinch. “My thoughts, precisely.”

Damn bills.

Damn bill collectors.

Damn her father for sending her into hiding.

Damn her brother for losing everything.

And damn Temple and his gaming hell for taking it.

“We’ve a houseful of boys bred from the richest men in England.” Lydia said, “Is there no one who can help us?”

“No one who would not expect our lists in return.” The lists of bloodlines, two dozen names that would scandalize London and in the process ruin the boys. Not to mention the reputation of the orphanage, which was of the utmost importance.

“What of the fathers themselves?”

Men who came in the dead of night to pass off their unwanted offspring. Men who made unthinkable threats to keep their identities secret. Men who Mara never wanted to see again. Who would not want to see her ever again. “They’ve washed their hands of the boys.” She shook her head. “I won’t go to them.”

There was a long pause. “And the duke?”

Mara did not pretend to misunderstand. The Duke of Lamont. Rich as Croesus and doubly powerful. And rightfully furious with Mara. “What of him?”

Lydia hesitated, and Mara knew her friend was searching for the right words. As though she hadn’t thought them herself. “If you told him the truth—that your brother’s funds were not his to gamble . . .”

Nothing you could say would make me forgive.

The words echoed, their dark promise sending a chill through her. He’d been so angry with her last night. And she’d brought it upon herself—telling him half tales, tempting him with partial truths, and then asking him to pay for his memories.

She sat.

No. The duke would not help. She was alone in this. The boys were her charges. Her responsibility.

It was she who must care for them.

She stood and moved to a nearby bookcase, extracting a fat volume. She held the book in her hands, her breath coming hard and fast, every inch of her resisting what she was about to do. The book was her safety. Her future. Her promise to herself that she would never go poor or hungry again. That she would never have to rely on the aid of others.

It was her protection, cobbled together with twelve years of work and saving.

Everything that would keep her from the streets.

Everything she’d planned to use once Temple ruined her.

But the boys were more important.

She set the book on the desk and opened it, revealing a large hollow space, filled with a cloth sack that jingled when she lifted it.

Lydia gasped. “Where did that come from?”

From years of work. Of saving. Of a shilling here and sixpence there.

Twelve pounds, four shillings, ten pence.

All she had.

Mara ignored the question, extracting coins. “Pay the coal, the dairy, and the butcher. Take your salary. And Alice’s. And Cook’s. And do what you can to put off the others—until the eldest require new shoes and clothes.”

Lydia considered the money, shook her head. “Even with that—”

She did not have to finish the sentence. The money wouldn’t be enough to carry them through winter. It would barely get them into the New Year.

There was only one way.

More time with the Duke of Lamont.

She stood, and headed for the foyer, now filled with boys. They were all at the two front windows of the house, teetering on chair arms and clinging to windowpanes, eyes riveted on the man across the street.

Lavender sat several feet away, watching them, and Mara lifted her to safety before the piglet could be crushed by a falling boy.

“He’s been there for an hour, at least!” Henry said.

“He doesn’t seem cold at all!”

“Impossible! It’s snowing!” Henry replied, as though the rest of them hadn’t eyes.

“He’s nearly as big as the man who came for Mrs. MacIntyre,” Daniel said, amazement in his tone.

He nearly was, but Temple was bigger.

“Aye! That one was big as a house!”

Bigger, and no doubt stronger. And handsomer. She stilled at the thought. She had no interest in his handsomeness. None whatsoever. She hadn’t even noticed it. Just as she hadn’t noticed the way his kisses made her weak.

He was infuriating. And impossible. And controlling in the very worst way.

And more handsome than the man across the street.

Not that she noticed.

“Do you think he’s here for one of us?”

The trepidation in little George’s voice brought her back to the matter at hand. “Gentlemen.”

The boys started, releasing curtains and unbalancing each other until their strangely crafted structure toppled, leaving half a dozen boys in a heap on the floor. Mara resisted the urge to laugh at the boys’ antics as they scurried to their feet, straightening sleeves and pushing hair from their eyes.

Daniel spoke first. “Mrs. MacIntyre! You are back!”

She forced a smile. “Of course I am.”

“You were not at supper last evening. We thought you’d left,” Henry said.

“For good,” George added.

Mara’s heart constricted at the words. Though they played at being fearless, the boys at the MacIntyre Home were terrified of being left. It was a vestige of being marked as orphans, no doubt, and Mara spent much of her time convincing them that she would not leave them. Indeed—that they would be the ones to leave her, eventually.

Except it was a lie now.

She would leave them. She would write her letter to the newspapers, and show her face to London, and then she would have no choice but to leave them. It was how she would protect them. How she would keep their lives on track. How she would ensure that funds continued into the orphanage, and they were never marked by her scandal.

Deep sadness coursed through her, and she crouched low, Lavender struggling for freedom, and pressed a kiss to George’s blond head before smiling at Henry. “Never.”

The boys believed her lies.

“Where did you go, then?” Daniel asked, always one to get to the heart of the matter.

She hesitated, turning over the answer in her mind. She couldn’t, after all, tell the boys that she’d been traipsing about London in the dead of night being fitted for clothes worthy of a prostitute and chased by villains. And kissed by them. “I had a bit of . . . business . . . to tend to.”

Henry turned back to the window. “There are two men out there now! And with a great black carriage, too! Cor! We could all fit into it! With room to spare!”

The pronouncement drew the attention of the rest of the boys, and—despite her attempt to resist—of Mara. She knew before she looked out the window, through a web of young, spindly limbs, who would be in the snowy street beyond.

Of course it was he.

Without thinking, she headed for the door of the orphanage, tearing it open and heading straight for the carriage. Temple’s back was to her as he and his man-at-arms were deep in conversation, but Mara had taken no more than a half-dozen steps before he turned to look over his shoulder at her. “Get back inside. You’ll catch your death.”

She would catch her death? She held her head high, not wavering. “What are you doing here?”

He looked back to his companion, saying something that made the other man smirk, then turned to face her. “This is a busy street, Mrs. MacIntyre,” he said. “I could have any number of reasons to be here.” He took a step toward her. “Now do as I tell you and get inside. Now.”

“I am quite warm,” she said, her gaze narrowing. “Unless you’re searching for a woman to warm your bed, Your Grace, you really couldn’t have any number of reasons to be here. And in your condition, I would think that effort would prove futile.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“I stitched your arm closed not twelve hours ago.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I am quite well today. Well enough to carry you inside and stuff you into a cloak.”

She hesitated at the image that wrought, the way he simply oozed strength beneath his greatcoat, which made him look even wider and more unsettlingly large than ordinary.

He did look well. Wickedly, powerfully well.

She resisted the urge to identify the emotion that coursed through her at the look of him. Instead, she said, “You should not be cavorting about London with a fresh wound. It shall tear open.”

He tilted his head. “Is that concern you exhibit?”

“No,” she said quickly, the word coming on instinct.

“I think it is.”

“Perhaps the wound has addled your brain.” She huffed her irritation. “I simply don’t want to have to repeat my work.”

“Why not? You could fleece me out of another two pounds. I checked that price, by the way. Robbery. A surgeon would do it for a shilling, three.”

“A pity you didn’t have a surgeon nearby, then. I charged what the market would bear. And it shall cost you double if you tear it open and require me to do it again.”

He ignored the words. “If you won’t go inside for yourself, perhaps you will for the pig. She will catch a chill.”

She looked down at Lavender, asleep in the crook of her arm. “Yes, she looks quite uncomfortable.”

His gaze slid past her, over her shoulder, making her feel slight and small, even as she herself stood a half a head taller than most men she knew. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

She turned at the words to find the wide-eyed residents of the MacIntyre Home for Boys collected in the open door, edging out onto the snowy steps leading up to the orphanage. “Boys,” she said, putting on her very best governess voice. “Go inside and find your breakfast.”

The boys did not move.

“Is every male of the species utterly infuriating?” she muttered.

“It would seem so,” Temple replied.

“The question was rhetorical,” she snapped.

“I see you making eyes at the carriage, boys. Have at it if you like.”

The words unlocked the children, who tumbled down the stairs as though a tide were pushing them toward the great black conveyance. Temple nodded to the coachman, who climbed down from his perch and opened the door, lowering the steps to allow the boys access to the interior of the coach.

Mara was distracted by the exclamations of excitement and amazement and glee that came from the dozen or so boys who were now clamoring about the carriage. She turned to Temple. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She did not want him to be kind to them. She did not want them trusting him—not when he held the keys to their full bellies and warm beds.

He gave a little shrug, watching the boys intently. “I’m happy to. They don’t get much chance to ride in carriages, I’m guessing.”

“They don’t. They don’t see much beyond Holborn, I’m afraid.”

“I understand.”

Except he didn’t. Not really. He’d grown up in one of the wealthiest families in England, heir to one of the largest dukedoms in Britain. He’d had the world at his fingertips—clubs and schools and culture and politics—and a half-dozen carriages. More.

But still, she heard the truth in the words as he watched the boys explore. He did understand what it was to be alone. To be limited by circumstances beyond one’s control.

She let out a long breath. There, at least, they were similar.

“Your Grace—”

“Temple,” he corrected her. “No one else uses the title.”

“But they will,” she said, recalling their deal. Her debt. “Soon.”

Something lit in his black gaze. “Yes. They will.”

The words came threaded with pleasure and something more. Something colder. More frightening. Something that reminded her of the promise he’d made the night they had agreed on their arrangement. When he’d told her that she would be the last woman he paid for companionship.

And perhaps it was the cold or lack of sleep, but her question was out before she knew it. “What then?”

She wished she could take it back when he turned surprised eyes on her. Wished she hadn’t shown him just how interested she was in his world.

He waited a long moment, and she thought perhaps he would not answer. But he did, in his own, quiet way. With the truth. As ever. “Then it will be different.”

His attention returned to the boys, and he pointed to Daniel. “How old is he?”

She followed his attention to the dark-haired boy leading the pack that now clamored over the carriage. “Eleven,” she said.

Temple’s serious gaze found hers. “How long has he been with you?”

She watched the boy. “From the beginning.”

Black eyes turned blacker. “Tell me,” he said, and she heard the bitterness in his voice. “Did you always have plans to hold that night over my head? Did you come back knowing you’d use it to get your brother’s money? Did you sew me up knowing it would soften me? Did you kiss me for it? Was this your grand plan the moment he lost it all?”

Cacophonous laughter saved her from answering—gave her a moment to collect herself at the thought that he might believe such things of her. At the instant desire to defend herself. To tell him everything.

Nothing you could say would make me forgive.

She looked away as the words echoed through her, to the coach, where nearly a score of boys were attempting to fit themselves.

“Sixteen!” someone called out, as Henry headed into the crush, hands first, Daniel pushing him from behind.

Mara moved to stop them.

Temple stayed her movement with a hand. “Leave them. They deserve some play.”

She turned back to him. “They shall ruin your upholstery.”

“It can be repaired.”

Of course it could. He was rich beyond measure. She returned to the conversation. “I didn’t plan it.”

He looked up into the grey sky, his breath coming in little clouds. “And yet you offer a trade instead of the truth.”

She hadn’t a choice.

But he didn’t see that.

A frigid wind ripped down Cursitor Street and she turned to brace herself from it, her wool walking dress no match for the cold. Lavender woke, giving a little snuffle of protest before Temple captured Mara in his strong grip, moving her to one side, shielding her with his enormous body.

She resisted the urge to lean into him. How was he so warm?

He cursed softly and said, “Your pig is getting cold.”

He had released her once she was shielded from the wind, his free hand stealing between them. Mara watched long fingers stroke down Lavender’s little, soft cheek and felt the piglet snuggle into the caress.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered how those fingers would feel on her own cheek. And then she realized she was vaguely jealous of a pig.

Which was unacceptable.

She pulled herself straight, looking up into his face, forcing herself not to notice the way his lips twisted in wry amusement at the piglet’s abandon. “How long will you have me watched?”

He was watching the boys again. “Until I am through with you.”

The words were cold and unwelcoming. And they made her retort easier. “And my trade?”

He stopped stroking Lavender, and returned his cool attention to Mara. “I believe I can extract the information in another way.”

A shiver coursed through her. Trepidation. Fear. Something else that she did not wish to acknowledge.

“No doubt you do. But I am stronger than you think.”

“You are precisely as strong as I think.”

The promise in the words seemed echoed in the cold wind that whipped her skirts against her legs. “And until then, I am the lucky recipient of your watchful eye.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a humorless smile. “It is good that you see the silver lining in this cloud.”

“More like the lightning storm.” She took a deep breath. “And what is the watch worth to you?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not the agreement.”

“No, the agreement was that I pay you for your time. This is my time. And my men’s.”

“Watching us, like villains.”

“Does it make you feel better, putting me in the role of the villain? Does it help to absolve you of your sins?” The words were soft and unsettling and far too astute.

Mara looked away. “I simply prefer that you and your men not scare the children.”

Temple cut a look at the carriage. “I see that we are threats on that account.”

She followed his gaze, noting that the boys were through with their earlier game and had now set about conquering the huge conveyance. There were seven or eight standing on the roof of the coach, and others scaling the sides with the help of his dark sentry and the coachman.

He and his men had come here, into her life and won over her charges with nothing but a handsome carriage and a few kind words. He’d changed her life in mere days—threatening everything she held dear.

Stripping her of every inch of her control.

She wouldn’t have it.

She clutched Lavender to her chest and extracted the little black book from her pocket. “You’ve had enough of my time today, Your Grace,” she said, opening it. “Shall we call it a crown?”

His brows rose. “I did not ask you to join me.”

She smiled falsely, “But join you, I did. Aren’t you lucky?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, rocking back on his heels. “I have ever been lucky in your presence.”

She scowled. “A crown it is,” she marked the fee in her book, then turned to the carriage. “Boys!” she called. “It’s time to go in.”

They didn’t hear her. It was as though she did not exist.

“Lads,” he said, and they stopped, frozen in their play. “Enough for today.”

The boys descended as though they’d been waiting for those precise words. Of course they did. Of course they listened to him.

She wanted to scream.

Instead she headed for the house, making it halfway across the street before she realized he was on her heels, as though his escort was perfectly ordinary. She stopped. As did he.

“You are not invited in.”

His lips twitched. “The truth will out, Mara.”

She scowled at him. “Not today.”

His brows rose. “Tomorrow, then.”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether you intend to bring your purse.”

He chuckled at that, the laughter there, then gone, and she hated herself for enjoying the sound.

“I require you in the evening,” he said quietly. “I imagine it’s another ten pounds for the privilege?”

The words unsettled, the discussion of money somehow powerful on her lips and insulting on his. But she refused to acknowledge the way it made her feel. “That’s a fair start.”

He watched her for a long moment, something equally disquiet in his countenance.

Something she ignored.