Sarah MacLean: No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Untamed, himself.

When he finally turned back, he said, “I wouldn’t be so certain. Twelve years marked as a killer change a man.”

She shook her head, holding his black gaze. “You are not a killer.”

“You’re the only one who knew that.”

The words were quiet and rife with emotion. Mara recognized fury and shock and surprise, but it was the accusation that unsettled her. It wasn’t possible that he’d thought himself her killer.

It wasn’t possible that he’d believed the gossip. The speculation.

Was it?

She should say something. But what? What did one say to the man falsely accused of one’s murder?

“Would it help if I apologized?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “Do you feel remorse?”

She would not change it. Not for the world. “I am sorry that you were caught in the fray.”

“Do you regret your actions?”

She met his eyes. “Do you wish the truth? Or a platitude?”

“You could not imagine the things I wish.”

She could, no doubt. “I understand that you are angry.”

The words seemed to call to him, and he came toward her, glass still in hand, stalking her backward, across the too-small room. “You understand , do you?”

It had been the wrong thing to say. She skirted around an ottoman, holding her hands up, as though she could stop him, searching for the right thing.

He did not wait for her to find it. “You understand what it is to have lost everything?”

Yes.

“You understand what it is to have lost my name?”

She did, rather. But she knew better than to say it.

He pressed on. “To have lost my title, my land, my life ?”

“But you didn’t lose all that . . . you’re still a duke. The Duke of Lamont,” she said, the words—things she’d told herself for years—coming quick and defensive. “The land is still yours. The money. You’ve tripled the holdings of the dukedom.”

His eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention.”

“Why?”

“Why have you never returned to the estate?”

“What good would it have done if I returned?”

“You might have been reminded that you haven’t lost so very much.” The words were out before she could stop them. Before she realized how inciting they were. She scurried backward, putting a high-backed chair between them and peeking around it. “I did not mean—”

“Of course you did.” He started around the chair toward her.

She moved counter to him, keeping the furniture between them. Attempted to calm the beast. “You are angry.”

He shook his head. “Angry does not even begin to describe the depths of my emotion.”

She nodded, skipping backward across the room once more. “Fair enough. Furious.”

He advanced. “That’s closer.”

“Irate.”

“That, too.”

She looked behind her, saw the sideboard looming. This wasn’t a very large room, after all. “Livid.”

“And that.”

She felt the hard oak at her back. Trapped again. “I can repair it,” she said, desperate to regain the upper hand. “What’s broken.” He stopped, and for a moment, she had his full attention. “If I am not dead, you are not”— a killer —“what they say you are.” He did not reply, and she rushed to fill the silence. “That’s why I’m here. I shall come forward. Show myself to Society. I shall prove you’re not what they say you are.”

He set his glass on the sideboard. “You shall.”

She released a breath she had not known she was holding. He was not as unforgiving as she had imagined he might be. She nodded. “Yes, I will. I will tell everyone—”

“You shall tell them the truth.”

She hesitated at the words, hating them, the way they threatened. And still she nodded. “I shall tell them the truth.” It would be the most difficult thing she’d ever done, but she would do it.

She hadn’t a choice.

It would ruin her, but it might be enough to save what was important.

She had one chance to negotiate with Temple. She had to do it correctly. “On one condition.”

He laughed. A great, booming guffaw of laughter. Her brow furrowed at the noise. She did not like the sound, especially not when it ended with a wicked, humorless smile. “You think to barter with me?” He was close enough to touch. “You think tonight has put me in a negotiating frame of mind?”

“I disappeared once before. I can do it again.” The threat did not endear her to him.

“I will find you.” The words were so serious, so honest, that she did not doubt him.

Still, she soldiered on. “Perhaps, but I’ve hidden for twelve years, and I’ve become quite good at it. And even if you did find me, the aristocracy shan’t simply take your word for it that I am alive. You need me as a willing participant in this play.”

His gaze narrowed, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. When he spoke, the words came like ice. “I assure you, I will never need you.”

She ignored him. Forged ahead. “I shall tell the truth. Come forward with proof of my birth. And you shall forgive my brother’s debt.”

There was a moment of silence as the words fell between them, and for those fleeting seconds, Mara thought she might have succeeded in negotiating with him.

“No.”

Panic flared. He couldn’t refuse. She lifted her chin. “I think it’s a fair trade.”

“A fair trade for destroying my life ?”

Irritation flared. He was one of the wealthiest men in London. In Britain, for heaven’s sake. With women tossing themselves into his arms and men desperate to gain his confidence. He retained his title, his entail, and now had an entire empire to his name. What did he know of ruined lives?

“And how many lives have you destroyed?” she asked, knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to keep herself from it. “You are no saint, my lord.”

“Whatever I’ve done—” he started, then stopped, changing tack with another huff of disbelief. “Enough. You are as much an idiot now as you were when you were sixteen if you think you hold a position to negotiate the terms of our agreement.”

She had thought that at the start, of course, but one look into this man’s cold, angry gaze made her see her miscalculation. This man did not want absolution.

He wanted vengeance.

And she was the path by which he would get it.

“Don’t you see, Mara,” He leaned in and whispered, “You’re mine, now.”

The words unsettled, but she refused to show him. He wasn’t a killer. She knew that better than anyone.

He might not have killed you . . . but you haven’t any idea what he’s done since.

Nonsense. He wasn’t a killer. He was simply angry. Which she’d expected, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she prepared for it? Hadn’t she considered her options before donning her cloak and heading out into the streets to find him?

She’d been alone for twelve years. She’d learned to take care of herself. She’d learned to be strong.

He moved away from her then, heading for one chair near the fireplace. “You might as well sit. You’re not going anywhere.”

Unease threaded through her at the words. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you turned up outside my door, Miss Lowe. And I have no intention of letting you escape again.”

Her heart pounded. “I’m to be your prisoner, then?”

He did not reply, but his earlier words echoed through her. You’re mine, now.

Dammit. She’d made a dreadful miscalculation.

And he left her little choice.

Ignoring the way he waved at the other seat by the hearth, she headed for the decanter on the far end of the sideboard, pouring first one, then a second glass, carefully measuring the liquid.