Sarah MacLean: No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

“Christ. Unfellable, unbeatable Temple. Felled. Beaten. By a woman.”

He met the newspaperman’s gaze, putting all of his darkness into the look. “If she comes here, you send for me. Immediately.”

“Am I to keep the woman locked up until you arrive?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

She was alone with no resources on the streets of London. And he wanted her safe. He wanted her with him. And he would not rest until he found her. He turned on his heel to leave the room.

“I’ll do it, on one condition.”

He should have expected it, of course. Should have known that West would have his own half of the bargain. He turned back. Waited for it.

“Tell me why she is so important. After all, she’s already restored your name. The world believes her alive. I found half a dozen women in that ballroom last night who recognized her. She’s older, but still just as beautiful. And everyone remembers those eyes.”

Irrational fury coursed through him at the mention of Mara’s eyes. He didn’t want people noticing them. He didn’t want them thinking about them. They were not for all to look at. They were for him. He was the only one who had looked into them and seen more than their strange, mismatched color. He had looked into them and seen her.

West pressed on. “Why do you care if she stays or goes?”

He met West’s gaze. “One day, the woman you love will slip through your fingers, and I shall ask you the same question.”

He exited the room, leaving West to consider the implications of the statement.

The newspaperman waited long minutes, listening for the exterior door to close, marking Temple’s departure, before he turned to the window and watched as the Killer Duke mounted his horse and tore off to his next destination—in search of his love.

Only once the clatter of hooves faded away, he spoke to the empty room. “You may come out now.”

A small closet door opened, and Mara stepped into the room, cheeks stained with tears. “He is gone?”

“He is searching for you.”

She nodded, staring down at her feet, sadness like nothing she’d ever felt before coursing through her. Desire like nothing she’d felt before. He loved her. He’d said it. He’d come looking for her, and he’d confessed his love for her.

“He will find you.”

She looked up at that. “Perhaps not.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the echo of Temple’s promises. If you run, I will find you.

West shook his head. “He will find you, because he will not stop looking until he does.”

“He might,” she said, hoping it was true. Hoping he might decide she was not worth the trouble. Hoping he might find another life. Another woman. Someone worthy of him.

West smiled at that. “You think a man simply gives up searching for the woman he loves?”

The woman he loves. Tears came at the words, hot and stinging, and she couldn’t hold them back. He loved her.

“Here is the part that I do not understand,” West said, more to himself than to her, she thought. “You love him, as well.”

She nodded at that. “Quite desperately.”

“So what is the problem?”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “What is the problem? It’s all a problem. I ruined him. I destroyed everything that was supposed to be his. I stole his life. He deserves an aristocratic wife and perfect little children and a legacy that is not tarnished by me.”

West tented his fingers beneath his chin. “He seems not to care a bit about all that.”

Mara shook her head. “But I do! London does! He’ll never return to his rightful place as Duke of Lamont if he’s saddled with the woman who is responsible for all the black marks around the edges of his reputation.”

“Reputation,” West scoffed.

Her eyes went wide. “You make your living on it.”

He grinned. “All that means is that I understand precisely how arbitrary it all is.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

“I think you have been away from Society for too long,” he said. “You forget that dukes—with or without scandalous wives—are forgiven everything as quickly as possible. They are, after all, the only people who can beget dukes. The aristocracy needs them, lest civilization crumble around us.”

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Temple could weather the storm of scandal that would no doubt come with her reveal to all of London.

But would he ever be able to forget what it was she had done to him?

She shook her head. “Do you have everything you require from me, Mr. West?”

Duncan West knew the end of a conversation when he reached one. “I do.”

“And you shan’t tell him I was here?”

“Not until after the story runs.”

“Which will be?”

He consulted his calendar. “Three days.”

Her chest constricted at the words. Three days to leave London. To get as far and fast and secret as she could. Three days to give him his freedom. And then, she would have to start forgetting him.

For both their sakes.

She left West’s offices, careful to pull her cloak tightly around her and bring her hood low over her face before exiting to the street, where a cold, wet mist settled over London—the worst of English winter weather. She was instantly freezing, wishing for warmer boots. For a warmer cloak. For a warmer clime.

For Temple, who was always warm. Like a fireplace.

She longed for him. Ached for him.

She walked for a half mile, maybe more, before she realized that a carriage was following her, nearly at her shoulder, moving at her pace—fast when she sped up, slow when she slowed down. She stopped, turning to the great black conveyance, devoid of crests or any identifying marks.

It stopped, too.

The outrider leapt down from the back and opened the door, lowering the steps before he offered her a hand to help her inside. She shook her head. “I’m not going in there.”

The young man looked confused, until a fall of violet silk peeped out at the doorway. “Do hurry, Miss Lowe,” called a familiar female voice from inside, and Mara could not help but move closer. “The heat is all going out of the carriage.”

Mara poked her head into the doorway.

Anna—the woman she’d befriended at the Angel—was inside. Mara’s eyes went wide. “You!”

Anna smiled. “Me, indeed. I shan’t hurt you, but I would prefer a warm conversation over a cool one.”

Mara hesitated. “You are not here to return me to Temple.”

The other woman shook her head. “Not unless you decide you would like to be returned to him.”

“I shan’t decide that.”

“That’s that, then.” She wrapped her cloak about her and shivered, obviously. “Now please, come in and close the door.”

She did, the warming bricks on the floor of the coach too welcome to ignore. Anna tapped the roof of the carriage, and the great black conveyance began to trundle down the street.

“How did you know where to find me?” Mara started with the most obvious question first.

The other woman’s lips curved in a lovely smile. “I didn’t. But Temple did.”

“You followed him.”

“He may know you better, but I know women better.” She paused, “Also, I doubt any woman would pass up a chance to spend the morning with Duncan West.”

Mara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

Anna rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Any woman who is not madly in love with Temple.”

“I’m not—” she started, but stopped before the protest could fully form. She was, after all, madly in love with Temple.

“I know you are,” Anna said. “Which is why I am here.” Mara’s brow furrowed, and Anna waved a hand broadly. “Someone has got to set you straight. We thought Temple would do it himself, but he seems too all-consumed to think intelligently.”