Sarah MacLean: No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

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.

On the eve of her wedding, Miss Mara Lowe stood at the window high on the third story of the family wing of Whitefawn Abbey, staring down into the dark gardens below. She pressed her hand to the cold glass, watching as the window fogged beneath her touch, then removing her hand to reveal the blackness beyond, dotted with reflections of the candles lit around the room behind her.

With a small smile, she traced a finger between the little starlike spots, connecting the dancing flames, distracted enough by the task not to hear her future husband’s approach until he came into view, framed by her marks on the glass.

And then his arms were around her, his hands spreading wide across her body, pulling her back against him as he set his lips to the place where shoulder met neck in a long, lingering caress. “You smell like lemons.”

She smiled and sighed, leaning into him, her own arms coming to capture him where he held her, fingers threading through his.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked when he finally raised his head.

She turned in his arms and told the truth, a lovely, freeing thing. “Another time here at Whitefawn. Another time here, in this room.”