Sarah MacLean: No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

He did not pretend not to have noticed where they stood. Instead, he looked to the bed where she’d left him twelve years earlier and said, “Do you think anyone’s slept in it since that morning?”

She laughed at the unexpected reply. “I don’t, honestly.”

He nodded, all seriousness. “It’s a pity.”

“It’s to be expected, don’t you think? After all, I was to have died there.”

He pulled her close again, lifting her arms around his neck. “But you didn’t,” he said softly, and the sheer pleasure in the words sent a thread of excitement through her.

She met his gaze. “I did not.”

“Neither did you marry that morning.”

She shook her head. “I did not.”

He brought her tight against him, their bodies aligned to each other without an inch of space, heat spreading through her as though they were discussing something altogether different than that day, twelve years earlier. “Lucky me,” he said before stealing her lips in a long, lush kiss, his tongue stroking deep, a promise of pleasure to come.

Again and again.

From this day, forward.

She was so enthralled by the caress that she did not notice that he had walked her across the room until the backs of her knees were against the bed. She gasped in surprise as he toppled her to the bedsheets with virtually no effort, following her down. “You see what a shame it is?” He teased, dropping a line of soft, stunning kisses along her jaw. “This is a very comfortable bed.”

Her hands moved of their own volition, coming to settle in his hair. Lifting his mouth from her. “Temple,” she said, softly.

He looked up, dark eyes entirely focused on her.

There were a dozen things to say. A hundred.

He shook his head. “No. No more demons. No more memories.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “How could you say that? Here, of all places?”

He smiled, and his hand came up to caress her cheek. “Because the past is the past. I’m far more interested in the present.”

He was a magnificent man.

“I love you,” she said, wanting to make sure he knew it. Wanting to make sure he never doubted it.

He kissed her soundly, and there, in the caress, she found contentment.

When he broke the kiss, it was to reach his bad arm above her head and say, “Since we are speaking of presents . . .”

She marveled at the ease with which he moved, so soon after he’d been wounded. Feeling was returning to the arm, and while he might never be able to fight with his former precision, he was expected to mend.

Thank God.

Unaware of her thoughts, he produced a parcel that she hadn’t noticed on the bed earlier. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

She smiled. “Christmas is tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “No, tomorrow, we marry. Christmas will have to come early.” He grinned at her. “Open it.”

She laughed. “You look like one of the boys.”

The boys, all of whom had come to Whitefawn for the holiday—all of whom would likely stay on the enormous estate for years to come, no longer orphans, but wards of the Duke of Lamont.

He was their protector. Just as he was hers.

She put her hand to his warm, evening-rough cheek. “Thank you.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t know what it is, yet.”

She smiled. “Not for the gift. Well, for the gift, but for all the others as well. For loving them. For loving me. For marrying me. For—”

He leaned down and stemmed the tide of words, distracting her with a long, lovely kiss. “Mara,” he said softly when he finally lifted his lips from hers. “It’s I who should thank you, love. For your strength. And your brilliance. And your boys. And for marrying me.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “Now open your present.”

She did, pushing him off her to sit up and unwrap the package, spreading brown paper back to reveal a familiar white box, embossed with an elaborate golden H. She lifted the lid from the box and pushed back the festive red paper to reveal . . .

Gloves.

He’d bought her gloves. A dozen of them. More. In more colors and fabrics and lengths and textures than she could imagine. Yellow kidskin and lavender suede and black silk and green leather.

She lifted them from the box, laughing. Spreading them across both their laps and the bedcovers. “You’re mad.”

He lifted a long white velvet opera glove, sliding the fabric through his fingers. “I want you to have as many pairs as there are days in the year.”

She smiled up at him. “Why?”

He lifted her hands to his lips. Kissing the rough hewn knuckles one at a time, punctuating his words. “Because, I never want you to be cold.”

It was strange and frivolous and entirely beyond understanding. But it was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to her. And they were beautiful gloves.

She lifted a pair of short gloves in silver satin and moved to put them on.

He stayed her with a touch. “No.”

She smiled up at him. “No?”

He shook his head. “When we’re alone, I like you without them.”

Her brow furrowed. “Temple, you’re not making sense.”

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her neck before lifting his head and whispering, hot and wonderful at her ear, “When we’re alone, I shall keep you warm in other ways.”

And then he set about doing just that.

Which suited her quite well, indeed.

Nearly one week later, following tradition held sacrosanct by gentlemen across Britain, the founder of the Fallen Angel sat down to breakfast, and read the morning paper.

On this particular day, however, Chase broke with tradition, and began with the Society pages:

The Duke of Lamont and Miss Mara Lowe were married at Christmas in the chapel at Whitefawn Abbey, the place where they met for the first time, on a fated night, twelve years ago.

The nuptials reportedly attracted a wide array of guests including several of London’s most notorious scoundrels and their wives, two dozen boys aged three to eleven, a French chef, a governess, and a pig. No doubt when this caravan of oddities trundled up the long drive of Whitefawn Abbey, the servants in residence worried for their security. And their sanity.

It should be mentioned, however, that the group, while lewd at times and raucous more often than not, is reported to have been tremendously well behaved for the ceremony itself, witnessing the rite with the happy solemnity that should be afforded such an occasion.

All but the pig, we are told. Apparently, she slept through the whole thing.

The News of Britain

December 30, 1831

With a satisfied smile, Chase closed the paper and finished breakfast before standing, smoothing her skirts, and leaving the house.

After all, she had a gaming hell to run.

Medicine in the 1830s left a great deal to be desired. With virtually no understanding of germ theory, a man could die from far less than a knife wound, and a stabbing came with a very real threat of death, even if the blade missed all the major organs. Of course, when you’re writing a book, none of this occurs to you—especially when you’re writing a hero who is something of a magnet for violence.

Therefore, writers like me are very lucky to have dear friends who happen to be talented doctors. Many many thanks go to Dr. Daniel Medel, who put up with my crazy texts and late-night phone calls about stabbings and knife wounds and bloodletting and nerve damage, and never once told me Temple’s survival was impossible, assuming the knife was somehow luckily and fastidiously clean. Which it was. I promise. It goes without saying that any medical errors in the book are entirely my own.