No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels 3)

“No one will take that bet, Flora,” someone replied, laughter seeping into the tone. “Not one of us wants you to be wrong.”

“I’d risk a night with the Killer Duke to find out!”

The laughter fairly shook the room, nearly all of the women taking immense pleasure from the words—from their own additions to the lewd suggestions. Mara looked down the room, at the long row of silks and satins and perfect coifs and maquillage, and the way the women fairly salivated at Temple, remembering his moniker but not the truth of it—that he was a duke. That he deserved their respect.

And that, even if he weren’t a duke . . . he wasn’t an animal.

As they were treating him.

As her actions had made them treat him.

The realization came on a wave of regret, and the keen knowledge that if she could go back in time . . . if she could change everything, she would have found another way to escape that life. A way that would have freed her from the chains of a cruel father and a cold husband, and still saved this man from such wicked, unpleasant shame.

But she couldn’t.

This was their life. Their dance. Their battle.

Blessedly, the seconds completed their inspections, leaving Temple to run a line in the sawdust at the center of the ring with his boot. Even that movement, which should have been harsh and unmeasured, was graceful.

“The scratch line,” her new companion explained. “The men face off on either side of the line. As many rounds as necessary until one falls and does not rise.”

“Bets are closed, ladies,” the dark-skinned man who had escorted her to this room spoke for the first time, reminding Mara that they were in a gaming hell—that even this moment was worth money to The Fallen Angel.

Temple waited, unmoving, for Drake to approach.

The narration continued. “Temple always allows the opponent to take the first hold.”

“Why?” she asked, hating the breathlessness in the word. She’d been dragged here, against her will, to watch this expression of utter brutality.

So why did she suddenly care so much for the answer?

“He is undefeated,” the woman said, simply. “He likes to give his opponents a fair chance.”

Fairness. Something he’d never had. He was a good man. Even if no one saw it. Even if she didn’t wish to believe it.

She looked to his bare feet, the wide black bands on his massive arms, the myriad of scars on his chest and cheek and the new fresh one on his arm, still bearing the stitches from her hand.

She couldn’t find his dark gaze, couldn’t bring herself to see him as a whole and face the things that she’d done to him, to put him here, in this ring, watched by half of London. Wagered on. Marveled at, like a bottled creature in a cabinet of curiosities.

She looked away, turning to Drake, who was easier to watch. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for battle.

The fight began, brutal and unforgiving.

Drake came at Temple with undeniable force, and Temple deflected it, bending backward and using the momentum of the smaller man’s blow to bring him off balance and land a powerful punch to Drake’s side.

The hit was hard and precise, and Drake stumbled away, catching himself on the ropes of the ring before coming around to face Temple again.

The massive duke stood at the scratch line, barely breathing heavily. He waited.

“Aww, ’twon’t be a good fight tonight, girls,” one of the ladies said. “Drake’s going to drop like a stone.”

“They always do,” another said.

“If only there were an opponent who would keep him in the ring,” sighed a third, and Mara wished all these women would simply stop talking.

Drake came at him again, arms outstretched, like a small child angling for an embrace. He never had a chance. Temple moved like lightning, swatting away the long arms and delivering a wicked blow to Drake’s jaw and another to his torso immediately after.

Drake fell to his knees, and Temple immediately stepped back.

Mara’s gaze flew to his face, registering none of the triumph or pride that one might have expected. There was no emotion there—nothing that revealed his feelings about the bout.

He waited, patient as Job as Drake pressed his hands to the sawdust-covered floor, and the room around her went quiet.

“Is he going to get up again?”

She watched the fallen man breathe deeply, his chest heaving once, twice, before he raised his hand in the universal sign for enough.

“Awww,” one of the ladies sighed in disappointment. “A forfeit.”

“Come on, Drake! Fight like a man!”

The women around her whined and whinged, as though they’d lost a favorite toy. She turned to the woman who had become her tacit guide for the evening. “What now?”

Temple stepped forward as the woman spoke, reaching toward his opponent. “A forfeit is an immediate loss.”

Drake accepted Temple’s help, coming to his feet unsteadily. The aged oddsmaker at one side of the ring pointed a finger to a red flag at one corner of the space, and the crowd on both sides of the window erupted into shouts and jeers.

“And Temple wins,” the woman explained to Mara, “but not the way they like.”

“A win is a win, is it not?”

One brown brow rose in amusement. “Tell that to the men who just lost hours of entertainment in thirty seconds.” She returned her attention to the ring, as men throughout the room protested, waving scraps of paper in the air. “Those men have placed enormous bets on the fights—never against Temple, but on the number of rounds and the punches thrown . . . even the way Drake fell.” The lady paused. “They don’t care for short bouts.”

“Anna,” the man in the corner called out, and the lady turned to him.

He nodded once, and she returned her attention to Mara. “I am sorry. I’m afraid I have work to do.” Mara’s brow furrowed, and the lady tilted her head. “Unhappy patrons require . . . appeasing.”

And Mara understood. The woman was a prostitute. A highly paid one if Mara had to make a guess. “Of course.”

The woman tipped her head. “My lady.”

“Oh, I’m not . . .”

Anna smiled. “Those of us who are not must stick together.”

And then she was gone, leaving Mara with the aftermath of the fight and the keen knowledge that she deserved no kind of honorific considering the consequences of her long-ago actions.

Temple seemed not to care about the way the men screamed and fought around him, desperate for a way to regain their bets. Instead, he turned to face the mirror, black eyes scanning its breadth.

“Here it is!” a lady called from nearby.

He nodded once, sending titters and sighs through the room, leaving Mara breathless with the knowledge that with the bout now over, he was coming for her.

And with that knowledge came the memory of their last conversation. Of the words he’d used. Of the blow she’d dealt.

Of the bed she had made for them, where they were enemies. Where she did all she could to regain her funds, and he did all he could to exact his revenge.

Her anger returned.

“Poor Temple!” someone called. “He didn’t get his fight!”

“I should like to give him a fight,” another lady retorted, and the innuendo set the rest of the room tittering.

I don’t fight women.

How many times had he said it that first night?

But what if one were to challenge him anyway? In the open? What if a women were to offer to fight him for the money that was rightfully hers?

What if she were to back him into that corner where his red flag flew with cocksure arrogance?

Would he forfeit?

Could she win?

Her heart pounded in her chest. She could

. This moment, this place was her answer. The Marquess of Bourne had climbed into the ring with him, and the two were in discussion.

Mara’s thoughts raced.

It could be that easy.

A reed-thin bespectacled man materialized at her side. “Temple requests that you meet him in his rooms. I am to take you there.”

Excellent. “I have every intention of meeting the duke.”

She intended to set him down. To prove him wrong. To prove herself stronger and smarter and more powerful than he thought her. To make him regret his words. To make him rescind them.

His kisses had distracted her too well. His strange, unexpected kindness had upended her keen awareness of this war they waged. But then he’d called her a whore. And she was reminded of his purpose. Of hers.

He wanted retribution; she wanted the orphanage safe.

And she would get what she wanted.

Tonight.

Her commitment redoubled, she and her guide emerged from the quiet passageway into a crush of bodies beyond, and Mara was grateful for her mask, the way it focused her view—men moving in and out of frame—the wheres and whyfors of their journey made irrelevant by her limited view.

The mask turned the entire evening into a performance of some kind—the men moving across a stage just for her, dressing for a larger, more important scene. For the main player.

Temple.

She let the man guide her back to Temple’s rooms, where he deposited her in the dimly lit space and closed the door behind her, throwing the lock without hesitation.

But Mara was already moving across the room, already heading for the steel door she’d watched from the other side of the ring. Knowing where it led.

She yanked it open, her plan clear in her mind—as clear as the plan twelve years earlier that had set her on this course. That had led her to here. To this moment. To this man.

She ignored the men on either side of the aisle that marked the clear path to the ring, grateful for her mask in those fifty short feet even as her gaze tracked no one but the enormous man still in the ring, his back to her as he reached for grasping, congratulatory hands.

The poor thing had no knowledge of what was to come.

She was so focused on Temple, she did not see the Marquess of Bourne before he stepped into her path, catching her by the arms. “I don’t think so.”

She met his eyes. “I won’t be stopped.”

“I don’t think you’d like to test me.”

She laughed at the words. “Tell me, Lord Bourne,” she said, considering her options. “Do you really think that you have any place in this? My entire life has led to this moment.”

“I will not let you ruin his retribution,” he said. “If you ask me, you deserve every ounce of it, for the devastation you’ve wrought.”

Perhaps it was the implication that he understood the long thread of past that stretched between Mara and Temple. Or perhaps it was the ridiculous entitlement in the words, as though the Marquess of Bourne could stop the globe from spinning on its axis if he wished. Or perhaps it was the smug look on his face.

She would never know.

But Mara did not hesitate, using all the strength and skill and lessons she’d learned from twelve years living on her own with no one to care for her, and from the man beyond, who’d refreshed them.

Bourne didn’t see the punch coming.

The smug aristocrat reeled back, a sound of shock and surprise coming on a flood of red from his nose, but Mara did not have time to marvel at her accomplishments.

She was ringside and through the ropes in seconds, and the moment she stood there, in the uneven sawdust, the room began to quiet. The men clamoring to claim their bets and call for a second bout turned to face her, like layers of onion peeling off for stew.

It took him a moment to hear the silence. To realize it was directed at him. At the ring.

A thread of uncertainty began at the back of her neck, starting its slow, curling journey down her spine. She willed it away.

This was her choice.

This was her next step.

She met his black eyes even as he started toward her, and she saw the surprise there. The irritation. The frustration. And something more. Something she could not identify before it was locked away in that unforgiving gaze.

She took a deep breath and spoke, letting her voice run loud and clear in the enormous room. “I, too, have a debt with The Fallen Angel, Duke.”

One black brow rose, but he did not speak.

“So tell me. Will you accept my challenge?”

Chapter 11

If he’d been offered ten thousand pounds to guess who would step into his ring next, he would not have imagined it would be she.

But when the room quieted and he turned from a collection of men on the other side of the ropes to see what had distracted them, he knew it would be she. Even as he was sure it couldn’t possibly be.

There she was, standing tall and proud and strong at the center of the ring, Drake’s blood splattered at her feet, as though she were in a tea shop. Or a haberdashery. As though it was perfectly ordinary for a masked woman to enter a boxing ring, in the middle of a men’s club.

She was barking mad.

And then she spoke, issuing her challenge in her calm, clear way, as though she were perfectly within her rights to do so. As though the entire club wouldn’t explode with the scandal.

Which it did, in a cacophony of harrumphs and guffaws and affronted grunts that quickly devolved into a chattering masculine din. Under cover of noise, Temple collected himself and approached her, his opponent in every way, and yet not his opponent at all.

He raised a brow.

She did not move, and he wished the mask gone so he could read her expression.

It could be gone. Instantly, if he willed it.

He could call her bluff, unmask her in front of the lion’s share of the most powerful men in London, and resume the life that had been frozen in time for twelve years.

And the one that had been frozen in time for less than a week.

But then he would not see how far she would go.

He tilted his head and spoke so only she could hear. “A bold move.”

She matched his movement, her lips curving gently. Teasing him. Tempting him. “Whores must be bold, I’m told.”

And with that, he understood. She was furious.

As well she should be. He’d called her a whore. Guilt threaded through him, somehow discernable from frustration and fascination.

She did not let him find the right reply. Which was best, as he wasn’t sure he could. Instead, she added, “As should an opening gambit, don’t you think?”

Guilt was chased away by the words. By the challenge in them. By the excitement that thrummed through him every time they faced each other. This was more powerful than any bout he’d ever had. “You think I will allow you to win?”

The curve became a smile. “I think you haven’t a choice.”

“You’ve miscalculated.”

“How so?”

He had her. “My ring, my rules.” He raised a hand to the room, and the collection of men—two hundred, perhaps more—went quiet. Her eyes went wide behind the mask at the way he controlled the space and its inhabitants.

“Gentlemen!” he called to the room at large. “It seems tonight’s entertainment is not complete.” He stepped closer to her, and the soft scent of lemons curled around him—clean where this place was filthy. Light where it was dark. She did not belong here. And somehow, she did.

Perhaps it was simply that he did not wish her to leave, even as he knew she should.

She was close enough to touch, and he pulled her close to him, sliding one leg between hers, loving the way her silk skirts clung to his trousers. Loving the feel of her in his arm, firm an

d right. Hating it, too, the way she seemed to consume his thoughts when she was near him. The way she distracted him from his goal.

Retribution.

He pulled her close, and she gasped, her bare hands coming up to rest on his bare chest, her touch cool and smooth against his sweat-dampened skin. He lowered his voice for her ears only. “You have made your bed.”

She stilled at the words, as though they meant something to her, for a half second. Maybe less. “Then by all means, Your Grace, it is time I lie in it.”

The words surprised him, the thread of daring and conflict and something more in them. He wondered if the imagery that clattered through his mind echoed in hers—both of them in bed. Naked. Entwined.

Glorious.

Equal.

He turned to the crowd, hating the hungry gazes fixed upon her even as he knew they were necessary. “Shall I check her for weapons?”

A roar of approval came from the assembly of men, and he reached for her skirts, knowing the knife she carried so religiously would not be far. She gasped as his hands slid over her torso and hip, recognized the sound as one of pleasure. He met her gaze. “I never thought you an exhibitionist.”

She pursed her lips. “I would not begin to do so now.”

“Hmm,” he let the sound ooze over her. “Your actions tonight suggest otherwise.” In the pocket of her skirts, his fingers found the book that cataloged their story in pounds and shillings and pence.

She felt the touch and met his gaze. “Be careful, Your Grace, lest tonight cost you more than you think.”

He couldn’t help his smile as he found the hilt of her knife. Ubiquitous. “Hebert made you a pocket?”

She narrowed her gaze on him through the mask. “I thought I’d made it clear that I am quite skilled with a needle.”

He couldn’t stop the laugh that came then. The woman was remarkable. She’d received a dress that cost more than her salary for a year, and immediately installed a pocket to keep her weapon close.

He removed the knife and held it high above their heads. “The lady is equipped with steel.”

In more ways than one.

The men roared their own laughter as Temple tossed the knife across the ring, ignoring the way it slid through the sawdust. Too focused on her.