Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

A statuesque brunette entered on the far side of the room, elaborately masked, and Dahlia inclined her head to greet the passing baroness before replying quietly, “I find that women often know more than men think.”

The duchess tilted her head. “More than men know, as well, no?”

Dahlia smiled. “That, too.”

The words were punctuated by a wild laugh from across the room, where a collection of masked women conversed as they waited to be escorted deeper into the club. “I swear it’s true!” one said with urgency. “There I was, expecting the usual suspects, and there he was! In Hyde Park, on a magnificent grey.”

“Oh, no one cares about the horse,” her friend retorted. “What did he look like? I hear he’s utterly changed.”

“He is!” the first replied, her red curls bobbing. “And entirely for the better. Remember how he was so dour, last season?”

Dahlia made to turn away from the conversation, but the duchess set an emerald-gloved hand on her arm, staying her movement. Dahlia slid her a look. “You can’t be interested in whichever eligible bachelor they’re on about—”

The duchess smiled, but did not move her hand. “I like a good transformation story as much as the next.”

A new participant joined the conversation. “He was at the Beaufetheringstone ball last week—he danced every dance! One with me, and it was like dancing on a cloud. So skilled. And he’s so handsome now. And that smile! He’s not dour any longer.”

A sigh followed. “So lucky for you!”

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Whoever the poor man is, he’s clearly in the market for a wife if he went from dour to dancing in a year.”

“Mmm,” said the duchess.

“My brother says he’s been at the club for a week, introducing himself to . . . fathers!” came a breathless reply.

The duchess looked to Dahlia. “In the market indeed.”

Dahlia offered the other woman a smug smile. “A tale as old as time. And not in the least bit interesting, except to say that I’ll fetch the betting book if you’d like to make a wager.”

“I hear he’s hosting a masquerade Wednesday, next.” The young woman’s slender hand touched the edge of her stunning golden mask as she tittered, “And here we are, already masked!”

“Well,” came the reply. “That does it—everyone knows a mask is for dalliances. I wager he’s already chosen her. There will be a new duchess before Christmas.”

Duchess.

The word sliced through the air.

It wasn’t he.

“Now that’s interesting,” the duchess in attendance said quietly. “It’s not as though there are eligible dukes just lying about.”

“No,” Dahlia said, distracted. “You had to hie off to a secluded isle for yours.”

“And he never comes when he’s called,” the duchess replied with a tsk. “But this one . . .”

Curiosity got the better of Dahlia. “Who is it?” One shoulder lifted, then fell in wordless ignorance, and Dahlia raised her voice to the women who had been speaking. “The duke you discuss,” she prodded, telling herself it was idle curiosity. Telling herself it was simply because information was currency. “Does this paragon of manhood have a name?”

It wasn’t he. It couldn’t be.

The young woman in the simple black domino answered first, eagerness in her tone, as though she’d been waiting for the moment she could speak to Dahlia. Her lips curved into the kind of smile that came with a magnificent secret, slow and easy, as though she had all the time in the world to share it.

“Who is it?” Dahlia repeated, sharp and urgent, unable to stop herself.

What in hell was wrong with her?

The young woman’s eyes went wide behind her mask. “Marwick,” she said simply. As though she wasn’t sucking all the air from the room.

Blood rushed into Grace’s ears, a roar of heat and frustration and anger clouding all her better judgment. And that name, rioting through her. Marwick.

Impossible. They had to be wrong.

Hadn’t she sent him away? Hadn’t he left, into the darkness?

She turned to the duchess. “I don’t believe it.” He couldn’t be back. He’d left a year ago and disappeared—there was no reason for him to be back.

Of course, it wasn’t true. There was a singular reason for him to be back.

The other woman plucked a glass of champagne off a passing tray with languid, casual movement, unaware of the thunder of Grace’s heart. Of the way her mind stormed. “And why not? Every duke needs a duchess.”

I chose the title to make you my duchess.

You were to be duchess.

“He’s here to marry,” she said.

“What a bore,” the duchess replied.

Grace was many things, but she was not bored. Christ. He was back.

He was back.

And like that, the storm quieted. She knew what she must do.

She met the other woman’s eyes. “I require an invitation to that masquerade.”

Chapter Eight

If she hadn’t known that the Marwick House masquerade was hosted by the Duke of Marwick himself, she never would have believed it. There was nothing about the wild party spread out before her that appeared even remotely suited to the man she’d sent packing a year earlier.

That man would have found every bit of this event frivolous and unworthy of his time. Of course, that man had spent his waking hours chasing Grace, until he’d found her, and discovered that the girl he sought no longer existed.

In the week since she’d discovered his return, she’d done everything she could to understand it. What he sought. How, and why.

And whom.

Because there was only one option for the Duke of Marwick to have returned to London and presented himself in society—no longer as the mad duke they’d once imagined him to be, but now as something else, apparently?

The words of the women in the club echoed through her.

So handsome. That smile! He danced every dance. It was like dancing on a cloud.

She knew the last. They’d learned together—part of his father’s silly contest. For just this purpose. Every duke needs his duchess.

And the Duke of Marwick was back to secure his own, finally.

You were to be duchess.

She resisted the echo of the words from a year earlier. Resisted the urge to dwell on them, on the ache in them as he called them across the ring—his last attempt to win her back, even as she’d made her point. He would never win her back.

Because she was no longer the girl he once loved, and she would never be that girl again.

But that did not change the singular fact that long ago, they’d made a deal. No marriage. No children. No continuation of the Marwick line—the only vow they could make beyond the reach of the boys’ father.

And if he’d returned to marry? To produce an heir?

Grace had no choice but to put a stop to it.

And if he’d returned for something else?

Then she had no choice but to put a stop to that, too. Because every second the Duke of Marwick was in the public eye put all of them at risk. He’d stolen a title, and they’d all been a part of it. She’d be damned if he put any of them in danger for his own chance at something more—not when Devil and Whit had happiness in hand with their wives and young families begun.