Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

But that was not what she wished.

What did she wish?

“Why the trees?” The words took him by surprise, and he met her eyes behind the mask.

The trees were for her. What would she say if he told her that? If he yanked the mask from her eyes and said, You know why the trees. The trees, because you loved them. This place, because you loved it. All of it. For you.

Forever.

But he did not say that, because if he did, she would run . . . and she would never return. And so he kept his mask firmly in place and matched her coy question with an equally coy reply. “Why not?”

She cut him an exasperated look—a fleeting glimpse at his Grace, from whom he’d received that look a thousand times when they were children. He’d always been serious—their life was not one that was conditioned toward whimsy—but teasing Grace had been one of his purest pleasures.

“You don’t wish to guess?”

She was gone, hidden away before she spoke. “Anyone with reason would guess that you were mad, saddling your staff with the mess all this greenery will have made in a few days.”

“You must not know of me, in that case,” he replied. “They all think me mad anyway.”

“They have said you were mad for years,” she said. “I would have thought your choice in decor would be the least of your problems.”

“Perhaps I’m turning over a new leaf,” he said, emphasizing the pun.

“Mmm,” she said, ignoring the reply and instead giving herself over to his dancing. She was a magnificent dancer, easily moving with him, and he resisted the urge to ask her whom she had danced with to make her so skilled a partner.

“And you? What do you think?” he asked, wanting her to show herself—to show that she knew him. To tell him the truth of her identity and give them both the chance to talk.

“I think the signs point to you being rather mad, yes.”

He laughed at the words, turning them in a circle as the tempo of the music rose. Her fingers tightened on his biceps, sending a thrum of pleasure through him. “I meant, why do you think I built an arbor in my ballroom?”

“Madness is not an appropriate answer?”

“No,” he said, unable to stop himself. “I’ve turned over a new leaf on madness, already.”

A heartbeat of a wait, and then she said, “I think you’re trying to get people’s attention.”

Person’s, he thought. Yours. “Do you think it is working?”

She gave a bright laugh—one he’d never heard from her before, and one he liked more than he could have imagined—and said, her gaze sliding over the room beyond his shoulder, “I think this particular ball will be remembered for years to come, yes.”

“Will you remember it?”

Her gaze lifted to his, and she smiled—still not Grace. “It is the first time I have danced in an arbor, so I would say yes.”

It wasn’t true. He could remember her twirling in an arbor, as he sat against a tree, young and full of anger, desperate to keep them all safe from the man who would steal their future. The man who had stolen their future.

He could remember her arms outstretched as the sunlight dappled her skin, setting her on fire as she spun and spun and spun until she was too dizzy to spin any longer and she collapsed onto the soft moss, her laughter the only thing that could pull him from his thoughts.

She had danced and he had watched, and it had been the only thing he’d loved in that moment. Just as she had been the only thing he’d loved.

But he did not call her on the lie.

Instead, he spun her in another circle, faster than the last. She gave herself over to it, and a little inhale . . . of delight? He couldn’t help himself. “You will remember the decor, then.”

Those gorgeous eyes found his. “Do you fish for compliments, Your Grace?”

“Shamelessly.”

She grew serious, as though the conversation had reminded her that they were at odds, and always had been—except when they weren’t. “I shall remember you, too.”

He refused to release her gaze—to lose her attention. He lowered his voice, letting something other than gentility into it. “That’s why the trees. To give you something to remember.” For a fleeting moment, he thought he had her. But she didn’t move.

Instead, she turned her head to consider the trees in question, her lips curving just slightly. “And what of your gardens? Have they been picked clean?”

“Are you asking to see them?” he asked.

“No.”

He nodded toward the wall of open doors on one side of the ballroom. “It’s a masquerade—every reveler with a mask is ferrying unsuspecting ladies into the gardens.”

“It is unfortunate for you, then, that I am never unsuspecting.”

He coughed a little laugh at the words, surprised by the spar. She hadn’t been like this when they were young. She’d been too sweet and too innocent. But now . . . she was something else.

Before he could mine the thought, she added, dryly, “Isn’t that the joy of the mask? No need to feign unsuspecting. Instead, one has permission to pitch oneself forward into ruination.”

The word—ruination—came with a riot of images that made Ewan want to make good on every one of them. “Did you come alone?”

She had. If she’d come with his brothers, they’d already have taken their pound of flesh.

She’d come alone.

A thrill shot through him at the thought. Whatever it was . . . whyever it was . . . it was not disinterest. And he could work with that.

Her wine red lips curved into a little, knowing smile. “Are you offering to ruin me, Your Grace?”

He met the smile with one of his own. “Are you asking to be ruined?”

Her smile did not waver. Still not Grace, but Grace’s mask, the kind that would not easily be moved. “Who says I’m the one who would be ruined?”

He almost missed a step. “Are you offering to ruin me?”

“Are you asking to be ruined?”

Yes.

She saw the answer. One would have to be addlebrained not to see the answer. She gave a little chuckle that threaded through him, making him hard as steel. Making him ache for this Grace-who-was-not-Grace.

“And if I said yes?”

The words escaped him without thought, but her lips were the ones that that parted, soft and surprised, for a heartbeat. “You don’t know what you play at, Your Grace.”

He wanted to know. He wanted to play.

When was the last time they’d played?

Had they ever played?

Not like this.

The music came to a stop, and so did they, her lush skirts wrapping themselves around his legs, the touch of fabric another temptation. He leaned forward, down the scant inches to her ear. “Show me,” he murmured.

She did not retreat, holding her ground. “Do you not search for a wife?”

No. I have already found her.

“Are you interested in the position?” He forced teasing flirt into the words, when he wanted to rip their masks off, pack her into a carriage, and take her directly to a vicar. To make her duchess, as he’d promised all those years ago.

“No.”

Why would I settle for duchess? The words burned into him, and with them, the singular truth that the girl who’d once loved him was gone, replaced by this woman, strong as steel, who would not be wooed. Would not be chased.