Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

“That is an uncommon response to the offer.”

“That’s because most women see a title and think it is pure opportunity—a line to freedom.”

“And you?”

Her lips curved, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “I know titles are gilded cages.”

The words sliced through him, on a wave of the past. It was the truth—their truth more than anyone else’s. And she did not even know the whole of it.

“Tonight is not for the future,” he said, hating the lie on his lips. Hating the way she breathed it in. Knowing that he had to tell it to keep her there. Knowing, beyond all else, that if she left him then, she would never return.

Knowing that his invitation was an immense risk.

But risk was all they’d ever been to each other.

She turned slightly—just enough to meet his eyes. “Masks are dangerous. One never knows quite who one is when wearing one.”

He did not hesitate. “Or, they make it easier for one to show his truth.”

The wrong thing to say. He heard the bitterness in her little laugh. “Am I to believe this is your truth, Duke?”

The second time she’d used the title, and the second time he had to hold back a flinch. He rushed to keep control of the emotions roiling through him. “It’s closer to it than you might imagine.” He paused. Then, “No one will notice if we leave.”

She laughed at that. “You have been away from society for too long. Everyone will notice. They have noticed you flirting with scores of women tonight.”

“Have you noticed that?” He liked that.

She ignored the question. “And they will notice you leaving with me, and they will wonder about me.”

“They already wonder about you,” he said, knowing he had scant seconds to convince her, before the orchestra began again and she would find a way to leave him. “The beautiful jewel who hasn’t yet realized that I’m the worst choice in the room.”

“That might be the first true thing you’ve said all evening.” Damn her mask for hiding her from him.

The words stung. The tacit agreement that he was not for her. And still, she stayed.

He clung to that. “It’s not the first, but it is true,” he said. “So is this: they wonder about you, but will they know who you are?” They wouldn’t, would they? She didn’t live in this world. He might not know where she did live—what he would give to know her life!—but he knew she was not an aristocrat, and she could remove her mask without hesitation and no one in the room would know her.

But still, he would never deliberately put her in danger.

She gave him a small smile. “Someone might. I have an invitation, do I not?” He loved the teasing words—the way they warmed him. But that wasn’t what he was asking, and she knew it. “They shan’t know who I am,” she agreed, thoughtfully. “They are too deep in their desire for the fantasy you have offered them.”

He clung to those words, rushing to beat the first strains of the orchestra. “And you, my lady?” He met her rich brown eyes. His lady. “What of your desires? What of the fantasy I offer you?”

Time stopped as she considered the question, a single note of the violin seeming to hang in the air around them.

Perhaps he’d never have her without the mask. Perhaps she’d never let him in again. But she was here, and she was in his arms, and if that was all he could have . . . it would have to be enough.

Never.

“Let me be your fantasy,” he whispered.

Let me be everything you need.

“Tonight only,” she said.

He sucked in a breath. She offered him one night. Masked. Pure fantasy.

It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.

“Tonight only,” he lied.

The words unlocked her. Her hand tightened in his, and she moved, magnificently, impossibly pulling him through the revelers and out into the gardens beyond.

Chapter Ten

What of the fantasy I offer you?

Perhaps if he hadn’t framed it in such a way, using that word she loved so much—that word that had been tossed at her earlier in the week—perhaps she might have resisted it.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tempting. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so handsome. Perhaps if he hadn’t had such a brilliant smile.

Perhaps . . . but not likely.

Because when he asked her, masked and all, about her desires, she realized that somewhere, deep inside her, she desired this. An evening of fantasy. An evening with this man, against whom she’d measured every other man for twenty years, like a curse. An evening with him, without any consequences—as long as she kept her mask on. As long as he remained in the dark.

An evening when she took from him, not the other way around.

He’d taken from her for so long. Her name, her life, her safety, her future. He’d promised her all of those things, and delivered on none. He owed her, didn’t he?

So, what if she took the payment?

Just once. Just tonight. In the gardens. Masked and unknown.

Dahlia, collecting for Grace.

A woman, finally getting her due.

Tonight, and then she’d put this—and him—out of her mind.

And tomorrow? She’d find a way to exit him from London.

But tonight, she clasped his hand in hers and pulled him from the ballroom, through the writhing crowds and the soaring trees, the rich scent of moss that wrapped around them giving way as they walked out the doors and into the gardens, to the smell of flowers—evening-scented stocks, overflowing planters all over the balcony—and Grace stilled for a moment, letting the fragrance flow around her.

The orangery at Burghsey Hall had always had stocks in abundance, and it had been one of her favorite evening hiding places, because of the rich twilight scent of the flowers. And with the scent, another memory, Ewan and her, beneath a gardening table as the sun set through the western windows. His hand in hers. Their fingers intertwined. Surrounded by this exact scent.

She turned to him. Did he remember?

He smiled. “By all means, my lady,” he said, his voice full of dark promise. “Don’t stop now.”

Who was this new man?

Where was Ewan? What had happened to him?

You sent him away. And now, this man returns in his place.

A whisper of suspicion came with the words. Something like doubt. Something that didn’t feel right. Pushing it away, she laced her fingers with his and pulled him down the steps, passing a chess piece giggling in the arms of a musketeer, and another Marie Antoinette, who peered closely at them as they rushed by.

What was it with aristocratic women and Marie Antoinette—had they all forgotten that she’d misjudged her power and ended up without a head?

But let them eat cake . . .

He squeezed her hand and she looked back, stilling, letting him pull her around toward him and redirect their movements—no longer headed for the main garden, but for a side path, poorly lit and winding through a collection of linden trees. She followed.

“I suppose it’s true what they say,” she whispered softly as he guided her away from the house and the light. “Unmarried gentlemen will always lead you down the garden path.”

He did not laugh at the words. Instead, he cast a quick, scalding look back at her before stopping at a door, set into the wall to their right. She hadn’t noticed there was a wall, let alone a door, until he threw the iron catch and pushed the heavy oak open to reveal a magnificent landscape—a small patch of green, surrounded on its edges by a stunning garden in what Grace was certain daylight would expose as vibrant flowerbeds. And at the center, a gazebo, beautifully designed and painted.