Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

To know each other.

More.

She set her items down on the low table next to his chair, her gaze taking in the assorted things collected there: a bottle of whisky and an empty glass atop a tall stack of books. A smile played over her lips.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Only that I feel as though I’m catching a glimpse inside the lion’s den.”

“Mmm,” he said, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck, something like embarrassment coursing through him, though he couldn’t say why. “This lion is very exciting, what with all the drink and books.”

“So this is what you do when you are not out, doing ducal duty?” She turned away, crossing the room toward the mirror.

“I don’t do ducal duty,” he said, grateful for the change in topic, watching as she selected a candelabrum and returned.

She watched him for a moment, and then, as though standing above him like royalty, tall and stunning in her regalia, wasn’t enough, she lowered herself to her knees before him, and set back to work.

The picture of her there, at his side, threatened to destroy him with the pleasure of it. He willed himself still, forcing himself not to reach for her. Resisting that singular word that coursed through him as he watched.

Mine.

She reached into the basket, removing another long strip of linen, and guided him forward to bandage his shoulder. “Next time you haul crates in the Garden, use a hook.”

“Mmm,” he grunted. “Do you know where I might find one?”

She chuckled at the words, and he turned to catch the glimpse of her amusement—like sunshine and air. “They don’t issue dukes box hooks?”

“Nor ice tongs. Would you believe it?”

“You should take it up with the House of Lords.” She pulled the bandage tight over his shoulder and he sucked in a breath. “You’ll need a fresh one tomorrow.”

“And will you come back to give it to me?”

“No.”

He turned to look at her, their faces scant inches apart—and he said, softly, “Why not?”

She met his eyes. “I shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“Which brings me back to why did you come?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

And the words, the echo of the ones she’d spoken earlier in the afternoon, unlocked him. He knew why she had come. He knew what she needed.

What they both needed.

He reached for her, touching a beautiful red curl, clasping it between two fingers and pulling it straight. “Why did you come here, tonight?” he repeated, the whispered question coming soft and aching.

Show me, he willed her. Trust me.

She met his eyes. “Why did you come back?”

He answered, knowing that he took a risk. As ever. He would never not take risks for her—that much was clear. “For the same reason I have done everything, from the start. For you.”

She reached for him then, her hand sliding along his jawline, her touch still like heaven. She drew him close with her gentle, perfect touch, hovering a hairsbreadth from his lips, as though she was not sure if she should close the gap. “I told you not to.”

“What do you need?”

She didn’t answer. She acted.

Chapter Seventeen

He was back for her.

It shouldn’t matter why he was back, or how he was changed, or that he was changed at all. And it should not matter that when he kissed her, she lost all capacity for reasonable thought.

But he hadn’t kissed her. She’d kissed him.

And the low growl of pleasure in his throat had sent a matching thrum through her, feeding an already burning flame. Bandaging him had made her wild, fairly vibrating with want, especially as she’d felt his muscles tremble and tighten beneath her touch, his breath quickening—as though he were a predator, ready to spring. But he hadn’t.

He’d held back. For her.

Waiting. For her.

Wanting her.

And once she kissed him, she’d freed him. He was turning to capture her, to pull her up and into his lap, his hands at her hips and then inside her coat, running up along the sides of her body to her breasts, encased in layers of silk and steel, straining for him.

Had his kisses always been so well crafted? Had he always been able to steal a woman’s thoughts? Or had he spent two decades preparing himself to deliver the precise kind of kiss that made Grace forget where she was and with whom, along with every sensible reason why she should absolutely not kiss him back?

It was not an impossibility, she thought as she met his kiss with equal desire. With equal enthusiasm.

Just this once, she lied to herself. Just this once, and then never again.

She pressed deeper, wanting the kiss to go on forever, and he sucked in a breath that was not pleasure, but pain. She pulled back at the sound to study him, her own breath coming fast, as though she’d just scaled a wall.

His lower lip was wickedly swollen, and she immediately reached to touch it, gently. She stroked the bruise there, then ran her fingers down the line of his nose, equally bruised and certainly painful, and the high bones of his cheeks. “You’ll be black and blue for an age. They got you, and well.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his hand sliding up over her shoulder, pulling her back down toward him. “Come back and kiss me again.”

The low command licked through her, and she nearly obeyed—she wanted to, but instead, she leaned over to fetch her sack from beside the chair, his hands coming to her bottom as she moved against the steel ridge of him, large and impossibly warm through her trousers.

“Mmm,” he grunted as she sat up, and she looked to him, his gaze on her, lids low, the look capturing her for a moment.

Ewan had always been handsome, tall and blond and with the kind of flawless face that didn’t seem possible outside of marble. Devil had broken his nose during a bout at Burghsey, and the imperfection had only made him more perfect. But now, bruised and battered, with a swollen lip and a collection of scrapes beneath his eye, he looked like a gift, delivered to her from that place that had been his before it was hers.

Ignoring the hot thrum of desire within, Grace focused on the task at hand, opening her bag and extracting a clean white cloth and a small metal box. His heated look turned curious, and she opened the box to show him the contents.

He raised a brow. “One of the blocks I hauled today?”

She gave him a little smile as she filled the cloth with ice and tied it off neatly before placing it to his eye, her other thumb stroking over his bare cheek.

“I don’t need it,” he grumbled.

“You do, though.”

“You did that very well,” he grumbled. “Made the ice pack.”

“I’ve made them before.”

“I gathered that from the special box.” His eyes found hers, serious. “How often?”

She swallowed, knowing what he was really asking. She shrugged one shoulder. “When we got to the Garden, one of us was fighting every night. Even if you’re good—like us—like you,” she added, remembering the way he’d fought, working to quiet enemies without destroying them. “Opponents get their knocks in.”

The muscles of his jaw tensed beneath her palm. “I hate that you had to fight.”