Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

She swallowed, taking in the space. “It’s magical.”

“It’s private,” he said, pulling her up the steps and into the gazebo before turning to face her, his fingers stroking along her arm, up, up, magnificently up, until the cool leather of his gloves was tracing over her chin, the sensation drawing her to him. Her lips parted, her eyes, behind her mask, tracking his own mouth, full and lush—just as she remembered it. How many times did she think of that mouth? How many times had she dreamed of kissing it, late at night, when she could afford a dream that felt like betrayal?

How many times had she stopped the fantasy, hating that she still wanted this man who had betrayed her so fully?

Let me be your fantasy.

“Wait—” he said, pulling his hand away from her, the removal of the touch like punishment. He ripped his glove off with his teeth and tossed it to the ground. “Now. Let me—” and he reached for her, his fingers a hot promise against her skin.

The touch was urgent and gentle, as though he couldn’t bear to wait for her, and still, he wished to do it right.

“Let me . . .” The earlier command became a plea. He was asking to kiss her.

She wanted it. Yes. And still—before she could speak the words, she hesitated. “Wait.” He did, instantly releasing her with a little groan of frustration.

Was it a trap? Did he know her? She knew him—why did it matter if two played at this game?

And if he didn’t—as he seemed not to—why did that matter?

She met his eyes, barely visible in the light of the moon. “Why the trees?”

He went still at the question. Nerves? Or surprise? Or both? “I told you,” he said, “so you would remember me.”

Remember him in the past? Or remember him now?

She would remember him. Like this, handsome and charming and wanting her, for the rest of time. “I will remember you.”

I never forgot you.

He nodded, taking a step closer to her, pushing her to the edge of the gazebo, until she was up against the wooden wall, and he dipped his head, whispering at her ear, “I intend to make it impossible for you to do otherwise.”

Heat thrummed through her at the vow. It didn’t matter that it was meant to be fantasy.

She would remember all of it.

She would remember the feel of his breath on her neck, setting her aflame. And then the rest of his promise—“I will remember the smell of you, like cream and spice.”

She would remember his fingers tracing down her neck and over her shoulder, down her arm, tugging at her glove. Removing it in a long, slow slide, and baring her hand to the late summer evening. More words. “I will remember the feel of your skin, like silk.”

She would remember it, too, the feel of him, and the way she thanked God for the mask that kept him from her—because she didn’t trust herself not to tumble back into his arms if she could see all of him.

“I will remember the sound of your breath in my ear. The way pleasure hitches in it. I would like to remember the taste of you,” he said, softly, his mouth tracing over her cheek, barely there, like a promise. Holding at the corner of her mouth, like a breath.

She didn’t trust herself not to tumble back into his arms anyway.

Just one night. Just one tumble.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Please, yes.

He didn’t move. “Tell me your name.” She pulled back at the words, her eyes flying to his, and he watched her for a heartbeat.

Grace. She should say it. She was half certain that he already knew it. But if he did—would it be like this if he knew it? So simple? So easy?

She would have to end the game if she revealed herself. And she didn’t want to end it. Not now. Not when she was so close.

This was the most she would ever have of him.

This would have to be enough.

She reached for him, her hand curving around the back of his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair, tangling there. Drawing him close. Their eyes locked, and she whispered, “No,” a fraction of a second before she kissed him.

He froze as their lips touched, and for a moment she thought he would pull away. Don’t, she willed. Let me have this.

And then his hands came to her face, holding her still as his lips opened and he met her kiss with his own, and her world was collapsing around her—the night, the masque, and more than all that, the memory. The boy who had been her first kiss, fumbling and awkward and perfect . . . gone, and in his place, this man—strong and sure and perfect—and something whispered through her that was at once immensely powerful and utterly terrifying.

She didn’t stop to think about which was more important. She didn’t want to stop. She never wanted him to stop. A sound rumbled low in his throat as his thumbs traced the bottom edge of her mask, running under the structured silk, smoothing over her skin as he positioned her to take her lips more thoroughly.

And it was her turn to rumble, the pleasure of his kiss like nothing she’d ever experienced—it set her on fire. Grace came up on her toes, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pulled him closer, not thinking of the night, or the ball, or his plans for a wife or a life beyond her—thinking only of him, of them, of what they might have in this moment, with nothing else in the way.

Nothing but desire.

Offered and accepted.

He licked over her lips, the rough stroke of his tongue like a flame, and she gasped at the sensation, her eyes closing as she pulled away and he set his kiss to the line of her jaw, the column of her neck, the soft skin of her shoulder as he lifted her to sit on the edge of the gazebo, giving her no choice but to cling to him.

Not that she would have taken an alternate choice.

She had never wanted anything like she wanted this—pleasure and pain, desire and risk. A kiss that was at once the past and the present—even if it would never be future.

And a single thought, shattering through her: Mine.

There wasn’t room for that, of course. He wasn’t hers. He never would be. And she couldn’t face the idea that he might still be a part of her. This was it. One night. One fantasy. As promised.

And him never the wiser.

Ewan pulled back as though he’d heard the thought, and they both gasped for air. She clenched her fist in his hair and pulled him close again. Enough for him to growl his desperation into another lush kiss before he remembered he’d had something to say. Tearing his mouth from hers once again, he whispered, “Wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough.” A lifetime.

He gave a little huff of laughter. “Another moment won’t matter.”

Except it would. It was one less moment from this collection—from the only moments she would ever have.

“Tell me your name,” he said, before she could protest again.

“No.” He opened his mouth to protest at the instant refusal and she reached up, putting one gloved finger to his lips. “Shh. You promised me the fantasy, did you not?”

He looked pained. “I did.”

“You asked after my desires.”

“Yes—” he started, and she placed her finger to his lips once more.

“This is what I desire. This is the fantasy. No names.”

If he pressed, there would be memory. There would be the past. There would be Grace and Ewan. But tonight, there could be Dahlia and the duke, dark and mysterious and full of promises that could be kept in an evening, no lifetime required.