And theirs.
It was the life he wanted. A wife. A son. A legacy.
But it was not real. She shook her head, finding his gaze, seeing the emotion there. Regret. Anger. Sadness.
She’d hurt him again. Without even trying. She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Forever—since I founded the orphanage. He is not . . .” She trailed off, wishing the truth were different.
He laughed then, the sound harsh and humorless. “Of course he isn’t. Of course we didn’t.”
The words cut through her.
He stood, in a single fluid movement, taking himself to the opposite side of the ring, all grace and economy even now, even with one arm in a sling. Even with a wound that would have killed a lesser man.
His back to her, he scraped his hand through his hair. “Just once, I wanted the truth from you.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Just once, I wanted you to give me a reason to believe you are more than what you seem. More than a woman out for blood and money.” He laughed and turned away again. “And then you gave it to me.”
She should tell him.
The whole story.
The money, the debt, the reason she’d run. She should lay herself at his feet and give him the chance to forgive her. To believe her. To believe in her.
Perhaps then, they could start again. Perhaps then, there might be more to this strange, unsettling, remarkable thing between them.
Dear God, she wanted that more than she wanted her next breath.
“I was not out for blood,” she said, coming to her feet, her dress in her hand, shielding her nakedness from him. “And not for money, either.” She took a step toward him. “Please. Let me explain—”
“No.” He turned to her, hand slashing through the air.
She stopped.
“No,” he repeated. “I am tired of it. Of your lies. Of your games. I am tired of wanting to believe them. No more.”
She pulled her dress around her, knowing that she deserved this. Knowing that, for twelve years, her life had been heading for this. For the day when she faced this man and told him the truth, and suffered the repercussions.
But it had never occurred to her that the pain would come from losing him. From hurting him. That she might care for him.
Care for him.
What a silly, tepid phrase in comparison to the emotion that coursed through her now, as she watched this remarkable man battle his demons. Demons she had sent after him.
“I don’t care what your reasons are, or how well you’ve fabricated them. I am done. How much was this worth? This afternoon?”
The words were a blow. He couldn’t believe she would ask to be paid for— Of course he could. It was the arrangement they’d made.
She shook her head.
“And now you are too high for our agreement?”
She didn’t want it now. She didn’t want any of it. She only wanted him.
And, like that—like a sharp, wicked blow, she understood.
She loved him.
And if that was not bad enough, he would never believe it.
But still, she tried. “William. Please. If you’ll just—”
“Don’t.” The word cut through the air, frigid and frightening. And she realized that now, here, she faced Temple, the greatest fighter London had ever seen. “Don’t you ever call me that again. You don’t have the right.”
Of course she didn’t. She’d stolen the name from him when she’d stolen his life. Tears threatened, and she swallowed them back, not wanting him to think them fabricated. Not wanting him to think her fabricated. She nodded. “Of course.”
He was cold and unmoving, and she couldn’t look at him any longer. She wrapped her arms about herself as he took his final shot. As he ended it. “Tomorrow, this is over. You show your face, you restore my name. I’ll give you your money. And then you get the hell out of my world.”
He left her there, at the center of his ring, in the heart of his club.
It was only once the door to his rooms was closed and the lock thrown that she dressed, and allowed the tears to come.
Chapter 15
He’d left her naked in the ring.
At no point in his entire career as a bare-knuckle boxer had he ever left an opponent so stripped of honor.
He’d never had an opponent so keenly strip him of his dreams.
What rubbish. Temple leaned over the billiard table in one of the upper rooms of The Fallen Angel, sending the carom balls flying.
“Christ, Temple,” Bourne said, watching two balls sink into the pockets at the far end of the field. “Should we leave and let you play on your own?” He tossed back the remainder of his scotch. “And with one arm.”
The mention of his arm, still lacking feeling and weak from the fight, brought back his anger. Her brother had taken his strength. His power. But she’d done one worse. She’d taken his hope.
He’d let himself believe that things could be. That she might be that for which he ached. Wife. Family. More.
Love.
The word whispered through him, part shock, part frustration, part desire.
He ignored it and took another shot with furious precision. And a third.
Cross leaned back on his heels, one long arm dangling over the end of his cue. “All right, it’s clear you’re not interested in the game so much as the win,” he said. “So what is it that is at you?”
“It’s the woman,” Bourne said as he headed across the room to pour himself a glass of scotch.
Of course it was the woman.
Temple ignored the thought and sank another ball.
Cross looked to Bourne. “You think so?”
Bourne passed a glass to Cross. “It’s always the woman.”
Cross nodded. “You are right.”
“He’s not right,” Temple said.
Bourne raised a brow. “I’m right.”
Of course he was right.
Temple scowled. “You can both go straight to Hell.”
“You would miss us if we were gone,” Cross said, finally getting a chance to take a shot. “Besides, I like the woman. It’s fine with me if she’s your problem.”
Bourne cut Cross a look. “You like her?”
“Pippa likes her. Thinks she cares for Temple. I believe her.”
Memory flared. Mara’s eyes liquid with tears as she sat naked in the ring. As he treated her abominably. Temple gritted his teeth.
She had robbed him of his life, then lied to him. Again and again. She didn’t care for him. It was impossible.
Cross was still speaking to Bourne. “And, she took a fist to your face.”
“You needn’t say it with such glee,” Bourne retorted.
“There is glee. You were trounced. By a woman.”
“You’re a bastard,” Bourne grumbled. “And besides, how was I to know she threw a punch like Temple?”
Memory flashed—Mara in the foyer of the MacIntyre Home for Boys, her hand flat against his chest, strong and warm. I don’t wish to hurt you.
Another lie.
Cross interrupted his thoughts. “So, Temple. What have you done wrong?”
A vision flashed, Mara in the center of his ring, begging him to listen to her. What would she have said? What would she have told him?
He pushed the memory aside. When had she ever told him the truth?
Minutes prior.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, that means you’ve definitely done something.” Bourne collapsed into a nearby chair.
“When did the lot of you turn into chattering magpies?”
Cross leaned against the billiard table. “When did you lose your sense of humor?”
The question was not out of bounds. Had it been Bourne or Cross in such a foul temper, Temple would have
been the first to ask questions.
Indeed, in the past year, Temple had had the great pleasure of watching both men flirt with insanity as they resisted, then courted their wives. He’d laughed at them more often than not, and been happy to add to their misery.
But while this might involve a woman, this was not about a wife.
This was about absolution. A much more important goal.
“I let her go,” he said, simply.
“Where?” Bourne asked.
“Home.”
“Ah,” Cross said, as though the word explained everything. Which it didn’t.
Temple scowled at the irritating ginger. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Only that when they leave, it’s never as pleasant as you think it will be.”
“Mmm,” Bourne added. “You think you’ll get peace, and instead . . . you can’t stop thinking about them.”
He looked from one of his friends to the other. “You’ve both become women. I would easily stop thinking about her if she weren’t . . .” He hesitated.
If she weren’t so infuriating.
If she weren’t so all-consuming.
If she hadn’t been so damn beautiful as she stood tall and proud in his ring and took the blows he delivered like a champion. Like she’d deserved them.
Which she had.
But what if she hadn’t?
“If she weren’t . . . ?” Cross prodded.
Temple poured himself a glass of scotch. Drank deep. Hoped the burn of liquor would erase the burn of her memory. “If she weren’t my link.”
“To?”
To Lowe. To the past. To truth. To the life he’d so desperately wanted for so very long.
More than that. She was his link to everything.
He pushed the thought aside and leaned over to take another shot, ignoring the twinge of pain that sizzled down his arm, disappearing as though it had never been.
He missed. Bourne and Cross looked to each other in surprise. He gave them his best glare. “You try it with one arm.”
A knock sounded on the door, and they turned as one, Temple grateful for the change of topic. “Enter,” Bourne called.
Justin entered, followed by Duncan West, the owner of no fewer than eight newspapers and magazines in London, arguably the most influential man in Britain, and the man who was going to restore Temple to his rightful place in the peerage.
West surveyed the room. “Room for a fourth?”
Temple extended his cue toward the newcomer. “You may have mine.” He moved to a sideboard and refilled his glass before pouring a second as West shucked his coat and tossed it to a nearby chair.
“Who is winning?”
“Temple,” Bourne answered, taking his own shot and missing.
West gave Temple a look, accepting the proffered drink. “And you don’t wish to continue the streak?”
Temple leaned against the back of a nearby chair and drank. “I’d rather speak unencumbered.”
The newspaperman stilled. “Should I, too, be unencumbered?”
Temple waved the glass in the direction of the carom field. “You play until I say something worth listening to.”
The suggestion seemed to work for West, he moved to survey the game. “Fair enough. How is the arm?”
“Attached,” Temple answered.
West nodded, setting the glass on the edge of the table, leaning over and lining up his shot. As he pulled back on the cue, Temple announced, “Mara Lowe is alive.”
West missed the shot, but he wasn’t paying attention, already turning to face Temple, eyes wide. “You’ve said something worth listening to.”
“I thought you might feel that way.”
West set his cue down. “As I’m sure you can imagine, I’ve a dozen questions. More.”
“And I’ll answer every one of them. What I cannot, she will.”
“You are able to speak for the woman?” West let out a low whistle. “This is a story. Where is she?”
“It is not important,” Temple said, suddenly uninterested in sharing the private details of Mara’s whereabouts. He drank again. Liquid courage. Where the hell had that thought come from? “Do you plan to attend the Leighton Christmas Masque?”
West knew a good story when he saw one, and he knew better than to refuse. “I assume Miss Lowe will be in attendance?”
“She will be.”
“And you intend to introduce her to me?” Temple nodded. West was intelligent, and able to put the pieces together. “That’s not it, though.”
“Is it ever?” Cross said from his place at the carom table.
“You want the girl ruined,” West said.
Did he?
“I don’t blame you.” The newspaperman continued, “But I won’t be your puppet in this. I came because Chase summoned me, and I owe him. I’ll hear your story. Your side. But I’ll hear hers, as well, and if I don’t think she deserves the shaming, she won’t get it from me.”
“Since when are you so noble?” Bourne interjected. “The story will sell papers, will it not?”
A shadow crossed West’s face, there then gone so quickly that Temple would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching so closely. “Suffice to say, I’ve ruined enough people with my papers that I am no longer required to do the bidding of every aristocrat with a vendetta.” He met Temple’s eyes. “Does she deserve it?”
It was the question Temple had hoped he wouldn’t be asked.
The question he’d hoped he’d never have to answer.
Because a week ago, he would have said yes, unequivocally. A week ago, he would have argued that the girl deserved everything that came her way—every ounce of justice he could mete out with his power and strength and influence.
But now, the unequivocal was becoming more complex. And he could not think of her simply. Suddenly, he thought of the way she teased him when she forgot that they were enemies. The way she faced him as his equal. The way she dealt nimbly with her students and with the men at his club. The way she gave herself up to his kiss. To his touch. The way she cradled that idiot pig in her arms as though she were the best companion for which a woman could ask.
The way insidious little thoughts inched into the back of his mind, teasing him into wondering if he couldn’t be something better than the damn pig.
He downed the rest of his scotch, turning back to get more.
Christ. He was comparing himself to a pig now.
So, did she deserve his vengeance? He didn’t know any longer. But when he thought of his past—of the life he could have had, of the pleasure he’d taken in his title, in his role, in his potential—he couldn’t stop the anger from threatening.
If not for her, he would be far less angry.
And much less hurt.
This bed had been made years ago. Far be it from him to resist lying in it.
She had lied to him. Again and again.
And when she’d finally told him the truth, she’d stolen his last ounce of hope. The last promise of the life he’d desired in the darkest parts of his soul. The beautiful wife. The strong, happy child. The family. The name.
The legacy.
She’d stolen it, as though it had never been his to begin with.
Anger flared, hot and welcome, and Temple met Duncan West’s gaze. “She deserves it.”
West turned back to the table, and took his shot. Sank the ball. Straightened and lifted his glass, toasting Temple. “If that is true, I shall happily assist you,” he said. “I shall see you at Leighton’s ball.” He drank deep before he tossed Temple the cue and made his way to the door. Once there, he turned back. “What of Chase?”
Temple hadn’t spoken to his partner since their falling out several evenings earlier. “What of him?”
“Where is he tonight?”
“Busy,” Bourne said, the reply in no way welcoming further discussion.
West pretended not to notice the irritation in Bourne’s tone. “No doubt. But when is he going to realize that I’m friend enough to keep his secrets?”
Cross raised a brow. “When your livelihood isn’t dependent on the telling of them.”
West grinned and downed his scotch before making for the door. “Fair enough. I’m for vingt-et-un.” He nodded to Temple. “Tomorrow?”
Temple inclined his head in West’s direction. “Tomorrow.”
“And my questions will be answered?”
“That, and more,” Temple promised.
West nodded and was gone within seconds, the tables on the floor of the casino an irresistible pull. His agreement should have enhanced Temple’s excitement. Should have made him feel vindicated.
Instead, they left a knot of something not altogether pleasant in his gut. Something he was neither interested in nor capable of defining.
He turned back to his friends, each watching him carefully.
“Once he reveals her, her reputation is gone. And he puts the orphanage at risk,” Bourne pointed out.
“No one likes the idea of an orphanage run by a scandal,” Cross explained, as though Temple didn’t understand.
He understood. And he did not like the unpleasant sensation that coursed through him at the words. At the suggestion that his plan was a danger to a houseful of innocent children.
At the way Bourne so easily dismissed Mara as a scandal.
He didn’t like which of those things grated the most.
“If he has access to orphanage files, he’ll discover within minutes who the boys are,” Bourne said. “He’ll out the fathers.”
“The girl won’t be able to survive it. She’ll never be able to show her face in London again,” Cross added. “If she’s not run out by the men who’ve sent their boys there, she’ll be destroyed by the women of the ton. And she’ll blame you. Are you prepared for that? To lose her? Entirely?”
Temple narrowed his gaze on Bourne. “Why would I care about losing her? Good riddance.”
The lie grated, even as he refused to acknowledge it as such. His friends knew better than to press the issue.