Home > No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(39)

No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(39)
Author: Sarah MacLean

The words teased at her warm skin, and she shook her head in a broken movement, swaying against the strap, holding tight to combat the way the caress impacted her. “Quite,” she replied, the breath shuddering out of her, as he moved on, kissing the slope of her breast, once, twice, a third time—until he reached the edge of her dress, and slid a single finger between silk and skin, barely able to tell the two apart, until he reached the pebbled flesh that ached for him.

For which he ached.

He pulled the silk down, and spoke to her. “Even now?”

One hand fell from its mooring, coming to rest on his shoulders. Her bare skin against his. He could feel the want in them. “Even now.”

It was a taunt. A challenge.

One he did not refuse. He set his lips to her breast, loving the little cry that escaped her as he worried that sacred skin, sucking low and soft until the cry became a moan in the dark room. He could not stop himself from pulling her closer, lifting her from her feet, wrapping her legs about his waist, worshipping her there in that room that rarely knew pleasure and too often knew pain.

And then she’d released the strap altogether, her weight in his arms and her fingers in his hair, holding him tight against her, encouraging his caress, begging him for more, urging him to give her everything he could.

He was hard and aching, loving the way she directed him. The way she took her pleasure with abandon. He wanted to give her everything for which she asked.

He pressed her to the wall of the room, his hands everywhere, pulling them up, higher and higher, his fingertips sliding against stocking and then glorious smooth skin, tracking the curve of her thigh up . . . up until he could feel the heat of her. Wicked, promising warmth guarded by perfect, soft curls. A promise he could not wait to uncover. To explore.

He paused there, lifting his lips to find her eyes.

She gasped. “Yes.”

He’d never in his life heard such a glorious word. Never received such coveted permission.

“Say it again,” he said. To be certain.

“Yes.” The word coursed through him, her fingers tight in his hair.

He would give anything for a night with this woman.

But had he already done so?

The icy thought tore him from her, placing distance between them. Hating her all over again even as he felt nothing near hate. Nothing so cold. “Tell me,” he shoved his fingers through his hair, trying to erase the memory of hers. “Did we do this? Were we—”

Lovers.

For a moment, he thought she would answer him. He thought he saw it there. Sympathy. Worse. Pity.

Fuck.

He didn’t want her pity. She’d stolen that night from him, and she refused to give it back.

And then the emotion was gone from her gaze, and he knew what she was about to say.

He raised his voice before she could speak. “Tell me!”

“You know the cost of that information.”

Vaguely, it occurred to him in that in another place, at another time, he would find this woman perfect in every way. There was something strong and firm and fearless about her.

The same something that had drugged him on their first meeting. And their second. The same something that had sent her fleeing into the darkness the prior evening.

The same something that had set him up to be a murderer twelve years ago.

The same something that would no doubt attempt to thwart him again.

But it was this place. This time.

And he had never been so infuriated in his whole life. “I will give you this, Mrs. MacIntyre, if the orphanage fails, you’ve a tremendous career as a whore.”

She stilled like a doe on the hunt for a half second, before she moved, her hand flying fast and true and landing with remarkable precision on his cheek, stinging with her anger and his shame.

He didn’t dodge or duck or feint. He took the slap as his due, feeling a dozen times an ass. He shouldn’t have said it. He’d never said anything so insulting to a woman before. The apology was nearly on his lips when a bell rang above the door leading to the ring. She lowered her hand, the only sign of the blow the slight increase in her breath and the way her words shook in her throat. “What is that?”

What were they doing?

He turned away, refusing to touch the place where a furious red mark no doubt blossomed. “My opponent is ready. We shall continue this after the bout.”

She inhaled, and he hated the way the soft sound filled the room almost as much as he hated the way she said, “I hope he wins.”

He returned to the table, lifting the wax, molding it into two long strips. “I’m sure you do. But he won’t.” He inserted first one strip, then the second, into his mouth, and he did not hide the way he molded the wax along the edge of his teeth, daring her to look away.

She watched the coarse movements for a long moment before firing her own parting shot. “ Good luck , Your Grace.”

Chapter 10

T he unmitigated gall.

The unmitigated ass.

He’d called her a whore.

With the insidious arrogance that came of being a wealthy, unencumbered man. A duke . He’d suggested that the idea that she provide him the information he required for a price made her a trollop.

If she’d been a man, the word wouldn’t have occurred to him. If she’d been a man, he never would have said it.

If you treat me like a whore, you pay me like one.

So, she’d used the word first. This was different. He’d turned her inside out with his touch. He’d tempted her. He’d made her like him.

And then he’d called her a whore.

He deserved an immense setting down. The great, unbeatable Temple deserved to be beaten. By her.

Seething, a masked Mara followed the guard to whom she’d been assigned through a winding, curving passageway that kept her from view of the club’s members. She was too angry to care where they were going or what came next—too lost in her mental evisceration of Temple.

Until her guide waved her into a new space and closed the door behind her, leaving her alone in a sea of people. Of women . Surprise coursed through her. Women did not belong in a men’s club. In a casino.

Her gaze threaded through the room, across the collection of chattering women. Recognizing several. A marchioness. Two countesses. An Italian duchess known for her scandals.

Surprise warred with curiosity as Mara considered the rest of the women—all of whom were dressed in stunning silks and satins, some masked, most chattering as though they were at a ladies’ tea.

These weren’t simply women. They were aristocrats.

And it was only once she’d recovered from that discovery that she noticed what she should have noticed the moment she’d been shepherded into the room, like a lamb to slaughter.

One entire length of the long, narrow, extraordinarily dark room was a window—a great shaded window that looked out on a roomful of men, all dressed for evening, clustered in a horseshoe of a crowd, at once not moving and in constant motion—shouting and laughing and enjoying themselves, vibrating with energy like leaves on a thriving oak in the heat of summer. The throngs of men surrounded a great empty space, blocked by rope and covered in sawdust, of which the women were afforded a perfect, unobstructed view.

The ring.

Mara moved closer to the glass, unable to stop herself from reaching out to touch it, amazed by the way the room glowed.

Thankfully, it occurred to her just in time that the men would see her if she came too close to the window. She stopped, pulling her hand back, even as she could not understand why not one of the men beyond seemed at all interested in the window or the ladies inside the small, dark room.

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