Chase grinned. “I am still learning the ins and outs of it.” The smile faded. “What of the girl?”
He imagined Mara was halfway returned to the orphanage, desperate to claim her freedom. Worse, he imagined he’d not have a reason to see her again. Which should not grate nearly as much as it did. “I let her go.”
There was no surprise in Chase’s gaze. “I see. West will be sorry, no doubt.”
Temple had forgotten the newspaperman. He’d forgotten everything once she’d looked up at him with her beautiful blue-green eyes and confessed the fear that had set this entire play in motion. “No one deserves the humiliation I had planned.”
Especially not Mara.
Not at his hands.
“So. The Killer Duke remains.”
He’d lived under the mantle of the name for twelve years. He’d proven himself stronger and more powerful than the rest of London. He’d built a fortune to rival that of the dukedom that he would not touch. And perhaps, now that he knew that she was alive, that he was not a killer, the name would sting less.
She was alive .
She should have come to him that night and told him the truth. He would have helped her. He would have kept her safe.
He would have taken her as his own.
The thought wracked him, along with the images that came with it. Mara in his arms, Mara in his bed, Mara at his table. A row of children with auburn hair and blue-green eyes. Hers.
Theirs.
Christ.
He thrust his good hand through his hair, trying to erase the wild thought. The impossible thought. He met Chase’s eyes. “The Killer Duke remains.”
With a barely-there nod, Chase’s gaze flickered over Temple’s shoulder, drawn by something across the ballroom. “Or does he?”
The words sent a thread of uncertainty through Temple, and he turned to follow his friend’s gaze.
She hadn’t left.
She stood at the far end of the ballroom, at the top of the stairs that led down into the revelers, his coat dangling from her fingers, tall and beautiful in that stunning concoction of a dress, several fat curls having escaped from her coif, now long and lovely against her pale skin. He wanted to lift those curls in his hand, run his lips across them.
But first—
He took a step toward her. “What in hell is she doing here?”
Chase stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. She’s magnificent.”
She was that. She was more.
She was his.
Temple turned back. “What have you done?”
“I swear, this is not my doing. This is all the girl.” Chase’s attention returned to Mara, a surprised smile flashing. “I wish it were my doing, honestly. She’s going to change everything.”
“I don’t want her changing anything.”
“I don’t think you can stop her.”
The orchestra’s music came to a close, and Temple’s gaze flew to the enormous clock on one side of the ballroom. It was midnight. The Duchess of Leighton was making her way up the steps toward Mara, no doubt to lead the revelers in their raucous unmasking. Mara met her halfway, whispering in the duchess’s ear, giving her pause.
The Duchess of Leighton pulled back in surprise, and asked a question. Mara replied, and the duchess asked another, all seriousness and shock. And all of London watched the exchange. Finally, the hostess nodded, satisfied, and turned to face the crowd, a smile on her lips.
And Temple knew it was happening.
“She might just be the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” Chase said, all admiration.
“I told her I didn’t want her doing it. I told her I wasn’t going to do it,” Temple said, angry. Amazed.
“It seems that she does not listen well.”
Temple didn’t reply. He was too busy pulling off his own mask, already pushing through the crowd, knowing he was too far from her.
Knowing he couldn’t stop her.
“My lords and ladies!” The duchess was calling out to the world below as she took her husband’s hand, and began the proceedings. “As you know, I am a great fan of scandal!”
The room laughed, thrilled by the mysterious events, and Temple kept moving, desperate to get to Mara. To stop her from doing something reckless.
“To that end,” the duchess continued, “I’ve been assured there will be a truly scandalous announcement tonight! Before we unmask . . .” She paused, no doubt adoring the excitement, and waved a hand to Mara. “I present . . . a guest whose identity even I did not know!”
Temple attempted to increase his pace, but all of London seemed to be in the room with them, and no one wanted to give up a spot so close to promised scandal. He lifted a woman out of the way with his good arm, ignoring her squeak of surprise.
Her companion turned to him, all bluster, but Temple was already moving forward, whispers of The Killer Duke trailing behind him.
Good. Maybe people would get out of the goddamn way.
Mara came forward and spoke, her voice clear and strong. “For too long, I have hidden from you. For too long, I have allowed you to think that I was gone. For too long, I have allowed you to place blame on the innocent.”
The clock began to chime midnight, and Temple began moving faster.
Don’t do it , he willed her. Don’t do this to yourself.
“For too long, I have allowed you to believe that William Harrow, the Duke of Lamont, was a killer.”
He stopped at the words, at the sound of his name and title on her lips, at the gasps and shock rolling through the crowd as though they were thunder.
And still, the clock chimed.
She lifted her hands to the mask, untying the ribbons. Finishing her announcement. “But you see, he is no killer. For I am very much alive.”
He couldn’t reach her.
She removed the mask, and sank into a deep curtsy at the feet of the Duchess of Leighton. “My lady, forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Mara Lowe, daughter of Marcus Lowe. Sister to Christopher Lowe. Thought dead for twelve years.”
Why would she do it?
She met his gaze through the crowd. Saw him.
Did she not always see him?
“Not dead. Never dead,” she said, sadness in her gaze. “Indeed, the villain of the play.”
The last bell of midnight echoed in the silence that followed the announcement, and then, as though they’d been set free, the crowd moved, exploding into excitement and scandal and madness.
She turned and ran, and he couldn’t reach her.
Gossip and speculation exploded around him. He heard it in snippets and scraps.
“She ruined him—”
“—how dare she!”
“Using one of us!”
“Ruining one of us!”
This was it . . . what he’d thought he wanted for her. What he’d wished for in the dead of night on the street outside his home all those nights ago. Before he’d realized that her ruination was the last thing he wanted. Before he’d realized he wanted her. He loved her.
“That poor man—”
“I always said he was too aristocratic to have done any such thing—”
“Aye, and too handsome as well—”
“And the girl!”
“The devil herself.”
“She’ll never be able to show her face again.”
She’d ruined herself. For him.
Only now, once he had it, once he heard the loathing in their voices, he hated it. And he hated them. And he had half a mind to battle the entire room.