It was a miracle he could look at her.
It was a miracle he could be near her.
She did not deserve him.
“What happened after the first night?” She asked.
“There was a second, and a third,” he said, working at the buttons of her glove with one skilled hand, doffing the garment with the same efficiency with which he’d donned it. “And then I learned to make my way.”
He slid the silk from her fingers and she immediately placed the hand on his arm, feeling the muscles there bunch and ripple beneath the touch. “You learned to fight.”
He turned his attention to the other glove. “I was big. And strong. All I had to do was forget the rules of boxing that I’d learned at school.”
She nodded. She’d forgotten every rule she’d ever learned as a child in order to survive once she’d run. “They no longer applied.”
He met her gaze as the second glove slid off. “It worked well for me. I was angry, and gentlemen’s rules did little to assuage that. I fought on the streets for two years, taking any fight with money to pay.” He paused, then smiled. “And any number of fights without money to pay.”
“How did you come to the Angel?”
His brow furrowed. “Bourne and I had been friends at school. When he lost everything that was not entailed, he found himself down on his luck, and we decided to form an alliance. He ran dice games. I made sure the losers paid.” She was surprised by the turn of events, and he saw it. “You see? Not so honorable after all.”
“What then?” she prodded, desperate to know the story.
“One night, we went too far. Pushed too hard. And backed a group of men into an unpleasant corner.”
She could imagine. “How many of them?”
He shrugged his good shoulder, his hand sliding down the side of her thigh, distracting her. “A dozen. Maybe more.”
Her attention returned to him. “Against you?”
“And Bourne.”
“Impossible.”
He smiled. “So little faith in me.”
Her brows shot up. “Am I incorrect?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Then Chase.”
The mysterious Chase. “He was there?”
“In a sense. We’d been fighting for what seemed like an age, and they kept coming—I really did think we were done for.” He pointed to the scar at the corner of his eye. “I couldn’t see out of my eye for the blood.” She winced, and he instantly stopped. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” she said, lifting her hand to the thin white line, tracing it with her fingers, wondering what he would do if she kissed it. “I just don’t like the idea of you hurt.”
He smiled, capturing her hand and bringing it to his lips, placing a kiss on the tips of her fingers. “But drugged?”
She met his smile with her own. “At my hands, it’s a different matter.”
“I see,” he said, and she loved the laughter in his voice. “Well . . . suffice to say, I thought we were done for. And then a carriage pulled up and a group of men piled out—and then I thought we were definitely done for,” he added. “But they fought on our side. And I didn’t care who they worked for, as long as Bourne and I lived.”
“They worked for Chase.”
Temple inclined his head. “So they did.”
“And then you worked for him.”
He shook his head. “With. Never for. From the beginning, the offer was clear. Chase had an idea for a casino that would change the face of aristocratic gaming forever. But that idea required a fighter. And a gamer. And Bourne and I were precisely that combination.”
She let out a long breath. “He saved you.”
“Undoubtedly.” He paused, lost in thought. “And never once believed me a killer.”
“Because you weren’t,” she said, this time having no choice but to lean in and press a kiss to his temple. She lingered on the caress, and he caught her close. When she pulled away from him, he moved to capture her lips.
They lingered there, tangled together for a long moment, before Mara pulled away. “I want the rest of the story. You became unbeatable.”
His bad hand flexed against her hip. “I was always good at violence.”
Her hands moved of their own volition, sliding across his wide, warm chest. He was magnificently made, she knew, the product of years of fighting. Not simply for sport, but for safety.
“It was my purpose.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It wasn’t.”
He’d been clever and funny and kind. And ever so handsome. But he hadn’t been violent.
He captured her chin in a firm grip. “Hear me, Mara. You didn’t make me into that man. If I hadn’t had the seed of violence in me—I never would have succeeded. The Angel never would have succeeded.”
She refused to believe it. “When one is forced into a role, one assumes it. You were forced. Circumstances forced you.” She paused. “ I forced you.”
“And who forced you?” he asked, threading his fingers into hers, holding her hand against his chest, where she could feel the heavy beat of his heart. “Who stole you away from the world?”
Their entire conversation had come to this. He’d recounted his story with precision and purpose, bringing her slowly around to this moment, when it was her turn. When she could tell him the truth, or tell him nothing at all.
One way, she was safe.
The other way, she was in terrible danger.
In danger of becoming his.
Temptation was a wicked, wonderful thing.
She focused on the knot of his perfect cravat. “Do you have a valet?”
“No.”
She nodded. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
He reached up and unknotted the neck cloth, unwrapping it until he revealed a perfect triangle of warm, brown skin, dusted with curling black hair.
He was beautiful.
It was a strange word to describe a man like him—broad and strong and perfectly made. Most would choose handsome or striking , something with heft that oozed masculinity.
But he was beautiful. All scars and sinew and, beneath it all, a softness that she couldn’t help but be drawn to.
The words came easily. “I have always been afraid. Since I was a girl. Afraid of my father, then of yours. Then of being found. Then, once I heard of my mistake—of what I did to you when I left—of not being found.” She did look at him then, meeting his beautiful black gaze. “I should have returned the moment I discovered you’d been accused of my murder. But the dice had been thrown, and I did not know how to call them back.”
He shook his head. “I run a casino. I know better than anyone that the roll is final once the ivories leave one’s hand.”
“I didn’t know what happened to you for months. I went to Yorkshire, and the news there was spotty at best. I didn’t even know the Killer Duke was you until . . .”
He nodded. “It was too late.”
“Don’t you see? It wasn’t too late. It was never too late. But I was terrified that if I returned . . .” She paused. Collected herself. “My father would have been furious. And I was still betrothed to yours. And I was afraid.”
“You were young.”
She met his understanding gaze. “I did not come back when they died, either.” It had occurred to her. She’d wanted to. She’d known that it was the right thing to do. But. “I was afraid then, too.”