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.
He’d battle all of Britain for her if he had to.
A hand came down on his shoulder. “Your Grace—” He turned to face a man he did not know, all good breeding and aristocratic bearing. Hating the title on his lips. “I’ve always said you didn’t do it. Join us for a game?” He indicated a group of men around him, and nodded toward the card rooms off the ballroom.
This was it . . . the goal for which he’d wished.
Acceptance.
Absolution.
As she’d promised.
As though none of it had ever happened.
Killer Duke no more.
But she wasn’t there. And it was all wrong.
He turned away from his title. From his past. From the only thing he’d ever wanted.
And he went after the only thing he’d ever needed.
She should have left immediately.
He was trapped in the ballroom with all of London hoping to reconcile, and she could have outrun him. She had meant to. But she couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.
And so she stood in the shadows outside his town house in Temple Bar, blending into the darkness, promising herself that she would only look. That she wouldn’t approach him.
That she’d leave him. Redeemed.
She’d given him everything she could.
She’d loved him.
And that, plus one short glimpse of him in the night, on gleaming cobblestones, would be enough.
Except it wasn’t.
His carriage clattered down the street at breakneck speed, and he leapt from inside before it came to a stop, calling up instructions to the driver. “Get to the Angel. Tell them what’s happened. And find her.”