Mara burned with anger, wanting to take her fists to every one of these women.
Someone laughed. “You think you can land him yourself?”
“I heard that he loves her,” Anna said, her eyes on Mara, her words deceptively lazy.
As she loves him. Quite desperately.
“Nonsense,” one of the women replied. “Who could love someone who did such a thing? I’m sure he quite hates her.”
He should. But somehow—by some miracle—he doesn’t.
Mara began to fidget. She wanted this all done. She wanted him.
Immediately.
“And besides,” the first said, “I’m a marchioness. And terribly young to be widowed.”
As though all Temple should be considering for his future happiness was a title. Mara hated the thought.
“I imagine there is quite a queue lined up for the position of Duchess of Lamont,” another said happily. “And not just the widows. My sister has a daughter nearly eighteen, and she would kill for a ducal son-in-law.” The room laughed, and the speaker continued. “It is not a jest. I would not put honest murder past some of these mothers on the marriage mart.”
Mara swallowed back the words that rose to her tongue, desperate to be spoken. He didn’t need a title. He needed a woman who understood him. One who loved him. One who would spend the rest of her days making him happy.
One who would keep him safe from them.
From the ring beyond.
She turned to Anna. “You must stop it.”
Anna shook her head. “The challenge was made. The bets have been laid.”
“Bollocks the bets!” Mara said.
Anna’s gaze filled with respect. “You sound like Temple.”
“You’re damn right I sound like him,” Mara pushed, worry and irritation and frustration warring for dominant position in her emotions. “Take me to Chase. He shall listen to me.”
Anna’s eyes betrayed her surprise. “Trust me, Miss Lowe, Chase would change nothing about this night. There is a great deal of money on this fight.”
“Then he’s no kind of friend. Temple is not ready to fight again. His wound is still unhealed. He could set himself back days. Weeks. Worse.” She turned on Anna. “Was he forced to do this?”
The prostitute laughed. “Temple has never been forced to do anything in his life.”
“Then why?” Mara’s gaze moved to the ring, to where he stood half naked and proud and beautiful. She moved for the door, and the enormous security guard there blocked her from leaving. She turned back to Anna. “Why?”
She smiled at that, soft and sad. “For you.”
“For me!” Insanity.
“He avenges you.”
Even now. After all she’d done.
Her gaze fell on him, taking in the ripple of his muscles, the set of his jaw. The way his gaze tracked his opponent. But there was something different in this Temple. Something that she had not seen all the other nights.
Anger.
Desperation.
Frustration.
Sadness.
He loved her.
Just as she loved him. Mara closed her eyes. She might not deserve him, but she wanted him nonetheless.
She pressed her hands to the window. “He thinks I am gone.”
“Yes,” Anna said.
“Take me to him.”
“Not yet.”
That’s when the second fighter entered the ring. Her brother. “What is he doing here?”
“Showing his idiocy,” Anna said. “He came to the club and challenged Temple.”
She’d given him money. A chance to leave. And still, he’d come here out of greed and insolence and childishness.
She shook her head.
“Your brother insulted you.”
Mara had no doubt that Kit had done so with colorful aplomb. “Nevertheless, you must stop it.”
Anna looked to her, eyes suddenly wary. “Why?”
“Why?” Was the woman mad? “Because he shall hurt himself!”
“Who? Your brother? Or Temple?”
Had everyone in the entire world gone mad?
Mara faced Anna. “You think I don’t love him.”
“I think he is a man who deserves more love than most. And I think you are the reason why. So yes, I worry that you don’t love him enough. I worry that in this instance, you want the fight stopped for a different reason.”
She wanted the fight stopped so she could be with him. So she could love him. So she could finally, finally put the past to rest.
But the fight began before she could say so, and this new, angry Temple led the bout, coming out hard and fast, striking first with several blows, a right hook. A right jab. A right cross.
Always the right.
Kit recovered, coming at him with one blow, a second of his own, sending Temple dancing back across the ring. Mara watched the bandage, saw the linen ties that kept it in place loosen. Turned to Anna. “Please. Take me to Chase. We must end this.”
The prostitute shook her head. “This is his fight. For you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“And yet, you receive it all the same.”
Another right hook. A right jab.
That’s when Kit saw the pattern.
Mara looked away. A child could see the pattern.