As though he knew himself well enough to never have to see his reflection ever again.
He was through the ropes then, and Bourne—now dwarfed by Temple—moved to Mr. Drake, saying words that Mara couldn’t hear. Drake lifted his arms wide and the marquess smoothed his palms down his sides, patting the fabric of his breeches in a clinical, if rather shocking movement.
Mara could not keep quiet. “What are they doing?”
A lady came to her side. “Checking for weapons. The fighters are allowed a second to make sure that the bout is a fair one.”
“Temple would never cheat,” Mara said, the words drawing the attention of the women around her before she could hold them back. Heat flooded her cheeks as she looked from one to the next, finally settling on the woman who had spoken, uncommonly tall and blond, brown eyes glittering near gold in the reflection of the brightly lit ring.
“No,” the lady said. “He wouldn’t.”
There. There was the experience that Mara had misheard earlier. This woman knew him.
She was beautiful enough for it.
They were no doubt beautiful together, matched only in height—with everything else perfectly contrasted to each other. She imagined this woman’s long arms wrapped around his neck, her long fingers threaded through his dark hair. His massive hands at her waist. Possessing her. Loving her.
And she hated him all over again, but now for another, more confusing reason.
A long whistle sounded from the other end of the room, “What I wouldn’t give to be Drake’s second right now!”
Mara’s attention returned to the ring, where the well-dressed aristocrat approached Temple, awkwardly indicating that he, too, should raise his arms. He did, the muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling with the movement, and Mara’s mouth went dry at the image he made, waiting for the man to check his person for weapons, smirk on his lips, as though he had the devil himself on his side, and therefore had no need of trickery.
She imagined his arms high above his head, caught in the scandalous strap that hung from his ceiling, where she’d held herself still, the cool leather biting into her palms, a contrast with his heat. With his touch. With his kiss.
But she hated him.
“Go on, man! Touch him!”
“Take him in hand!”
“Make sure to check all the nooks and crannies!”
The ladies were competing for bawdiest encouragement now, laughing and crying out as the aristocrat in the ring checked the Duke of Lamont with a speed born of fear or embarrassment or both.
“Not so quickly!”
“Or so soft!”
“I’d bet my fortune that Temple likes a firm hand!”
“Don’t you mean your husband’s fortune?” came the retort, and the redhead at the window turned to the room, a wide grin on her pretty face.
“What the earl doesn’t know shan’t hurt him. Look at the size of him!”
“Ten quid says he’s that big all over.”
“No one will take that bet, Flora,” someone replied, laughter seeping into the tone. “Not one of us wants you to be wrong.”
“I’d risk a night with the Killer Duke to find out!”
The laughter fairly shook the room, nearly all of the women taking immense pleasure from the words—from their own additions to the lewd suggestions. Mara looked down the room, at the long row of silks and satins and perfect coifs and maquillage, and the way the women fairly salivated at Temple, remembering his moniker but not the truth of it—that he was a duke. That he deserved their respect.
And that, even if he weren’t a duke . . . he wasn’t an animal.
As they were treating him.
As her actions had made them treat him.
The realization came on a wave of regret, and the keen knowledge that if she could go back in time . . . if she could change everything, she would have found another way to escape that life. A way that would have freed her from the chains of a cruel father and a cold husband, and still saved this man from such wicked, unpleasant shame.
But she couldn’t.
This was their life. Their dance. Their battle.
Blessedly, the seconds completed their inspections, leaving Temple to run a line in the sawdust at the center of the ring with his boot. Even that movement, which should have been harsh and unmeasured, was graceful.
“The scratch line,” her new companion explained. “The men face off on either side of the line. As many rounds as necessary until one falls and does not rise.”
“Bets are closed, ladies,” the dark-skinned man who had escorted her to this room spoke for the first time, reminding Mara that they were in a gaming hell—that even this moment was worth money to The Fallen Angel.
Temple waited, unmoving, for Drake to approach.
The narration continued. “Temple always allows the opponent to take the first hold.”
“Why?” she asked, hating the breathlessness in the word. She’d been dragged here, against her will, to watch this expression of utter brutality.
So why did she suddenly care so much for the answer?