What had she done to him?
She lifted one auburn brow. “Well, Your Grace? Do you fight? Or forfeit?”
“Neither.”
He did not wait for her to reply, instead lifting her into his arms, grateful that her mask was still affixed to her face, and carrying her from the ring, the cheers of all of London in his ears.
It would have been an excellent plan, if not for the man blocking his path.
Christopher Lowe.
Heart pounding, Mara was caught up in Temple’s arms, too distracted by the strength of him and the excitement of their verbal bout and the euphoria of her unsettling him to realize that he’d stopped. She didn’t notice until he set her down, her body sliding along his until her feet found the sawdust-covered floor.
“Lowe,” he said, low and dark, and she spun toward the word. He was revealing her now? She supposed it was a good move. The checkmate of their game.
But disappointment came, nonetheless.
Until she realized he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her, over her right shoulder, into the eyes of her brother, who stood several feet away, on the edge of the ring, frustration and something worse in his gaze. Something unsettling. Something incalculable.
“You think you have won? You think you can take everything of mine . . .” He paused. “And my sister?”
The room went silent, every man present leaning forward to hear the conversation.
She stepped toward her brother, knowing that he was furious. Eager to calm him. To keep him from Temple. From ruining her plans. From ruining what she was building.
The good and the bad.
Temple stopped her with a hand on her arm, immediately placing himself between her and her brother. Kit was already shaking his head, coming forward, driven by stupidity, his voice loud and angry. “All of London thinks you a winner. A hero. But the Killer Duke is nothing more than a coward.” He looked to Mara, and she saw the loathing there, her father’s as much as Kit’s. “A coward and a whoremonger.”
The gasp that rippled through the room was Mara’s as much as any others’. The words were a blow, dealt from the one man who should have been concerned for her reputation. Temple would have to fight him now. He wouldn’t have a choice, and Kit knew it. One did not call a man a coward and not receive a fight. She stepped toward him, wanting to stop it. Wishing she could hurt him herself.
Temple’s arm came across her chest. He turned to her. Spoke softly, for her ears only. “No. This is my fight.”
There was anger in his gaze, too. But it was different, somehow.
It was for her.
Who was this man?
Kit did not see the anger, too blinded by his own bluster. “You won’t fight the one man who has an honest reason for it.” He lifted his fists. “But now I am here, and you can’t ignore me. You’ll fight me.”
The words unlocked the men assembled. They moved in a wave of humanity, bombarding the bookmakers around the room, each eager to place their bets.
“It’s the Fight of the Century!” someone called out.
“Two hundred on Temple for an immediate win!” Another cried, “A single round—repeated!”
“Fifty says Temple breaks three of Lowe’s ribs!” A deep voice called.
“I’ve seventy-five on the Killer Duke earning his moniker again!”
London had been waiting for this fight for a decade. For longer. The Killer Duke versus the brother of his kill. The ultimate David and Goliath.
Kit’s words from their meeting days earlier echoed through her. I am not free of this. And now, neither are you. He would ruin everything. Lose it all, again. And destroy everything she’d worked for in the process. Temple would get his vengeance; she would get nothing.
The thought should have brought resignation. Should have brought devastation. Should have come on the urge to flee. But instead, it brought sadness, for hadn’t there been a time, a moment, when she’d had a taste of what it would be to win it all? The money, the orphanage . . . the man?
She pushed the thought away.
He was not for winning. Certainly not by her.
She didn’t deserve him.
Now, after this, he would be rid of her.
Temple turned to her, pushing her back to the ropes. “Temple,” she said quietly, not knowing how she would finish.
This wasn’t my plan.
I didn’t know he was here.
Win.
He didn’t look at her. It was as though she didn’t exist. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. All she wanted was for him to see her. All she wanted was to go back. To the dressmaker. To the night on the street outside his home. To twelve years earlier.
All she wanted was to change it.
“Temple,” she said, again, wishing his name said all of it.
He ignored her, lifting her over the ropes and passing her down to the Marquess of Bourne standing on the other side. Bourne caught her and held her, keeping her safe from the throngs around them. “He should kill you for setting him up.”
Dear God. They couldn’t possibly think she’d planned this.