Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards, #3)

by Sarah MacLean

There was nothing in the wide world like his laugh.

She’d never strayed far from this enormous manor house, tucked into the quiet Essex countryside two days’ walk northeast of London, where rolling green hills turned to wheat as autumn crept across the land.

Seriousness was how they survived. She didn’t want that now. Not while the last of the summer butterflies danced in rays of light above, filling the whole place with magic that kept the worst at bay.

“I didn’t even know cursing existed before you three.” Boys who came into her life like a riot themselves, rough and tumble and foul-mouthed and wonderful.

Lord deliver her from obnoxious brothers.

“And so? What, he gets your care? Tender mending from the woman he loves?” “Get stuffed,” she said. “He doesn’t love me.” Twin amber gazes leveled her. Her heart began to pound. “He doesn’t.” No reply. “What he feels—it’s never been love.”

Grace did not hesitate. “Where is he?” Veronique’s gaze tracked to Devil and Whit, and then back to her. What had she wrought? “He ripped the door off the hinge.”

Devil’s words followed her. “I almost feel sorry for the bastard. He won’t know what’s hit him.” And then, Whit’s reply. “Almost.”

“I’ve brought London to its knees searching for you,” he replied. “You think a door would keep me away?” Her brows rose. “And yet here you are, on your knees, so it seems something has kept you from me after all.” He lifted his chin. “I’m looking at you, love, so I don’t feel kept from you at all.”

He inhaled sharply as her nails raked over the several days’ growth of beard, tracing over the rough stubble, toward his chin. He stilled, afraid that if he moved, she’d stop. Don’t stop.

She stared deep into his eyes, her gaze holding him in thrall. “How you look at me,” she said softly, the sound barely there and filled with disbelief.

Her eyes saw every inch of him, laying him bare with their investigation. And he couldn’t stop himself as she drew closer and closer, setting his pulse pounding, until the room fell away, and it was nothing but the two of them, and then he fell away, and it was nothing but her. “They hid you from me.”

Impossible. No one could want anything the way he wanted her. Take it, he willed. Please, God. Kiss me.

“I found you,” he said, the words like a prayer. “No,” she corrected him, softly. “I found you, Ewan.”

Grace was gone instantly, as though drawn by a string, and the loss of her touch made him wild. Ewan turned toward the sound, a low growl in his throat, like a dog who’d been promised a meal and had it snatched away at the last second.

“He told me you were dead,” he said, turning back to her—keen for her nearness. “But you’re not dead. You’re alive,” he said once. Then again, unable to hide the relief from his voice. The reverence. “You’re alive.”

“I would do it again. Untie me.” She watched him for a long moment in silence. “You know, I thought about you as I walked those cobblestones and learned to love them. As I learned to protect them, as though it had been me born in a Covent Garden drainpipe, and not you.” “Untie me. Let me—” Let me hold you. Let me touch you.

And then, the bastard smirked. “Like what you see?” She narrowed her gaze. “No.” “Liar.”

“I felt you,” he said, low enough that only she would hear. “I know you touched me.” Impossible. He’d been dosed with laudanum. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Not me.” “It was. It was you,” he said, softly, advancing on her with slow, predatory grace. “You think I would forget your touch? You think I wouldn’t know it in the darkness? I would know it in battle. I would walk through fire for it. I would know it on the road to hell. I would know it in hell, which is where I’ve been, aching for it, every day since you left.”

“It is.” He leaned in closer. “Do you have a name?” Only the one you gave me.

He’d known it was her from the moment she’d stepped into the ballroom, in a dress that fell in lush emerald waves to the floor, despite the mask covering everything but her beautiful kohled eyes and the dark wine color staining her lips, and the wig that stole her flame-colored curls from him. He presumed she was trying for disguise, as though he’d ever not sense her. Not feel her. As though there would ever come a time when she walked into a room and his whole body did not draw tight like a spring.

So, he’d built this mad ballroom and thrown this mad masquerade, with the singular vow that he would never chase her again. But that, instead, she might chase him. Or, at least, come through the door. She had, and it was like breath after being under water for too long.

He moved faster, eager to meet her, the woman the girl he’d loved had become.

She’d come alone. A thrill shot through him at the thought. Whatever it was . . . whyever it was . . . it was not disinterest. And he could work with that.

“Who says I’m the one who would be ruined?” He almost missed a step. “Are you offering to ruin me?” “Are you asking to be ruined?” Yes.

“Do you not search for a wife?” No. I have already found her.

“Are you interested in the position?” He forced teasing flirt into the words, when he wanted to rip their masks off, pack her into a carriage, and take her directly to a vicar. To make her duchess, as he’d promised all those years ago.

She lifted her eyes to his, loving and hating the way he stared at her—as though there was nothing in the world he’d rather look at. “Let me see you again.” There was frenzy in the words. Something held tight that threatened to come unmoored.

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. The words refused to form. Of course he was back for her. He would always come back for her.

Ewan had never allowed himself the liberty of imagining children. But now—his brothers—they had children, and he wondered about them. If they had the amber eyes they all shared. If Devil’s daughter had a wide smile like her father. If she was as clever as her mother. If Whit’s child would grow as loyal as its father was.

Devil’s smile turned into a rich laugh. “You’ve been away from us for too long, toff.” He popped his hat on his head, pulling it down low on his brow, so all that was left was his scar and the lower half of his face. “Come and see us to make amends, or we’ll come back and take them.”

“We don’t have to wreck you,” his quiet brother, who’d suffered so much at his hands, said. “She’ll do the wrecking. And you won’t for a minute think you don’t deserve it.”

Veronique shrugged. “The girls talk.” “The girls shouldn’t talk,” Grace said. “You pay them to talk.” “Not about me!”

“Tell me,” Grace said. “How is it you both are so very certain that I will not sack you?” “For what, doing our job?”

“Truly, it is a miracle you two lived to adulthood. And found women to marry you,” she said softly.

No heir of mine will lie with the dreck that came from her bitch of a mother, he’d screamed, coming for her. Ewan had defended her, but his father had been stronger, with six inches and a hundred pounds on him. He’d taken Ewan to the ground and left his sadistic mark on him, as she watched. And the next day, everything had been different. The boy she’d loved was gone. He’d betrayed them days later.

Devil shrugged. “Nah. It won’t be a riot. It’ll just be a proper brawl. As God intended.”

He lifted his face to her, acknowledging her attention. Wondering what she would do if he scaled the damn wall to get to her.

They were planets, drawn to each other. No. He was a planet. She was the sun.

“I don’t care,” he said, his hand sliding up over her shoulder, pulling her back down toward him. “Come back and kiss me again.”

When they’d married, Whit had bought his wife a stunning town house on the western edge of the square, because she’d said she liked it, and he had set himself a singular life’s goal—spoiling Hattie.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Felicity came over from her place by the window, the bright pink skirts of her gown rustling against the plush carpet. “Stand down, will you? Would you listen to this one,” she scoffed. “As though he’s lived the life of a saint.”

“That’s the first rule of surviving as a woman in the world. Men don’t change.” “That’s true,” Devil said. “Bollocks,” Felicity replied. “You changed.” “You changed me, love,” he said instantly. “That’s different.” “Of course, I did,” she said, “just as you changed me.”

“Grace,” Felicity said quietly. “What do you want?” What do you need? The words echoed, over and over. Come and see me when you know. She looked up at her brothers. “Perhaps I want hope, too.” “Goddammit.” “Fuck.” Felicity grinned at the men’s united response. “Well, then. Isn’t this exciting.”

She raised a brow. “We shall see.” “It’s not a no.”

“Devil’s face.” “I miscalculated,” he said, the words barely sound. “It was never intended to be so long. He came at a different angle than I expected.” “Intended.” She met his eyes. “Expected.” He did not look away. “I had to make it look real.” “For your father to believe it.” He shook his head. “For you to believe it.”

When he was through, she was loose in his arms, and when she opened her eyes, he said, “I’m going to marry you.” Another kiss, quick and lush. “I’m going to marry you, and we will keep this place safe, and you will never have to fight alone ever again. We shall fight together.”

“I want you,” he said, and she hated the way the words came, resigned. “I want you and I love you, and it isn’t first love. It’s final. And if you cannot see that—if you cannot find the courage to take it, and to revel in it, and to let me stand by your side, then it is not enough.” He shook his head. “How many tests must I pass before you believe in it? Before you trust it? Before you trust me?”

“Christ.” Whit was the first to speak. “He gave himself over to Marwick. To keep us safe.”

Devil’s cane tapped against the roof in an even, pensive rhythm. “Fuck,” he finally whispered, awe in his tone. “He gave you up. Into our keeping. No wonder he was ready to blow up half of London when he thought we’d let you die.”