Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(33)

“Tonight only,” she said.

He sucked in a breath. She offered him one night. Masked. Pure fantasy.

It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.

“Tonight only,” he lied.

The words unlocked her. Her hand tightened in his, and she moved, magnificently, impossibly pulling him through the revelers and out into the gardens beyond.





Chapter Ten


What of the fantasy I offer you?

Perhaps if he hadn’t framed it in such a way, using that word she loved so much—that word that had been tossed at her earlier in the week—perhaps she might have resisted it.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tempting. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so handsome. Perhaps if he hadn’t had such a brilliant smile.

Perhaps . . . but not likely.

Because when he asked her, masked and all, about her desires, she realized that somewhere, deep inside her, she desired this. An evening of fantasy. An evening with this man, against whom she’d measured every other man for twenty years, like a curse. An evening with him, without any consequences—as long as she kept her mask on. As long as he remained in the dark.

An evening when she took from him, not the other way around.

He’d taken from her for so long. Her name, her life, her safety, her future. He’d promised her all of those things, and delivered on none. He owed her, didn’t he?

So, what if she took the payment?

Just once. Just tonight. In the gardens. Masked and unknown.

Dahlia, collecting for Grace.

A woman, finally getting her due.

Tonight, and then she’d put this—and him—out of her mind.

And tomorrow? She’d find a way to exit him from London.

But tonight, she clasped his hand in hers and pulled him from the ballroom, through the writhing crowds and the soaring trees, the rich scent of moss that wrapped around them giving way as they walked out the doors and into the gardens, to the smell of flowers—evening-scented stocks, overflowing planters all over the balcony—and Grace stilled for a moment, letting the fragrance flow around her.

The orangery at Burghsey Hall had always had stocks in abundance, and it had been one of her favorite evening hiding places, because of the rich twilight scent of the flowers. And with the scent, another memory, Ewan and her, beneath a gardening table as the sun set through the western windows. His hand in hers. Their fingers intertwined. Surrounded by this exact scent.

She turned to him. Did he remember?

He smiled. “By all means, my lady,” he said, his voice full of dark promise. “Don’t stop now.”

Who was this new man?

Where was Ewan? What had happened to him?

You sent him away. And now, this man returns in his place.

A whisper of suspicion came with the words. Something like doubt. Something that didn’t feel right. Pushing it away, she laced her fingers with his and pulled him down the steps, passing a chess piece giggling in the arms of a musketeer, and another Marie Antoinette, who peered closely at them as they rushed by.

What was it with aristocratic women and Marie Antoinette—had they all forgotten that she’d misjudged her power and ended up without a head?

But let them eat cake . . .

He squeezed her hand and she looked back, stilling, letting him pull her around toward him and redirect their movements—no longer headed for the main garden, but for a side path, poorly lit and winding through a collection of linden trees. She followed.

“I suppose it’s true what they say,” she whispered softly as he guided her away from the house and the light. “Unmarried gentlemen will always lead you down the garden path.”

He did not laugh at the words. Instead, he cast a quick, scalding look back at her before stopping at a door, set into the wall to their right. She hadn’t noticed there was a wall, let alone a door, until he threw the iron catch and pushed the heavy oak open to reveal a magnificent landscape—a small patch of green, surrounded on its edges by a stunning garden in what Grace was certain daylight would expose as vibrant flowerbeds. And at the center, a gazebo, beautifully designed and painted.

She swallowed, taking in the space. “It’s magical.”

“It’s private,” he said, pulling her up the steps and into the gazebo before turning to face her, his fingers stroking along her arm, up, up, magnificently up, until the cool leather of his gloves was tracing over her chin, the sensation drawing her to him. Her lips parted, her eyes, behind her mask, tracking his own mouth, full and lush—just as she remembered it. How many times did she think of that mouth? How many times had she dreamed of kissing it, late at night, when she could afford a dream that felt like betrayal?

How many times had she stopped the fantasy, hating that she still wanted this man who had betrayed her so fully?

Let me be your fantasy.

“Wait—” he said, pulling his hand away from her, the removal of the touch like punishment. He ripped his glove off with his teeth and tossed it to the ground. “Now. Let me—” and he reached for her, his fingers a hot promise against her skin.

The touch was urgent and gentle, as though he couldn’t bear to wait for her, and still, he wished to do it right.

“Let me . . .” The earlier command became a plea. He was asking to kiss her.

She wanted it. Yes. And still—before she could speak the words, she hesitated. “Wait.” He did, instantly releasing her with a little groan of frustration.