Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(55)

She clung to that: the duke’s son who had stolen the dukedom. And he’d done it by leaving her to the wolves. And then he’d kept it by making sure the wolves stayed on the hunt.

Hadn’t he?

Doubt, fresh and unsettling.

Past the women, at the far end of the alley, there was a spot to take to the rooftops, footholds built into the side of the building, and Grace headed for it, knowing it was the surest way to lose him.

She wanted to lose him.

Didn’t she?

“I don’t know, but I’d be very happy to ’ave a second look at that one—really be certain he’s as pretty as he seemed.”

Grace reached for a brick protruding from the wall, ready to begin her climb, when the reply came—and not from the women. “I’d be more than happy to give you a second look, ladies.”

“Good God!” one of the women she did not know squeaked. “It’s ’im!”

Grace froze, clinging to the wall, the tails of her coat billowing out behind her, admiration flaring before she could stop it. He’d found her more quickly than she’d expected. She turned her head just enough to see him at the entrance to the alleyway, the blood from the gash on his cheek now dried, his once-white shirt now stained beyond repair, torn at the shoulder, clinging to the taut muscles of his chest.

Not that she noticed.

He raised a brow, noticing her not noticing.

Grace lowered herself to the ground and slowly turned around. “Lookin’ a bit worse for wear if you ask me, Duke.”

The women tittered.

“That much is true—the men in your Rookery know how to throw a punch.” He lifted a hand and touched the bruise blooming beneath his left eye.

“The women, too,” one of them said with a low, throaty laugh.

Ewan smirked at that, but did not look away from Grace. “Aye, I’ve experience with that, as well.”

She lifted her chin. “Seems like you’ve crossed the wrong crew, if you ask me.”

“It takes me time to learn my lesson.”

The women assembled laughed at the self-deprecation. “Well, he ain’t done nuffin’ to cross me,” Alice said as she reached for a nearby basket. “Are you hungry, my lord? Would you like cake?”

“He doesn’t want cake,” Grace said.

“Nonsense. Of course I want cake,” he said, approaching the women. The words were barely made before a tea cloth was extracted from the basket and unwrapped, a treat passed in his direction.

With a thank-you, he turned and fetched a nearby crate, flipping it upside down. She saw the tiny wince as he hefted the box with one hand. Barely there.

He was in pain.

She ignored her response to the realization, instead gritting her teeth as he joined the circle of women around the tub as though he’d spent every day of his life marauding through Covent Garden, availing himself of proffered cakes.

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall, watching as he accepted the cake and took an enormous bite, nothing polite or mannered about it.

“Now that’s a man,” Alice said with pride.

“Aye,” Jenny replied. “I would’ve thought dukes would be more concerned wiv crumbs.”

He smiled around his chewing, his jaw working like he was a cow in pasture. Grace ignored how the exaggerated movements underscored the angle of that jaw. The beauty of it. The fact that a body could draw a straight line with it.

She didn’t care. She had a perfectly functional ruler in her office.

He swallowed. “I don’t see how anyone could worry about crumbs with such a delicious bite in hand.” He dipped his head and gave the full force of his smile to Alice, who flushed under the brilliance of it. Not that Grace could blame her. She’d flushed beneath the weight of that smile herself countless times. Jested and danced for it.

Spent ages trying to remember the exact curve of it. The precise way his eyes warmed with it. The way it felt against her skin.

She inhaled, and he turned to look at her. Alice’s attention lingered on him, as she said, “It’s nuffin’, really. Just my mum’s scones. Another?”

He rubbed his hands together like an excited boy. “You know, I believe I will, thank you.”

Alice looked over at Grace. “And you, Dahlia? Will you ’ave one?”

She looked behind her, to the wall she should scale. To the rooftops that would lead her to 72 Shelton, far from this place and this man and whatever this new trap he laid was.

But before Grace could offer Alice a polite refusal, before she could head for the wall—she looked to him first. And she saw the dare in his eyes, clear as day.

Why shouldn’t she accept the treat? This was her place as well as his. More than his. And that made the scones more hers than his, too.

She approached, and Jenny moved to one side of the low block upon which she was perched, making room for Grace as she selected a scone and sat down across from him, making sure the washtub was between them, as though a metal drum of tepid, dirty water would protect her.

Not that she needed protection.

She didn’t. Not even when the man who sat across from her was nothing of what she expected—he was neither the boy she’d loved for too long, nor the madman she’d feared for longer, nor the lover she’d given herself over to some evenings earlier . . . for not long enough.