Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(74)

Of course he hadn’t. But not in the way she thought. His father had hurt him again and again by promising that if Ewan ever misstepped, Grace would suffer. Devil and Whit, too. Ewan would play the part of doting son. Of Earl.

And if he didn’t, the people he loved would pay.

Of course the whole world had thought him mad. And if he’d known she’d come here? To this rooftop, to wait for him? He would have razed the building to keep her safe.

And then, a worse thought. One that terrified him. “Did you ever see him?”

It was the only thing that mattered. Ewan did not think he could bear the idea of her coming face to face with his father—even now, even as a Covent Garden queen who could more than easily hold her own against the dead duke.

She shook her head. “No.”

She could have been killed.

“You should never have had to find your way here. You should never have had to count chimney stacks,” he said, anger flaring. “This was supposed to be—” It was supposed to be she who was the child of this home, and instead, in a wild twist of fate, it had become he. “This should have been your house. You should be the one with the coveted address, the warm bed waiting below. The servants and the carriages and the money beyond imagining.”

“I have a warm bed waiting,” she replied, her eyes dark and unreadable. “And servants and carriages and money beyond imagining. I’ve even a coveted address, as far as addresses go in the East End.” She paused. “Don’t wring your hands. I never wanted the title, the pomp, or the circumstance. And I’ve done quite well on my own.”

“Who is Dahlia?”

She smiled. “You’re looking at her.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not. I’ve seen her. At my masquerade. In the warehouse yard, ending a riot. Downstairs, for a heartbeat, until you gave me access to Grace.” She fidgeted beneath the words and he knew he was right. “But who is she?”

She met his gaze. “She’s the queen.”

He hated that she wouldn’t tell him. Hated that she didn’t trust him with her truth.

But he couldn’t blame her.

He took a deep breath, his gaze tracing over her corset, the gold thread gleaming in the barely-there light from the candle at her feet, an echo of a memory. “Do you remember what I promised you? When we were young?”

“We promised each other a thousand things, Ewan.”

He nodded, loving the sound of his name on her lips. “You remember, though.”

For some reason, it mattered that she did, and he let out a long breath when she said, “You promised me gold thread.”

Relief shot through him and he nodded, watching her. “At the time, it was all I could think to promise you. My mother . . .” He paused, and she watched him so carefully, her beautiful eyes so full of understanding, even now, even as he’d betrayed her. Even as he’d betrayed them all. “She’d talk about gold thread like it was currency. I thought it was the most extravagant thing I could give you.”

“I never wanted extravagance.”

“I wanted to give it to you, nonetheless. I promised you—”

I would make you duchess.

She heard it. “I never wanted that, either,” she said, softly, before coming to her feet and approaching him. “I only ever wanted the world you offered me.” She stopped in front of him and looked up, her eyes black with the darkness, the light from the moon and the candle she’d left behind barely enough to see her. “Do you remember that?”

He remembered everything.

“Much of it is the same, you know. The carts on the cobblestones still clatter and clang, and there’s never a moment when a brawl isn’t ready in a tavern. And the market square is full of farmers and broad tossers, all looking to sell you something.”

When they were young, he painted her countless pictures of the Garden, full of life and freedom, glossing over the bad bits and giving her the good, convinced that she’d never have to face the first.

“And so? Have you learned all the curse words?”

She grinned, her teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Every last one. I’ve created some of my own.”

“I should like to hear them.”

“I don’t think you’re ready for them.”

That tease again, a hint of what could be. He clung to it. “And now you know the best part,” he said, softly.

“The rain turns the streets to gold.”

He reached for her at that, thinking she might flinch from him, but she didn’t. He touched the side of her face, pushed a lock of her beautiful hair behind one ear, loving the memory of it. There had been a thousand things they’d never done together—but this—a gentle touch, a stolen moment—it was all familiar.

“I never wanted the dukedom,” she said. “I wanted the Garden. That was what you promised me. That we would give it what it deserved.”

We’re going to change all that.

“And did you?” he asked, knowing the answer. “Did you make good on my promise?”

She nodded. “We did.”

Her. Devil. Whit. He hadn’t been a part of it. In fact, he’d made it worse.

He looked to the sky. “I sent money. To the families.”