Home > No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(18)

No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(18)
Author: Sarah MacLean

A vision flashed, young, handsome Temple full of bold smiles and even bolder touches, tempting her with broad shoulders and black eyes. He needn’t keep them secret. No doubt, women fell over themselves to assume the role. She cast the thought aside. “I don’t imagine you do.”

“Thanks in large part to you,” he said, and pushed through a heavy curtain into the dressing room, leaving her to follow.

She should have expected the reminder that his life had been something else before it was this. He’d been the son and heir to one of the wealthiest, most revered dukedoms in Britain. And now he might still have the wealth, but he spent it in shadows. He had lost the reverence.

Because of her.

She swallowed back the twinge of guilt she felt at the thought, and instead hovered at the exit. “When do I receive my funds?”

“When our agreement is fulfilled.”

“How am I to know that you will keep your word?”

He considered her for a long moment, and she had the keen sense that she should not have questioned his honor. “You shall have to trust me.”

She scowled. “I’ve never met an aristocratic male worthy of trust.” She’d met them desperate and angry and abusive and lascivious and filled with disgust. But never honorable.

“Then you should be grateful that I am rarely considered aristocratic,” he replied, and turned away from her, the conversation complete.

She followed him into the dressing room of Madame Hebert’s, where the proprietress was already waiting, as though she had nothing better to do in all the world than stand here and wait for the Duke of Lamont to arrive.

His words, still echoing in her ears, proved true inside the salon. She wasn’t here for the Duke of Lamont. She was here for one of the powerful owners of London’s most legendary gaming hell.

“Temple,” Madame Hebert welcomed him, coming forward to rise up on her toes and deposit kisses on both of his cheeks. “You great, handsome beast. Were it anyone else, I would have denied the request.” She smiled, the pleasure in the expression matching the tenor of her rich French accent. “But I cannot resist you.”

Mara resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose as a chuckle rumbled from Temple’s chest. “You cannot resist Chase.”

Hebert laughed, the sound like fine crystal. “Well, a businesswoman must know where—as you English say—her bread is buttered.” Mara bit her tongue rather than ask if Temple hadn’t sent a fair number of customers in the dressmaker’s direction himself. She did not care to know.

And then Mara couldn’t speak, because the modiste’s dark gaze flickered to her, eyes going wide. “This one is beautiful.”

No one had ever described her as such. Well, perhaps someone once . . . a lifetime ago . . . but no one since that night she’d run.

Another thing that had changed.

The dressmaker was wrong. Mara was twenty-eight, with work-hewn hands and more lines around her eyes than she’d like to admit. She wasn’t painted or primped or pretty like the women she’d seen at The Fallen Angel that night, nor was she petite the way ladies in style were, or soft-spoken the way they should be.

And she certainly wasn’t gorgeous.

She opened her mouth, ready to refute the label, but Temple was already speaking, chasing the compliment away with his lack of acknowledgment. “She needs dressing.”

Mara shook her head. “I don’t need dressing.”

The Frenchwoman was already moving to light a series of candles surrounding a small platform at the center of the dressing room, as though Mara hadn’t spoken. “Remove your cloak, please.” The dressmaker cast a quick look in Temple’s direction. “An entire trousseau?”

“A half-dozen gowns. Another six day dresses.”

“I don’t—” Mara began before Madame Hebert cut her off.

“That won’t see her through two weeks.”

“She won’t need more than two weeks’ worth.”

Mara’s gaze narrowed. “ She is still present, is she not? In this room?”

The dressmaker’s brows rose in surprise. “ Oui , Miss—”

Temple spoke. “You don’t need to know her name yet.”

Yet. That single, small word that held so much meaning. Someday, the dressmaker would know her name and her history. But not tonight, and not tomorrow, as she draped and crafted the gowns that would be Mara’s ruin.

Hebert had finished lighting the candles, each new flame adding to the lovely golden pool into which Mara could only guess she was supposed to enter. Reaching into a deep pocket, the dressmaker extracted a measure and turned to Mara. “Miss. The coat. It must go.”

Mara did not move.

“Take it off,” Temple said, the words menacing in the darkness as he removed his own greatcoat and relaxed onto a nearby settee, placing one ankle on the opposite knee and draping the massive grey cloak across his lap. His face was cast in the room’s shadows.

Mara laughed, a short, humorless sound. “I suppose you think it is that simple? You command and women simply jump to do your bidding?”

“When it comes to the removal of ladies’ clothing, it often works that way, yes.” The words oozed from him, and Mara wanted to stomp her foot.

Instead, she took a deep breath and attempted to regain control. She extracted a little black book and a pencil from the deep pocket of her skirts and said, “How much does disrobing typically cost you?”

He looked as though he’d swallowed a great big insect. She would have laughed, if she weren’t so infuriated. Once he collected himself he said, “Fewer than ten pounds.”

She smiled. “Oh, was I unclear? That was the starting price of the evening.”

She opened the book, pretending to consider the blank page there. “I should think that dress fittings are another . . . five, shall we say?”

He barked his laughter. “You’re getting a selection of the most coveted gowns in London and I’m to pay you for it?”

“One cannot eat dresses, Your Grace,” she pointed out, using her very best governess voice.

It worked. “One pound.”

She smiled. “Four.”

“Two.”

“Three and ten.”

“ Two and ten.”

“Two and sixteen.”

“You are a professional fleecer.”

She smiled and turned to her book, light with excitement. She’d expected no more than two. “Two and sixteen it is.” The coal bill was paid.

“Go on then,” he said. “Off with the coat.”

She returned the book to her pocket. “You are a prince among men, truly.” She removed her coat, marching it over to where he sat and draping it over the arm of the settee. “Shall I dispense with my dress as well?”

“Yes.” The answer came from the dressmaker, feet behind them, and Mara could have sworn she saw surprise flash through Temple’s gaze before it turned to humor.

She stuck one of her fingers out to hover around the tip of his nose. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

One black brow rose. “And if I did?”

“If I’m to measure you, miss, I need you wearing as little as possible. Perhaps if it were summer and the dress were cotton, but now . . .” She did not have to finish. It was late November and bitterly cold already. And Mara was wearing both a wool chemise and a wool dress.

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