A moment passed while Bourne registered the words. Temple gritted his teeth, knowing what was to come. Wishing he hadn’t said anything.

Bourne burst out laughing. “No!”

Temple rocked up on his toes, bouncing once, twice, swinging at the air. Pretending not to be infuriated by the truth. “Yes.”

The laugh turned booming. “Oh, wait until the others hear this. The great, immovable Temple—drugged by a governess. Where?”

“The town house.” Where she’d kissed him. Where he’d nearly taken more.

Bourne crowed, “In his own home!”

Goddammit.

Temple scowled. “Get out.”

Bourne crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, no. I’m not through enjoying this.”

A sharp rap sounded on the door, and the two men looked to the clock. It was too early for the fight to begin. Temple called out, “Come.”

The door opened, revealing Asriel, Temple’s man and the second in command of security at the Angel. He did not acknowledge Bourne, instead looking straight to Temple. “The lady you invited.”

Mara.

The thrill that coursed through him at the thought of her name grated.

“Bring her in.” He waited for Asriel to leave, then returned his attention to Bourne. “I thought you were leaving.”

Bourne sat in a nearby chair, extending his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “I believe I’ll stay to watch this,” he said, all humor. “After all, I wouldn’t like the woman to try to kill you again. You might require protection.”

“If you aren’t careful, you shall be the one requiring protection.”

The door opened before Bourne could retort, and Mara stepped over the threshold into his sanctum. She was wearing an enormous black cloak, the hood pulled up and low over her brow, but he recognized her nonetheless.

She was tall and beautifully made—all soft curves and pretty flesh—a woman to whom he would be naturally drawn if she weren’t the devil incarnate. And that mouth . . . wide and wicked and made for sin. He shouldn’t have tasted it. All it had done was make him starved for more.

She pushed the hood of her cloak back, revealing herself, her wide eyes immediately meeting his. He registered the nervousness in them—the uncertainty—and hated it as they moved to where Bourne sat, several feet away.

And suddenly, whether because of the excitement of the fight to come or something much more dangerous, Temple wanted to hit Bourne. Hard.

It had to be the coming fight, because it couldn’t possibly be Mara. He didn’t care who she looked at. Who looked at her. Indeed, his whole plan rested on all of London looking at her.

Bourne did not stand—a deliberate show of disrespect that set Temple on edge. “I am—”

“I know who you are,” she interrupted, not using Bourne’s title or the honorific he was due. A matching show of disrespect. “All of London knows who you are.” She turned to Temple. “What is this? You ask me to come here and watch while you brutalize some poor man?”

The words did not sit well. She was back, strong as steel, but he stood his ground, knowing she used bravado to cover her discomfort. He knew the tactic well. Had used it many times. “And here I was, hoping you would give me a token to wear into battle.”

Her gaze narrowed. “I ought to have your sabre tampered with.”

Temple raised a brow. “Sabre tampering, is that how they refer to it at the MacIntyre Home for Boys?”

Bourne snickered, and Mara cut him a look. “You are a marquess, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Tell me, do you ever act like it? I only ask because it does not seem that your friend cares much for behaving like a duke. I thought the immaturity was perhaps catching. Like influenza.”

Admiration flashed in Bourne’s gaze. He turned to Temple. “Charming.”

“And she’s armed with laudanum.”

Bourne nodded. “I shan’t drink anything she gives me, then.”

“And a knife,” she added, dryly.

He raised a brow. “And keep a vigilant watch.”

“It’s an intelligent plan,” Temple offered.

Mara gave a little huff of displeasure, one Temple imagined she often repeated with her young charges. “You are about to pummel a man to bits, and you stand here and make jokes?”

“It’s interesting that she takes the moral high ground, don’t you think?” Bourne said from his chair.

Mara turned on the marquess. “I wish you would leave, my lord.”

One of Bourne’s brows rose. “I would be careful with that tone, darling.”

Mara’s eyes flashed with anger. “I imagine you’d like me to apologize?”

Bourne stood, straightening the lines of his perfect coat. And nodded in Temple’s direction. “Apologize to him. He’s not as forgiving as I am.” He extracted his pocket watch and checked the time before turning to Temple. “Ten minutes. Is there anything you need before the fight?”

Temple did not speak. Nor did he move his gaze from Mara.

“Until after, then.”

Temple nodded. “Until after.”

The marquess left, closing the door behind him. Mara looked to Temple. “He did not wish you good luck.”

“We do not say good luck.” He moved to the table at the center of the room, and opened the mahogany box there and extracted a coil of wax.

“Why not?”

He pulled off two large clumps and set them on the table, pretending that he wasn’t utterly aware of her standing in the too-dark corner of the room. He wanted to see her.

He shouldn’t.

“Good luck is bad luck.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s fighting at the Angel.”

She did not say anything to that, instead crossing her arms across her chest. “Why am I here?”

He lifted a long, clean strip of linen from the wooden table at the center of the room, then laid one end across his palm and began to wrap the strip around his hand, being careful to keep it from twisting or folding. The nightly ritual was not designed merely to protect muscle and bone, though there was no doubt that in the heat of a battle, broken fingers were not unheard of.

Instead, the easy movement reminded him of the rhythm of the sport, of the way men had stood for centuries in this moment, minutes from battle, calming their mind and heart and nerves.

But there was nothing calm about his nerves with Mara Lowe in the room. He looked to her, enjoying the way her gaze locked on the movement. “Come.”

She met his eyes. “Why?”

He nodded to his hand. “How much to wrap it for me?”

She watched the movement. “Twenty pounds.”

He shook his head. “Try again.”

“Five.”

He wanted her close, despite the fact that he shouldn’t want any such thing. And he could afford it. “Done.”

She approached, removing her cloak to reveal the mauve dress Madame Hebert had promised him. She was beautiful in it, with skin like porcelain. His heart pounded as she came closer, pausing an arm’s length from him and extracting that little black book that she carried everywhere. “Five,” she repeated, marking the amount in her register. “And ten for the evening. As always.”

Reminding him that she had her own reasons for being here.

She returned the book to its place and reached for his hand. No gloves. Again. Skin against skin, this time. Heat against heat.

He was paying for it.

Perhaps if he remembered that, it would help him forget her. The feel of her. The smell of her, lemons in winter. The taste of her.

She resumed his ritual, careful to wrap the linen about his wrist and around his thumb, keeping the long strips flat and firm against his skin. “You’re very good at that,” he said, his voice unfamiliar even to him. She did that to him. She made him feel unfamiliar.

“I have wrapped broken bones. I assume it’s a similar principle.”

Again, a little snippet of Mara, of where she’d been. Of who she’d been. Enough to make him want to ask a dozen questions she wouldn’t answer. So he settled on: “It is.”

Her fingers were soft and sure on his hands, making him ache for them in other places. Her head bowed over her handiwork, and he stared down at the top of her head, into auburn curls that he itched to touch. He wondered what her hair would look like spread in wide waves across his pillow. Across the floor of this room. Across his bare chest. Across hers.

His gaze moved to her shoulders, to the way they rose and fell with each breath, as though she labored far more intensely than she did.

He recognized that breath. Experienced it himself.

She wanted him.

She tucked the end of the linen gently into the rest of the wrap, and he tested the binds, impressed.

Another thing she did expertly.

He turned away from her, lifted the other length of linen. Passed it to her and held out his free hand. Watched her repeat her ministrations in silence, muscles aching as he tensed beneath her touch, desperate for more of it. Desperate to touch her in return.

Christ, he needed another stretch.

That wasn’t all he needed.

But it was all he was getting. He extracted a mask from a nearby drawer. “Put that on.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“You will have your first moment before London tonight.”

She froze, and he did not like the way it made him feel. “Masked?”

“I don’t want you seen yet.”

I don’t want it to be over.

“Tonight,” she repeated.

“After the fight.”

“If you don’t lose, you mean.”

“Even if I lose, Mara.”

“If you aren’t brutalized and left for dead. That’s the goal, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t, but he didn’t correct her. “All right; if I don’t lose.” He inclined his head. “But I won’t lose.”