What had she done to him? What had he done to himself?
“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Bourne said quietly.
He looked in his friend’s direction. “Now you defend her? Shall I get you a mirror to remind you of the purple ring about your eye?”
Bourne smirked. “She is not the first to deliver such a blow. And she will not be the last.” That much was true. “All I am saying is that you can stop this. You can change it.”
“What’s put you in such a forgiving frame of mind?”
The marquess shrugged. “You care for the girl, obviously, or you wouldn’t be so destroyed by her. I know what that is like. And I know what it is to give up revenge for it.”
For a moment, he entertained the idea. He imagined what it would be like if he could change it. Imagined what life he would craft if given the opportunity. Imagined a little row of dark sons and auburn-haired daughters, each with strange, beautiful eyes and spines of steel.
Imagined their mother, leading their charge.
But imagination was all it was.
Reality was a different thing entirely.
T he Duke and Duchess of Leighton had hosted their annual Christmas masque every December since their first year as man and wife, and the party had become so legendary that most of London made a point to return to the city despite the cold, dreary December weather to attend.
According to Lydia (who was much more of a gossip than Mara had ever realized), the Duchess of Leighton prided herself on filling out the guest list with dozens of impressive, if not aristocratic, London dignitaries. Lydia had actually used the phrase, “everyone who is anyone,” in the excitement that followed Mara’s receipt of Temple’s invitation—if a single line of black scrawl stating a time and the dress he would prefer she wear could be called such a thing—which Mara assumed meant that it was not coincidence that this was the event at which she would be unmasked to London. Literally as well as figuratively.
Except yesterday, before everything had gone pear-shaped, it might have been different. Yesterday, before she’d reminded him of their past—of the dozen ways they were enemies—they might have been friends.
And he might have reconsidered this moment.
Dream .
She gave a little huff of laughter at the thought. It was a dream. For there was nothing that would erase their past. That would erase what she had done. No amount of forgiveness that would change how this scenario played out. How this night ended.
With her ruin.
In all honesty, Mara was rather happy that the evening was finally here. Once her ruination was at hand, she would no doubt have a chance to return to her ordinary life, and be forgotten by the rest of Britain.
Forgotten by him.
It would be best. A boon, perhaps.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
She’d told herself that as she turned the orphanage over to Lydia that day, articulating the ins and outs of the place—pointing out the histories of all the boys, the files where she kept their work and the remnants of their past. The evidence of their birth.
She’d told herself that as she promised Lydia the funds she’d earned from Temple, even as Mara ached at the idea of calling the debts due. She hadn’t a choice. The boys needed coal, and Lydia needed funds if the orphanage was to be hers to run.
She’d told herself that as she’d packed her small traveling case and tucked away enough funds to get her to Yorkshire, to the place to which she’d fled twelve years earlier. To the place where she’d reinvented herself. Where she’d become Margaret MacIntyre.
She’d told herself that when the dress arrived in a beautiful white box, complete with a gold-embossed H and an elaborate golden mask in delicate filigree that she’d had to resist touching.
There’d been underclothes, too—silks and satins and lace—clocked stockings and perfectly embroidered chemises at once stunning and utterly unnecessary. It had been more than a decade since she’d worn such softness against her skin, and she’d luxuriated in the feel of the fabrics against her even as their purpose echoed in her thoughts.
They were underclothes designed to be seen. By men.
By Temple.
And the cloak—a stunning green shot through with golden threads to match the rest of the ensemble, lined with ermine, worth more than a year’s worth of the orphanage’s bills. Mara had been shocked to find it in the box, as it had not been discussed when she’d been at Madame Hebert’s for her thoroughly embarrassing fitting.
Her cheeks went warm at the memory of his eyes on her in that dimly lit room. And when that memory gave way to one from later that evening, of his lips on hers, her cheeks burned.
And she told herself that she was happy to meet her executioner as she stood in the foyer of the MacIntyre Home for Boys, waiting, Lydia perched on the steps to the upstairs, Mara’s case at her feet, Lavender on her lap.
Now, as she stood in the foyer of this place she’d built with work and tears and passion, she realized that she was no longer Margaret MacIntyre, and no longer Mara Lowe. No longer headmistress, no longer sister, no longer caretaker, no longer friend.
She was blank again.
Her heart constricted. And somehow, none of it mattered but one, devastating truth: She was nothing to Temple, either.
She turned to Lydia. “If my brother comes, you’ll tell him I’ve left? You’ll give him my letter?”
Kit’s message had been waiting for her when she’d returned from The Angel, requesting funds to leave the country. Promising that this was the last he’d ask of her.
Mara had written him a letter articulating the truth—that she had no funds to spare, and that they were both in a place where they had to flee. She’d thanked him for the years he’d kept her truths from the world, and she’d said good-bye.
Lydia pursed her lips. “I shall, though I don’t like it. What if he comes after you?”
“If he does, so be it. I would rather he come after me than you. Than this place,” Mara said, adding quietly. “Than Temple.”
The words brought the echo of that night, her knife high in Temple’s chest, Kit gone, disappeared into the crowd as Mara panicked. This was the solution. It would end it. It would free Temple.
Kit would never bother him again.
And after tonight, neither would she.
She sighed, desperate to resist the emotions that came more and more readily at the thought of him.
“And everything else—”
Lydia nodded and set Lavender down, coming to Mara, taking her hands. “And everything else.” They stood like that for a long moment. Friends. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We could fight it.”
Tears threatened, and Mara blinked them back.
“But I do. For you. For the boys.” She spread her hands down the smooth silk of her skirts, forcing herself to remember that tonight, he would make good on his promise. And she would make good on hers. Finally.
Tonight, it would end.
Lydia knew better than to argue. “It’s a beautiful dress.”
“It makes me look like I’m for sale,” Mara said.
“It does not.”
Lydia was right. Yes, the neckline was low, but Madame Hebert had somehow given in to Temple’s request without making Mara appear indecent. But Mara did not wish to acknowledge the fact that the dress was stunning.
“It makes you look like a princess.”
She pulled the cloak around her. It was her turn to say, “It does not.”