Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  “I will help Mrs. Marmlebury,” her employer said. “See to Mr. Swift, if you would.” Madame Amelie’s fleeting smile was gone in favor of the cool look she reserved for her shopgirls. “And take those crates from him, Miss Armitage.”

  Together, they hurried over to Chance. “I have them,” he said, all eyes for Gwynn.

  More sighs went up at that chivalry.

  With a wry grin, Temperance rescued the heavy crates from her brother, sagging under the weight of them. She, however, may as well have been invisible to the pair of young lovers as they stared misty-eyed at one another. “Come along, you two,” she muttered, starting for the back of the shop. Before realizing she made the trek alone.

  Adjusting her hold on the crates of linens, she glanced back at her brother and best friend. “Now.”

  That barely snapped the romantic reverie as the two, with eyes only for each other, moved in tandem, side by side, down the aisle of the shop. Their hands periodically brushed as they walked, in a discreet but absolutely intentional caress.

  Forcing her gaze away from that intimate moment, Temperance marched forward. She reached the doorway that led to Madame Amelie’s workroom. Struggling with her burden, she gave her brother a look. “If it isn’t too much trouble?”

  “It isn’t,” Gwynn murmured.

  Chance smiled down at Gwynn. “Not at all.”

  Oh, bloody hell. To be young and stupid for love again.

  “I meant the door,” Temperance muttered, sinking under the weight of the packaged textiles.

  Her brother blinked several times and looked over at Temperance. And then the door.

  She gave a little nod.

  His cheeks flushing red, Chance grabbed the crates from her. “Forgive me.”

  He needn’t have apologized. Temperance well knew how limited their time together was. She knew every moment he shared with Gwynn was fleeting because of their work. Because of where he lived and where Gwynn lived. And Temperance would see they had the opportunity to be together when they could.

  The moment they entered Madame Amelie’s workroom, Chance set the crates down atop the tidy, organized table. And while her brother and Gwynn became lost in one another once more, Temperance began removing the items he’d brought.

  “Orange taffeta?” she asked, cringing. “That’s nearly as bad as pink on Mrs. Marmlebury.”

  “Hmm?” Gwynn said distractedly, not so much as taking her eyes from Chance.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” Temperance said and began pulling out the remainder of the bolts.

  Simply put, when they were together, Temperance and the world ceased to exist for the couple.

  Yet for her earlier envy, the truth remained—love was a luxury for those of their station. It was why she allowed them whatever time they had together. It was why she didn’t mind being forgotten, because they were deserving of happiness.

  Temperance paused in her sorting and stared absently at the cheerful yellow satin in her hands.

  Happiness wasn’t for their lot. And certainly not happily-ever-afters. She knew that firsthand, but it did not mean she wouldn’t help her brother and her best—and only—friend steal joy where they could.

  A short while later, all the bolts having been removed, laid out, and organized according to color as Madame Amelie preferred, Gwynn glanced over.

  The dazed happiness had gone from her friend’s eyes, to be replaced with the sadness that always came when it neared time for Chance to return to his work in London.

  “Hey, none of this,” he murmured, touching a finger to Gwynn’s chin. “I’ll have more deliveries soon, and I’ve every reason to believe Mr. Buxton intends to one day soon promote me to supervisor of the floors. Then there’ll be funds.” He cupped Gwynn’s chin. “Just until then . . .”

  The other woman’s voice shook when she spoke. “London is too far.”

  It wasn’t too far. It was, however, far enough, and that was the reason Temperance had fled to this sliver of country years earlier.

  Tears slipped down Gwynn’s cheeks, and Chance looked hopelessly at Temperance.

  “He’ll return soon enough,” she said, unable to offer any more assurances than that. And she looked away as her brother placed a kiss on Gwynn’s lips.

  Chance lingered there a moment, his eyes upon Gwynn. “Someday, we’ll be together. Forever.” And with that, he was gone.

  Gwynn stared after him.

  “I am so sorry, Gwynn,” Temperance said softly. “Someday . . .” Except she could not make herself finish. Because she knew better than anyone else that, in matters of the heart, “somedays” did not exist.

  Her friend swiped the tears from her cheeks. “There won’t be . . . and there isn’t. Not when there aren’t funds to be together. Not with each of us reliant upon the work we do on altogether different sides of England.” Gwynn stared at the door where Chance had taken his leave moments ago. “This is as good as it will ever get,” she whispered to herself. And with that, she left.

  This is as good as it will ever get . . .

  And how Temperance hated it. For her brother. For her friend.

  She’d long ago accepted the disappointments in her own life, of what she’d lost, of what had never been meant to be. But as she removed the now empty crates and stacked them at the back of Madame Amelie’s workroom, she wished she could see Gwynn and Chance, with their rare kind of love, find the happiness she’d never managed.

  Chapter 3

  It had taken seven days.

  Seven miserable days of Dare living in Mayfair and being waited on by servants he didn’t want, and receiving visits from family he didn’t consider family, to at last have the sole meeting he cared about.

  Seated amongst the same gathering who’d fetched him from the gallows, Dare listened on through the monotone ramblings of the bespectacled fellow.

  “The title of Milford goes back nearly seven and a half centuries and was created for William Greyson, a Norman baron . . .”

  Ticktock-ticktock.

  Dare stole a glance at the fine clock resting on the mantel and narrowed his eyes.

  Austrian giltwood. Blue glass. Sometime of the last century. Certainly not the oldest, and yet it could still fetch a nice enough sum to see several wrongly accused freed.

  His skin burnt from the feel of eyes trained on him.

  Dare looked over.

  Lady Kinsley . . . his sister—the sister he’d only just recently met—glared blackly at him.

  “Its earlier grant was by Henry I to his first wife.” The gentleman frowned and consulted his papers. “Many pardons, his second wife, Adeliza, of the forfeited honor of—”

  “We can stop with all this,” Dare cut in. “I don’t require a history lesson.” Nor did he want one. “Just tell me: How much do I have?” That was what mattered. That and what he could do with the fortune he’d inherit.

  The servant’s visible Adam’s apple jumped. “O-of course, my lord.” He shuffled ahead several pages.

  For the first time since he’d gathered here with his grandparents and sister, Dare leaned forward in his chair, eager and interested. He cracked his knuckles . . . and waited.

  “But . . . in order to understand the current economic circumstances of the Milford title, one must understand the history of England on the whole.”

  Bloody hell.

  Dare sat back in his chair as Mr. Heron launched into an accounting of the kingdom’s finances following the Napoleonic Wars. To hell with this. To hell with all this. And while the servant ran on with those unimportant-to-Dare details, Dare resumed his mental inventorying of the office.

  His office.

  A French neoclassical vase. He peered at the gold-and-floral-painted piece and pegged it as newer—somewhere between the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth. With the right buyer, it’d fetch a good sum.

  The floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, however, required closer inspection.

  “Upon his death, she married
William, who became master of the lands . . . Some of these lands have remained entailed. Some unentailed . . .”

  Annnd it appeared they’d returned to the twelfth century. Dare consulted the clock once more.

  An hour of this hell. And he was no closer to having answers than when it had first begun.

  “Busy day?”

  That curt query brought Heron’s recitation to an abrupt stop.

  Dare looked to the source of the interruption.

  Kinsley Greyson had her perpetual glare leveled on him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Dare asked in cool tones that had managed to send taller, broader men fleeing in the opposite direction.

  Mr. Heron looked hopelessly between the siblings, then over at the duke.

  “Kinsley,” the duke said warningly.

  The young lady, however, kept a fierce gaze trained on Dare.

  And then, in a remarkable show of bravery, Kinsley rested her palms on her knees and leaned forward. “You’re stepping into one of the oldest, most distinguished titles. One that has existed since William the Conqueror.”

  God, it was as though his father had returned from the grave and spoken through the mouth of his youngest child. And Dare could not resist the sting of resentment and loathing.

  “You can spare some time to learn about that important history before asking what is in it for you,” the young woman was saying. Fire and hatred blazed from her eyes.

  Dare would hand it to the young woman. She’d a greater strength than he had credited any nobleman as having. That realization, however, still changed nothing. The only things that mattered, the only reason he was here even now, were the funds he stood to earn.

  Leaning forward, he matched his sister in her positioning. “This isn’t my history.” Not anymore. Mayhap it never had been. “And it never will be.”

  “That is just fine with—”

  “That is enough,” the duchess cut in with stern tones. “Furthermore, we don’t make productions in front of . . . anyone. You know that.” Her scolding came quieter.

  Her mouth set stonily, Lady Kinsley slumped in her chair, looking very much like a recalcitrant child. Nay, she was more like . . .

  I’m going to ride the rail down, and you can’t stop me . . .

  “What of Perrin?” His younger brother, who’d done an admirable job in his stead, who’d always done . . . everything right. “I trust he would have done well enough in the role of marquess that you wouldn’t have had to come searching for me.”

  Her Grace pressed a fist to her breast, and husband and wife shared a look.

  The elderly pair spoke at the same time.

  “You remember.”

  “He remembers.”

  They scrabbled for each other’s hands. Dare had said too much. He resisted the urge to squirm.

  The pair clung to one another and leaned in, touching their brows, forgetting the scolding they’d just given Lady Kinsley about showing emotion.

  He glanced about, wondering at his other sibling’s absence. Was it resentment at being forced to give up that which he’d inherited? Either way, why should you expect he would have wanted to see you? Why, when your own parents were better off without you?

  “It doesn’t mean anything that he remembers Perry,” Lady Kinsley pointed out. “He might be making it up.”

  Aye, with that healthy mistrust, mayhap they were siblings, after all.

  Her grandparents turned sharp glares on her.

  “That Darius is our grandson and your brother has never been in doubt. He was just a boy when he was taken from us, not some babe where anyone might have been passed off for him, as in those other cases,” the duke said sharply. “He is your brother, as much as Perry was.”

  Was. The past tense which bespoke only the finality of death.

  Lady Kinsley’s throat moved quickly, and she glanced away, but not before Dare detected the gleam of tears in the young woman’s eyes.

  “He is dead, then?” Dare asked when no one confirmed with words the fate his . . . brother had met.

  The duchess, breaking her own rules, began weeping.

  “He is,” the duke murmured, stroking his wife’s back in an unexpected display for a peer.

  He is.

  Perry, three years his junior, was dead, then.

  Perhaps had Dare come home long, long ago, certainly had he never left, there would have been a crushing weight of grief. There was, however, only a profound regret and . . . a sadness for the brother whom time had made a stranger of. And it only cemented what he’d learned at his mentor-turned-partner Avery Bryant’s side: how much greater that pain would have been had Dare been fully a part of Perry’s life.

  The irony was not lost on him, however; where Dare had been the one to live out on the streets of East London, Perry had remained ensconced in the secure, comfortable family folds in Mayfair—only to be the one to perish.

  “Perrin died just two years ago,” His Grace murmured.

  Dare did the quick math. Perrin would have been only twenty-five years of age. With the spare who’d become the heir gone, it made sense why Dare’s family had finally begun looking for him.

  “Dropsy,” Kinsley spat. “My God, you couldn’t even ask what happened to him?”

  “Would it have changed anything?” Dare asked quietly without malice, but there may as well have been elements of it there for the hatred brimming in the young lady’s eyes.

  There was only one history that mattered to Dare—his time in East London. The rest was a fanciful fairy tale that may as well have belonged to another, as farcical as it was. He nodded to Heron. “Get on with it.”

  Tripping and stumbling over his words, Mr. Heron resumed the recitation of his history lesson.

  “Following the Napoleonic Wars, the country fell into an economic depression . . .”

  These people knew nothing. Dare and his people in the streets had gone without long before that war ended.

  “Your father’s estates began to suffer mightily, as did so many.”

  Your father . . .

  Dare’s entire body tensed. For years, he’d not allowed himself to think of the man who’d sired him, or of the woman who’d given him birth. As such, there was . . . a peculiar detachedness at the servant’s labeling of that man whom Dare had spent more years away from than with.

  Before the man-of-affairs could resume his drawn-out breakdown of England’s finances, Dare cut him off. “And this matters because?”

  Heron adjusted his spectacles. “Yes, my lord, I am coming to that.”

  Dare rather doubted that. The man was incapable of directness.

  “However,” Heron was saying, “this period proved short-lived. The depression struck, and weavers and spinners were all hit hard.” He paused. A thick tension fell over the room. It was the same feeling that had dogged him moments before capture—the knife about to fall. “As were your family’s investments.”

  Dare went absolutely motionless. “What are you saying?” he asked carefully, measuring his words. Modulating his tone.

  Heron removed his spectacles. “I am saying there is little left.”

  Little left . . . ? “How little?”

  “In terms of actual monies?” The other man removed a kerchief and mopped at his suddenly damp brow.

  Oh, bloody hell. This was bad.

  “Many avowals have been called in, and debtors are seeking to secure repayment for monies loaned.”

  It did not escape Dare’s notice that the bespectacled servant had failed to give the number he sought. Nor could there be any doubting the reason why . . .

  There was nothing?

  He glanced around at the room’s silent occupants: the duke and duchess, the young lady. That trio remained impressive masters of their emotions and expressions.

  Dare sat up slowly. “Is this some manner of jest?” he snapped.

  “I fear not,” the duke said in sad tones. “Upon your father’s death”—God rot the hateful bastard’s
soul—“the title passed to your brother, who, as you since have learned, passed.” At that, the duchess dissolved into a quiet show of weeping, dabbing at her eyes. “He ventured into trade.”

  And Dare wouldn’t safely wager a pence that the older woman was crying about the work her departed grandson had taken part in.

  “Aren’t there rules amongst you people that lords don’t dabble in trade?” Dare asked impatiently. “Dirty hands and all?” Of all people, his brother would have known that.

  The duchess gave a pleased nod. “Even gone all these years, he knows as much,” she said to her husband. “Your brother couldn’t have had the same foresight,” she muttered to herself.

  “Yes, but it was promising to be lucrative,” the duke said with a defensiveness on the departed man’s past that not a single member of Dare’s former family had ever shown to him.

  And the irony was not lost on Dare that this should have proven the one time his paragon of a brother, preferred and always dutiful, had chosen to do something other than that which was expected of him as a lord.

  He felt . . . an unexpected wave of sadness that he’d not ever been around to see that different side of Perrin. Perrin, who, in Dare’s absence, had also become “Perry,” that more playful name not at all suiting the serious boy he’d been.

  Feeling a stare on him, he looked and found Kinsley eyeing him with a sad little glimmer in her eyes.

  Then as quickly as that softening had come, it was gone.

  Kinsley Greyson smiled, and it was an expression Dare recognized all too well. Cold and hard and taunting, it was the same grin he had affected in the streets when dealing with his foes. “Disappointed, I trust?”

  “Be quiet, Kin,” the duke said tersely. He turned back to Dare. “It bears stating that it was not your brother’s ventures that sank the fortunes.”

  Dare stared at him. Then how else was there to account—

  “Him,” the duchess seethed.

  “A distant cousin inherited after Perrin’s passing”—His Grace took over the telling—“and he was—”

  “Is,” Lady Kinsley piped in.

  “Is a scapegrace.” His Grace shook his head regretfully. “Spent it all. On wagering and women and—”