Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  Some emotion sparked in her green eyes. An emotion he couldn’t identify. “You’re here . . .”

  “To propose an arrangement between us,” he said again.

  Of course, he’d get to all the details of that later. Having lived the life of a thief, he’d come to appreciate timing, and it would be wise to proceed carefully here.

  As it was, she was taking this a good deal better than he’d expected. Mayhap there was hope of her cooperating, after—

  Her gaze darkened. “You are bloody mad, Darius Grey. I’ve no interest,” she said coolly. “If that is why you’ve come, you’re wasting your time.” She turned to go.

  Dare hurried over, placing himself at the end of her path, and that managed to halt her.

  A moment anyway. She was already starting down the next aisle, gathering up lace embellishments from nearby tables as she went. “Get out of here, Dare.”

  Why . . . why . . . the chit was . . . working. She’d already perfectly moved on from both his reemergence and his suggestion.

  Dare hurried around to the other end of the table. “I’m not leaving.” He’d no other choice. The duke had not given him any.

  Temperance stopped once more. Stealing a quick glance toward the back of the shop, she spoke in a quiet whisper. “You had a moment of clarity. Mayhap you saw your life all laid out. Mayhap you were filled with regret of what would never be.”

  Unnerved at how very accurately she’d read those last moments of his life on the dais, he fought the urge to move.

  “Trust me, you are wasting your time. I’ve no desire to be your wife.”

  He rested his hip on the edge of the table. “Ah, but that wasn’t always the case,” he said in silken tones.

  She snorted. “Save your seduction for some woman foolish enough to fall for it. Ours isn’t a real marriage. It never was, and I’ve little interest in it ever being one.” She moved to step around him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  She’d not be swayed, then. God, she was still as put out by his silken tongue as she’d been then. The only thing she had appreciated, the only sentiment she had responded to, was blunt directness. He’d been a fool to attempt anything else where she was concerned.

  Dare slid once more into her path, preventing her escape. “I don’t have a choice, Temperance,” he said flatly, getting to the real reason for his being here. He’d come to accept their at-best tense relationship would never be more. “I need a wife, and whether you wish it or not, that is the role you agreed to.”

  If eyes could shoot flame, he’d have been a heap of ashes before her.

  “Are you saying you’d force me to . . . what? Play at the role of your wife?”

  “Yes!” That was a perfect way to describe the arrangement. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “No,” he amended.

  “Get out,” she said once more. “You’re wasting both of our time.” With that, she hurried to retrieve the bolts of fabric that had toppled to the floor. As she gathered them up, Dare studied her. So focused on the reason for seeking her out and the need to convince her, he’d not, until this moment, thought about just where he’d found her.

  All these years, this was where she’d been. He glanced about at the ribbons hanging from the ceiling, and the satin and silk fabrics neatly arranged upon the tables. “It makes so much sense,” he murmured to himself.

  Arms laden with those long bolts, she set about returning them to their proper places.

  “And what is that?” she asked crisply.

  “You always sewed.”

  “I darned socks.”

  “You stitched my garments whenever I required.”

  “Which wasn’t often,” she said, an almost wistful quality to her voice. “You always had funds enough.”

  Stolen funds.

  This, what his grandfather had presented him with, was an opportunity to secure money, free and clear, for him to use as he would . . . without risking his neck.

  Dare passed his gaze over her as she flitted about the shop, seeing to her work.

  “You were so very good at what you did, Temperance.” She gave no indication that she’d heard that praise. “This was the perfect place for you to go. To escape—”

  She spun about. “Not another word.”

  “I am sorry. I should not have mentioned . . .” Him. The one who’d hurt her. A monster of a father who’d made her do desperate things, such as marrying Dare. Steering his words and thoughts away from those demons, he tried a different tack. “I should not have mentioned anything about the past,” he settled for. “And yet there is no way around speaking of it.”

  Her full lips formed a hard line.

  She didn’t say anything, however, and he was encouraged.

  Dare strolled slowly toward her. “Nor was it all bad, Temperance,” he said quietly. Of its own volition, his hand came up, and he brushed his knuckles lightly along a jawline that was slightly too firm and wide, but that had always managed to lend her a beauty that was unique and interesting for it.

  Her skin was satiny soft and warm.

  The faintest of trembles shook her slender frame, and there was, since he’d arrived, a moment of triumph. Furious as she was with him and at his arrival, she was affected by his touch, still.

  Dare continued brushing his knuckles in a light up-and-down sweep. God, how he’d missed touching her. How he’d missed her. Even as there had always been tension and fire between them, there’d been something more, too . . . He lowered his head, bringing his lips close to hers, and their breaths mingled together, hers bearing the hint of honey she’d always dashed in her tea.

  Temperance’s long, smoky lashes fluttered.

  “There was so much that was good . . . so much that was right between us,” he whispered huskily. “A reunion between us wouldn’t be all bad. In fact”—he dusted his palm over her lower lip—“it can be good, Temperance. It can be so very good in some ways.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  He knew the moment her eyes flew open that he’d gone too far.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  She grabbed the scissors. “Are you trying to seduce me, Darius?” she hissed.

  “Uh . . . sway you? Which is not altogether—”

  She brought those gleaming blades up higher.

  Rethinking his words, Dare took several hasty—and, by the fire in her eyes, wise—steps back.

  Alas, where he’d once been capable of charming her, she met his efforts with only ice in her eyes. “Your time here is done, Grey.”

  And for the first time since he’d set out to the Cotswolds, panic rooted around his belly. He’d convinced himself that she could be persuaded.

  Not that you’ve done a spectacular job of swaying the damned woman . . .

  “I need you, Temperance,” he said bluntly, dropping all attempts at seduction and sway. He opted instead for cool, hard logic.

  Temperance clutched her scissors close . . . but she did lower them. “Get. Out.”

  “I’m asking you to hear me ou—”

  “Get. Out,” she repeated, her voice creeping up an octave.

  Footsteps came rushing from the back of the shop. A moment later, a trio of women came staggering into the front room, each seamstress bumping into the one before her.

  The severe, Spartan woman at their front looked to Dare and Temperance, her gaze lingering on the scissors pointed upright at Dare’s chest. “Whatever is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  “Madame Amelie.” Temperance hastily lowered her scissors. It did not escape his notice that she retained a hold on that weapon. She’d always been endlessly resourceful.

  As if she’d followed his silent praise and disapproved, Temperance glared at him. “This man, he has no place here. I’ve asked him to go.” Her eyes bored into his. “Which he is.”

  “Actually, I’m not.” God, how much fun it had always been to tease her. It had been ever more fun when she’d laughed and teased him in return. Now, there w
as only an icy hatred . . .

  “Very well.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’m telling you now. Leave.”

  A thoroughly befuddled-looking Madame Amelie looked back and forth between Dare and Temperance. “Whatever is the meaning of this, Mrs. Swift?”

  She’d used her previous name . . . different from the one he’d conferred to her upon their marriage, and instead belonging to the monster who’d sired her. It was an inconsequential point to note and even more peculiar that it should sting.

  When neither answered, Madame Amelie put a question directly to Dare. “Are you a . . . thief?” She proved shockingly on the mark. Just not in the way she thought.

  A smile twitched at his lips. “I’m a marquess.” Temperance’s eyebrows went flying to her hairline. “The Marquess of Milford.” He knew that when presented with the truth of his title, none would ever notice he’d evaded that question.

  Murmurings rose amongst the audience of women now watching.

  Madame Amelie clapped her hands once. That crowd instantly dissolved, scurrying back through the black velvet curtain.

  The woman was instantly all smiles. “Are you a client, then?”

  He and Temperance spoke at the same time.

  “No.”

  “Yes?” He flashed a smile at the tall woman. “I could be.”

  Temperance’s furious stare fairly singed. It wasn’t the first time he’d been the recipient of that heated look.

  Madame Amelie sized him up, touching her appraising stare on his garments, the gold chain connected to a heavy gold timepiece. “Forgive Mrs. Swift. Allow me to fetch one of my other—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he called when she started for the curtain leading to the back. “I would have . . . Mrs. Swift, is it?”

  The black-haired minx gnashed her teeth loudly enough that they rattled noisily in the quiet. “It. Is.”

  “I’m certain any number of your”—he glanced over to the young women who’d slipped out from behind the curtains to watch the discussion unfolding—“lovely staff are capable; however, I have very specific requirements that only Mrs. Swift might see to.”

  Chapter 5

  Temperance had been married for just eight months.

  That was, eight months before Dare Grey, a thief of everything, not the least of which being her heart, had gone from devoted husband always at her side to his next big theft.

  It hadn’t been unexpected.

  Quite the opposite, in fact, given the terms of their marriage: he would offer her his name as a means of protecting her from her monster of a father, and she’d accept that his life of thieving was his work. She’d understood those terms . . . and accepted them. Having first been best friends, it had made sense. They may have been married only eight months, but they’d been sweethearts for ten years before that. Then he’d gone to rob a wealthy lord in the country, and she’d been left vulnerable, alone to face her father’s wrath . . .

  In fairness, neither she nor Dare could have anticipated that her father would be more outraged at being thwarted in having control over his daughter than he would be afraid of Dare’s influence.

  All her muscles seized, and she hurriedly pushed aside thoughts of her father and the night of his last and most violent beating.

  Yes, she and Dare had been young lovers, but ones who had never been able to make their lives align because of the work he’d refused to give up and the expectations she had for them . . . as a couple.

  And it had been five years since she’d seen him.

  Now, she made herself look at him, conversing with Madame Amelie.

  How easily he charmed, but then that was why he’d always been able to slip free of the constable or the hangman’s noose.

  It took a moment to register that the pair had stopped talking and now looked squarely at her.

  Something was expected of her . . . on the parts of both her employer and her . . . husband. But whatever it was would have required that she be attending the idle chatter they’d been making, while Temperance’s mind had swirled with just one truth: he was here.

  Now.

  It had been five years since he’d come and found her after that big country estate theft. Five years since she’d ordered him gone, and . . . he’d given his vow to do so.

  He’d honored that promise.

  Until now.

  Why?

  I have very specific requirements that only Mrs. Swift might see to . . .

  Specific requirements, indeed.

  She resisted the urge to grind her teeth.

  From across the shop, a handful of the young women lingered at the curtain, watching Dare with wide, dazed eyes.

  Alas, he’d always had that effect on women.

  I was that girl, too. Captivated. Entranced. Besotted.

  After all, he’d had that dazzling effect on nearly everyone.

  “Mrs. Swift?” Madame Amelie said through a strained, patently false smile. “If you would see to . . . whatever His Lordship wishes?”

  Temperance clenched her teeth. Make that everyone. For even Madame Amelie proved herself capable of being charmed by Darius Grey. None had ever been able to resist his charm or his smile or his requests. Her miserable employer should prove no exception.

  When Temperance still didn’t formulate words, the head modiste clapped her hands once. “Mrs. Swift will be happy to assist you.”

  All the girls at her back sprang into movement, filing quickly from the room so that only the three of them remained.

  At last, Temperance found her footing. She gave her head a clearing shake. “Actually, I’m not at all interested in helping His Lordship.” What is he up to, pretending to be a marquess?

  Bright color splotched Madame Amelie’s cheeks. Yes, because none contradicted her. And even as Temperance knew no good could come from daring to publicly challenge her employer, she couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “And as he pointed out, there are any number of girls who will be happy working with him. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Tugging off her apron, Temperance hung it on a nearby hook . . . and marched to the door, through it, and down the flower-lined path.

  With each step she took that put her away from the shop and Darius Grey, the cinch in her chest eased. Until she reached the old Roman road that led to her modest cottage . . .

  And the implications of what she’d done hit her.

  She turned back and stared at the small shop in the near distance.

  This was . . . not good.

  Where her seamstresses were concerned, Madame Amelie held strict expectations, and tolerated little.

  Being called out and defied by one of them . . . and in front of a marquess, no less?

  With a groan, Temperance scrubbed her hands over her face. No, the only outcome was . . . she would lose her employment.

  She’d always been hopelessly without control of her emotions when he was near.

  But not like this.

  This shock at finding he had not only survived another trip to the gallows but also returned . . .

  Her stomach churned.

  There’d once been a time when all she’d wanted in the world was to hear those words from his lips.

  She let her arms fall back to her sides . . . and her heart lurched as, in the distance, her gaze collided with him. Marching forward . . . toward her. Those long, graceful, and more purposeful steps carried him ever closer.

  And even as everything said “run,” this time she curled her toes sharply and made herself stay planted. She’d been running from the thought and memory of Darius Grey from the moment she’d met him. He was the ghost that would always be there, and the only way to have the closure she required was to face him head-on.

  Dare came loping over the slight rise, his palms aloft, a grin on his lips.

  He always wore a grin.

  Even now.

  It was a fact she’d always marveled and puzzled over.

  “Thank you for waiting,” he said when h
e reached her.

  “Did I have a choice?” Temperance quirked an eyebrow. “I expected that you wouldn’t stop.” And as such, it made far more sense to just hear him out and, more importantly, make him hear her out. Hear that she’d no intention of resuming any manner of life with him.

  “You’ve always been practical.” There was a wistful quality to his murmuring. He reached a palm up, and Temperance recoiled this time, wisely putting a safe step between them.

  His touch had always been magic, but she knew all too well the peril in magic.

  He let his arm fall to his side. “You have every reason to be upset with me,” he said in more somber tones than she recalled ever hearing from him.

  “Which reason do you refer to? Your costing me my work?” Or your vowing to stay with me and then . . . not. It took a physical effort to call those words back. The pain of those darkest days, ones that had come when he’d gone gallivanting off to steal from some reprobate lord in the country, was still as fresh now as it’d been.

  Dare touched a hand to his chest. “Hear me out . . . please.”

  Please. He’d been the only man she’d ever known in the Rookeries who’d not been ashamed to say “please” and who thanked people. He’d not just taken everything as his due, as all the harshest, most ruthless men in East London had.

  It was one of the reasons she’d first found herself so captivated by him.

  He’d been an oddity in their world . . . the world that she’d managed to leave behind when she came here and started anew.

  Or she’d thought she had. Her gaze slid beyond him to the establishment she’d built a safe, stable future within. And how quickly she’d lost it all. She forced her focus back to him. “I don’t see as I have much choice but to listen to you,” she said bitterly, resenting him once more for new reasons.

  “If I was more a scoundrel than I already am, I’d let you to that opinion and secure your assistance.” Dare rested a palm against the gnarled bark of the oak, his arms straining the magnificent fabric of his finely tailored black tailcoat.

  And she hated her eyes for being so very drawn to the bulge of his biceps. She worked her stare over his gloriously masculine fr—