Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  “We’ll figure it out together, Temperance.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  And mayhap that was one of the reasons he so desperately wanted her there. Why it had to be her. Not just because she was his wife in the eyes of England, but because she was of his world. She knew him. They might be strangers all these years later . . . and she a stranger who didn’t much like him anymore. But if he was going to be thrust amongst Polite Society, knowing she would be there eased some of the pressure in his chest. A pressure he’d not even known was there until she’d given that assurance.

  “But that is the extent of our relationship, Dare,” she added quickly, as if she needed to remind herself as much as she needed to remind him. Or mayhap that was only his own imagining. “We aren’t friends. We aren’t real spouses. We are partners.”

  A voice—his voice—from long ago echoed at the back of his mind, where he’d kept the memories of them.

  Temperance, I’m offering you my name and the protection that comes with being my wife, but that is all I can give you . . . a partnership . . . but not a real marriage . . . There cannot be anything more . . .

  “I’m not looking for anything more,” he assured. After he received the duke’s money, Dare would return to his former life. And she could never accept that. As such, this would only ever be temporary. “And in return? What will you receive out of our marriage of convenience?”

  A blush splotched her cheeks. “Funds. I require money.” She directed that admission to the hard dirt road.

  And as she spoke those words with her head bent, she was once more the proud young woman who’d come to him, asking for his help. Never realizing that she needn’t feel shame near him, because he’d only ever seen her strength . . . even in knowing when she needed to ask for help.

  He waited, and when she didn’t say anything more, he gently prodded her. “For . . . ?”

  She lifted her head, and her mouth tightened. And then . . . “I’d like funds. Money.”

  He waited for her to say more.

  Dare narrowed his eyes. “You’re in trouble?” He should have known. Why hadn’t he known—

  Temperance spoke quickly. “No, I’m content with my life as is.” But . . . The word hovered on the end of her unfinished sentence. “Chance.”

  Her brother.

  She toyed with the fabric of her cloak. “It’s an opportunity for me to . . . to see that he has that which he wants.”

  “Which is?” That question, however, didn’t come from the deal they now negotiated, but from a place of caring for who Temperance and her younger brother had once been to him.

  “He’s a weaver and . . . not very successful. Not yet,” she said on a rush, as if she’d felt the betrayal in the simple fact. “But he will be. He is working toward becoming supervisor, and his employer favors him greatly.” And yet . . . “Until he does, Chance cannot offer Gwynn more.” She spoke as if he knew or should know the woman Chance had fallen in love with. And perhaps he, as her husband and best friend and former love, should. “This would allow them to start their future together,” Temperance added hesitantly when he didn’t immediately respond.

  “I see.” Of course she’d put her brother first. She always had, caring for the boy better than most mothers did the children they birthed. That devotion had just been one of too many reasons to count as to why he’d fallen in love with her.

  “What about what you want?” The question left him of its own volition, a product of the freedom with which they’d used to speak to one another . . . when they had been friends and lovers.

  Color flooded her cheeks. “Are you trying to talk me out of . . . ?”

  He held up a hand. “No.” He’d have her do that which brought her happiness. And having been separated as they had been, who was he any longer to say what brought her contentment? “I would wonder what you might get out of our arrangement . . . for yourself.”

  Her frown deepened. “I . . . I have work,” she said, backing up a step.

  Which would hardly supply her with the funds to see herself settled for life, but she’d not think of that. She’d not ask for more for herself.

  Dare closed that distance she’d made with her last step. “With your talent, I always said you deserved more than darning socks,” he said. She’d always had a skill with the needle, had even sewn him up on more than one occasion.

  Her eyes lit, and for a moment she was the girl he’d fallen in love with back when she’d still had a starry gaze for him . . . before she’d grown tired of his thievery and his commitments to others. Before a harder, more cynical glint had replaced that innocence. “Yes, well, I’ve asked for what I’ve asked for.”

  He’d be damned if she provided for only her brother and his sweetheart with those monies. “Will five thousand pounds be enough?”

  She choked, and he patted her lightly on the back. “Th-that would b-be very fair,” she said when she was able to properly swallow.

  Any other woman might have asked for more. “It is settled, then.”

  “There is one more matter . . .”

  He folded his arms. “Oh?”

  “Chance’s love, my friend Gwynn. I’d have her join me, and she’s agreed to serve in the role of lady’s maid. Not that I’ll treat her as a servant,” she said on a rush. “But rather I’d have her close so that she might see my brother more frequently than she does now.”

  In their time apart, she’d found a friend. And even while there came a peace and joy in knowing there’d been someone there for her, there was also regret at the reminder of how much time had passed. Of how little he knew her . . . and what had become of her. And also . . . a reminder that he’d been replaced. She, the one friend he’d allowed himself, had found another.

  Her brow dipped. “I didn’t expect that would be a problem?”

  There was a question there.

  “It is not a problem.” She’d misunderstood the reason for his silence. “Your friend—?”

  “Gwynn Armitage.”

  “She may join us. If there is nothing else?”

  Temperance shook her head. “There isn’t.”

  He gathered his reins. “We’ll leave today.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, and Temperance raced over. “So soon?” she squeaked.

  “I left London without informing”—he couldn’t get his tongue or lips to make out the words for that old pair who’d presented him with a possible fortune—“them, and there is business I have to see to. Contracts that will finalize the terms laid out.” Is it really about that meeting? Or is it that you fear if she has more time to think on it, she’ll back out of the agreement?

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Are they . . . also of the nobility?”

  Very briefly, he considered a lie lest she, like him, decide she wanted no part of a contract with the peerage.

  “Dare?”

  “You might say . . . a duke.”

  She strangled on another swallow and, this time, waved him off when he made to hit her on the back.

  Her horse tossed its head and danced nervously about.

  Dare stroked the creature’s neck, calming her. “Didn’t I say as much?”

  “No, you didn’t. Not before this.”

  “I’m sure I did. He is my late mother’s father.”

  Temperance gave him a hard look. “I’m beyond certain I would recall those details, Dare.”

  “Does it really matter?” Why, all of a sudden, must it make a difference that he was a lord or that his kin were lofty? And that he despised it?

  “Of course it does.” She thumped him in the arm with her fist.

  He grunted and rubbed at the offended area. “I mean, they are nobility, and regardless of what their title is, they’re still all the same. The same class. The same power and—”

  “Enough.” She gave him another—this time, gentler—tap. “You aren’t helping.”

  He made himself silent.

  “Furthermore, it matters, very muc
h. They’re of the peerage, and they’re your grandparents.”

  He squirmed. “Yes, well, either way, they’re the ones who’ve put these requirements to me, and I had a meeting on the morrow with my man-of-affairs to work through the details.” Dare awkwardly gestured between them. “The details being us . . . and the monies that will come to me”—she gave him a pointed look—“us,” he corrected.

  “And do you truly believe they are simply going to accept that you’ve tied yourself to a drunkard’s daughter? A commoner from the Rookeries?”

  God, how he despised that low opinion she’d always carried of herself. She’d always deserved more. “That isn’t all you are,” he said quietly.

  She waved his words off. “No. That’s right. I’m also a seamstress, which, to them, will mark me no different from a woman on the streets. Lords and ladies don’t simply accept common street rats into their fold.”

  His mouth hardened. “Whether they approve or not, the fact remains, you are my wife. And I’ll not allow anyone to speak ill of you.” Including Temperance herself. Her past didn’t matter. It never had. Only in that he’d admired her so deeply for surviving the abusive bastard who’d put her through a hell that would have broken most grown men.

  Temperance’s lips turned up in a sad little rendition of a smile. “Not speaking those words doesn’t change my station. It is what I am.”

  “You’re my wife, and that is what matters. Those were the terms they held me to, and I’ve . . . you and I have . . . fulfilled those requirements.”

  Temperance sighed. “Dare . . .”

  And more than half sensing she intended to pull back on that which she’d agreed to, he spoke before she could. “Is two hours sufficient time to collect your things?”

  She searched his face. “You are truly certain this is the only way for you to secure your funds?”

  “Aye.”

  “Two hours is fine, Dare. We will be ready.” Hastening over to where her mare grazed, Temperance gathered up the reins.

  “Oh, and Temperance?”

  She looked back, a question in her eyes.

  “There was so much we were unable to get right between us,” he murmured, drifting closer to her. “And differences and divides that could have never been bridged.” The path of thievery he’d taken, and her resolve to have no part of it, or him, as long as he carried on that life. “And yet you were wrong,” he murmured, lightly palming the silken curve of her sun-kissed olive skin. Now dark when it had once been pale from the polluted London sky. He preferred her this way.

  Temperance leaned into his touch. “A-about?”

  “Not everything between us was inconvenient. Lovemaking we always got right.”

  Her lips parted ever so slightly, and a gust of the spring air carried her shocked little gasp across the remaining distance between them.

  Dare closed it. “If the time comes when you again want me in your bed . . .” Dare left those words there for her, and just as he’d longed to when she’d traced her mouth with the tip of her tongue, he rubbed his thumb along the full flesh of her lower lip. A siren’s mouth. The manner of which would send sailors happily into those jagged rocks.

  Temperance’s eyelashes fluttered, and she moved close to him, and into his touch. “That would be . . .”

  A mistake. A danger to them both. Her words hung there, realized by the both of them.

  As such, that should be reminder enough. But he’d always been hopelessly greedy where Temperance was concerned.

  Swallowing rhythmically, he lowered his head, giving her time to retreat . . . Only she didn’t. She lifted her head.

  “Let me kiss you, Temperance,” he whispered, that soft little entreaty against her mouth.

  Her response was instantaneous and glorious, and one he would have sold any soul he had left to the Devil for. “Yes,” she moaned.

  And he kissed her. As he’d longed to. Lips he’d ached to know once more and had given up the dream of. Now, as he slanted his lips over hers, he remembered all of her, the electric shock of their mouths meeting running straight to his soul like a lightning charge. The aromatic taste of her, honey and mint leaves, the same as she’d taken in her tea, and more intoxicating than any potent alcohol brewed in the Rookeries. Temperance parted her lips, letting him inside, and boldly met each stroke of his tongue, her flesh a fiery brand that scorched him as she commanded their kiss.

  The only sounds between them were the erotic rasps of their breaths as they came hard and fast and heavy, blotting out reality and right from wrong, or reason from insanity. All there was, was the two of them.

  Dare glided his hands over her, down the small of her back, over the curve of her waist, and then he sank his fingers into her buttocks, dragging her close.

  She pressed her body against his.

  Neiiiigh. Her mount stuck its enormous nose between them . . . And just like that, the moment was shattered.

  Panting, Temperance stumbled back several steps. Her passion-laden eyes formed slow, widening circles. “That w-was . . .”

  Glorious. A piece of heaven he was undeserving of.

  “A mistake,” he said instead.

  She nodded vigorously. “A mistake,” she echoed. Her fingers shaking, Temperance fished about for her reins.

  “Here,” he murmured, collecting them in his only slightly steadier palms.

  Frowning, she grabbed the leather reins from him. “This will not happen again. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve things I must pack and see to before we leave.” With that, she walked off with her horse trailing behind.

  He should let her go. It was the wise thing to do. It had always been the course he should have taken around Temperance. Alas, he’d never been able to do what he should around the woman. “Temperance?” he called after her.

  Her steps slowed, and she turned about.

  “As for making love? It could happen again . . . if you want it, too . . .”

  “I’ve no interest in having you in my bed, Dare Grey,” she said, the slight tremble to her words otherwise ruining the crisp quality to them.

  With that, she used a nearby boulder to get herself into the saddle of her greying mount and nudged the creature onward.

  He stared after her. She’d agreed to accompany him. She was joining him in London when she’d vowed to never set foot in those city walls, and would see him with a fortune when their time was done.

  That should be enough.

  So why did he find himself regretting that it wasn’t . . . more?

  Chapter 8

  Dare had asked whether two hours were enough for Temperance to pack her belongings.

  In her twenty-six years on this earth, she’d never had much to her name. These past few years, however, she’d accumulated more than all the collective ones before them. And still, as it would turn out, she’d needed just thirty-three minutes to pack up all that mattered to her and all she had: Her dresses. The handful of knickknacks her brother had given to her over the years: Her cameo. Her porcelain clock. Her sewing kit.

  No, there’d never been much, and as such, packing had been easy. Only, when the knock came, she still wasn’t ready.

  KnockKnockKnock.

  From where she stood at the window, Gwynn peeled back the curtain and peered outside. “He’s arrived,” she murmured, more to herself. And needlessly.

  It was the first time Dare Grey had ever been on time for a meeting between him and Temperance.

  A panicky giggle built in her chest at the thought.

  Standing in the middle of her small living room with two tattered valises beside her, Temperance bent slightly and gathered the handles.

  Yes, the packing had proven easy. It was the leaving which left her stomach tangled up in a thousand knots.

  That, and the idea of joining him.

  And staring at the door panel, nothing more than a rectangular slab of wood, the only physical barrier between her and Dare, made this—what she’d agreed to—real in ways that i
t hadn’t been.

  Sweat slicked her skin.

  I cannot do this . . .

  She’d been so very sure that she was entering into this latest arrangement with Dare in a coolheaded manner, and yet she’d never been in full possession of her wits and heart where he was concerned.

  What if this is different? What if I fall all over again for a man who never wanted a wife and only married me to protect me, and—

  A light hand came to rest on Temperance’s shoulder, and she jumped. Her panicky gaze went to Gwynn’s fingers, life-worn like her own, and the sight of them and that touch managed to ground her.

  Her friend stared back with troubled eyes. “I’ve forced you to do this.”

  “You didn’t.” She paused. “You made me see reason, which is altogether different.”

  Gwynn twisted her hands. “I don’t know what drove you and the marquess apart, and perhaps if I’d been a better friend I would have asked that first and put that before everything, but I’m telling you now, you don’t have to do this, Temperance.”

  She’d not fault Gwynn for seeing hope beyond the offer Dare had put to her. “Yes,” Temperance said softly. “I do.” And mayhap for more reasons than Chance and Gwynn. Mayhap, there could be some sense of closure. That important piece that had been missing all these years since she’d sent Dare away and asked him to never return. And from there, with the money Dare would give her, there’d be funds enough to see she lived a life of comfort—an existence where she wasn’t reliant upon Madame Amelie.

  KnockKnockKnock.

  They looked to the front of the room.

  And still, despite her assurances to the other woman and her resolve to join Dare, she could not make herself move. Instead, as Gwynn trotted over to the door and reached for the handle, Temperance called out, freezing her and this moment. “Wait!”

  And allowing herself several last, stolen moments, Temperance passed her gaze around the living quarters she’d called home with Gwynn these past years.

  Here, she’d retreated and hidden herself away. It had come to represent a place of only new memories, ones she’d made for herself. The Cotswolds had represented hope and anonymity . . . from the father who’d brought her only suffering.