Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  In one fluid movement, he hopped up behind her. “You will see . . .” She was turning to enter her room when he lightly caught her hand.

  Her heart pounded as he guided her back around, and his thick lashes hooded his gaze. And for one moment, she believed he intended to kiss her. Again. Her heart beat wildly as she leaned up.

  “I don’t believe it will be easy. I believe they will revel in our failure,” he said pragmatically. “As such, I believe we would be wise to . . . come to a truce during our time together.”

  When Temperance was a small girl, her father had awakened her by dousing her with a bucket of freezing water. The absolute absence of either passion or desire in Dare’s tone and gaze had the same cooling effect. She made herself ease away from him; her back thumped against her bedroom door. From within Gwynn’s snoring continued. “A truce,” she echoed.

  “We’ve been at odds over much, but we are united in our goal. We will not, however, see this through unless we are working together, and fighting over the past and . . . past wrongs . . . Nothing good can come of that.”

  Fighting over the past and . . . past wrongs . . . Nothing good can come of that . . .

  No, it was why she’d withheld the agony of that loss from him. And there’d been a time she’d resented herself for keeping him from the suffering that haunted her every day.

  “That is for the best,” she murmured, unsure whether she spoke to his point or to the silent ones that existed only in her head.

  Relief swept over his features, and despite herself, despite the agreement they’d just come to, she couldn’t tamp down a wave of bitterness. He could simply divorce the past from the present. He’d always been able to separate his mind from his heart, in ways she never had.

  “Polite Society will be expecting us to fail. Relishing our missteps,” he carried on. “And united is the only way to not only defeat those expectations but also successfully establish ourselves in that world.”

  How cool he was about this new version of their once passionate relationship. Were they even capable of anything but volatility? They’d only ever alternated between tender, teasing lovers and figures raging at one another over decisions the other person couldn’t understand. Could they simply remove the years of history and emotion to achieve the ends they each sought?

  Dare held out his spare hand.

  Temperance studied those outstretched fingers.

  Can you set aside your resentment for his having gone missing when you needed him most?

  Except . . . what choice did they have? She reluctantly nodded and accepted his handshake. “I’ll agree to a truce, Dare,” she allowed when he’d released her palm. Her hand went cold at the loss. “Unless you give me reason not to trust you.” Again. And there’d been so many reasons to not trust him or his reliability over the years.

  His expression grew shuttered. “Good night, Temperance.”

  “Dare.”

  She hurried inside her room.

  Only it wasn’t until she’d changed back into her nightclothes and climbed into the bed, and had the coverlet up to her chin, that she realized he’d never given her any assurances on the matter of trust.

  Chapter 10

  They didn’t make the time Dare had hoped or expected. They’d stopped when he’d intended to push on through the night. Those plans, however, had changed the moment he learned Temperance struggled in carriage rides. He’d not have her ride in the dead of night. Instead, he’d sent her friend on ahead in a separate carriage, while he and Temperance continued at a slower pace.

  Which was why it wasn’t until late in the afternoon that he and Temperance arrived at his new—albeit temporary—Mayfair residence.

  As if they’d been standing in wait, a small contingent of servants filed through the front door and came streaming down the steps the moment he and Temperance brought their mounts to a stop.

  Her horse danced restlessly about.

  A servant was instantly there.

  Only the footman hesitated, looking with wide eyes up at Temperance.

  Swinging down, Dare greeted the boy. “I have it, Reuben,” he said, waving him off to help hand Temperance down.

  The butler hovered in the doorway, his expression . . . pained. Which was . . . interesting, and not just a small bit alarming, given the young man’s inability to reveal any emotion before now.

  “You have servants, Dare,” Temperance whispered furiously.

  “Yes,” he said as they climbed the handful of steps.

  “No,” she said, her hushed tones slightly more frantic. Wide-eyed, Temperance glanced at the young men and women scurrying about. “A lot of them.”

  “Yes.”

  The butler stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

  “Spencer,” Dare greeted. Unfastening his cloak, he shrugged out of the article and tossed it to the young man. The servant stumbled as he caught it against his chest. “I take it His Grace and Her Grace have arrived?”

  “Y-yes, my lord,” Spencer stammered, struggling to right the article in his arms. “I-I took the liberty of showing them to the Opal Parlor.” As he spoke, his gaze strayed periodically to Temperance. “They arrived several hours ago.”

  “Splendid.” It wasn’t anything of the sort. It was, however, necessary—the meeting to tie up the details surrounding the inheritance the duke dangled over him.

  After the butler had stolen another furtive glance in Temperance’s direction, Dare relieved him of all curiosity. “Spencer, if I may at this time present my wife, the Marchioness of Milford.”

  Spencer blanched and lost his hold on Dare’s cloak. The garment landed in a whoosh upon the marble floor at his feet.

  A footman rushed forward to rescue it.

  Spencer’s eyes bulged. “The m-m-maaarchioness?” When the young butler managed to get the actual word out, he added three additional syllables.

  Anger lanced through Dare. “Is that a problem?” He leveled a warning glare on the usually composed head servant.

  The other man’s small Adam’s apple jumped several times. “No?” Dare narrowed his eyes. “Of course n-not?” Angling his body closer toward Dare so Temperance was cut from the exchange, Spencer cupped a hand around his mouth. “Very p-possibly?”

  Dare took a step back, closer to where Temperance hovered in the wings, including her where Spencer had sought to cut her out. “Are those questions?” Dare warned in silken, steely tones he reserved for those with whom he found himself on the other end of the dealing table when negotiating for the lives of London’s innocent.

  His features strained, Spencer tugged at his collar. “N-no?”

  From the corner of his eye, Dare caught a young footman rushing over to help Temperance from her wool cloak.

  He’d be damned, however, if he tolerated anyone treating Temperance as if she were somehow unworthy. “That sounded like another question, Spencer,” he said warningly. At his side, he felt Temperance as she silently took in the exchange.

  Spencer glanced briefly past Dare’s shoulder, and then when he returned his focus to Dare, the butler appeared a moment away from dissolving into big, blubbering tears. “I don’t mean . . . It isn’t my intention . . .”

  Temperance slid closer to Dare. “Stop it,” she whispered.

  He bristled. “I’ve not done anything.”

  “You’re terrifying him.”

  As one, they looked to where Spencer quaked.

  The butler jerked his attention to the cheerful pastoral mural overhead.

  She’d call Dare out as a bully. “You’d defend him?” he bit out.

  “He’s not done anything,” she said, calmer than he’d ever remembered her. This, this new version of Temperance, who could no longer ride in carriages and got queasy around blood. How many other changes had befallen the both of them in these years apart? And somehow, that realization only sent his anger spiraling . . . with Spencer. With her . . . and with himself.

  “I’ll not have him treat you wi
th anything less than respect.” He hissed out that last word, needing to give life to his fury and frustration.

  And wonder of wonders, fiery, hotheaded Temperance met his response with an equanimity and sarcasm. “Because he’s surprised?” she said dryly. “Because you didn’t mention you’d be returning with a wife, and one so clearly outside your station?”

  “You’re not out—”

  She shot him a look, silencing the rest of that defense.

  He moved his gaze over the bronzed hue of her angular face. Any other person would have been offended by the servant’s insolence. Another might have been given to tears. And for all the ways in which she’d been quick-tempered, she’d also been possessed of a logic he’d admired her for.

  Color filled her cheeks. “What is it?”

  He shook his head. “It is nothing.” It was him remembering the reasons he’d fallen in love with her, against his better judgment and after vowing to never let someone close.

  “And tell me, is this your master plan for handling my entry into Polite Society?” Temperance lifted a perfectly formed black eyebrow. She didn’t let him get a word in. “Is this how you intend to deal with any and every cut direct I’m given? By calling out and scaring anyone who offends me?”

  “No?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Yes, then,” he said flatly. “That is precisely what I intend to do.”

  “Oh, Dare.” Temperance rubbed her hands over her face and laughed. “Then we are to fail, and spectacularly.”

  Dare took her lightly by the arm and steered her away from the assembled servants. “You’ll be met with respect, or—”

  “Or what?” she interrupted. “I told you how I would be received, and yet you think you’re going to force people to accept me.” She shook her head. “That isn’t how the world works. Not this world. Not any world. Those rules are the same whatever class a person belongs to, Dare.”

  All his muscles tensed. “I’ll demand greater treatment of you, even if you’ll not accept it for yourself.”

  A hiss burst from her teeth. “You believe that is what this is about? That I can somehow make people like me and accept—”

  “Ahem.”

  They jerked their gazes back to the forgotten servant. Spencer lifted a gloved palm and waved it slightly. “If I might . . . perhaps suggest postponing your meeting with the duke and duchess?” he asked hopefully. “I can inform them His Lordship is tired from his—”

  “No.”

  “Travels,” Spencer finished weakly over Dare.

  “We’re having the damned meeting.” Grabbing Temperance’s hand, he propelled them both onward to the damned duke, who couldn’t simply give Dare the monies he sought and needed. No, he’d make Dare and Temperance play at domesticity as a proper lord and lady, a role neither of them wanted.

  Not unlike their marriage itself.

  I don’t want you in my life, Dare . . . not anymore . . . never again . . .

  “She is going with you?” Spencer called loudly behind them, breaking through the long-ago memory burnt indelibly upon Dare’s mind.

  “She is, in fact, ‘Her Ladyship,’ Spencer. Have a care, or you’re going to find yourself sacked, and quickly,” Dare warned, not so much as glancing back.

  Temperance dug her fingers into his. “Stop.”

  Dare ignored her.

  “My a-apologies,” the servant panted, slightly out of breath as he struggled to keep up. The man’s buckled black shoes beat rhythmically upon the marble floor as he struggled to match the pace Dare had set.

  “I said, stop,” Temperance repeated, digging her heels in and forcing Dare to either halt or drag her down.

  Setting his jaw, he acquiesced. “What?”

  “Is this really what you wish?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking, Temperance.”

  “Don’t you?” Temperance made an up-and-down gesture, motioning to herself. “Is this truly the way you wish to introduce me to a duke and duchess? How you wish to present yourself?” She looked pointedly at his dusty garments . . . and lower to his mud-stained boots. “You should care more than you do, Dare.”

  He grinned. “Ah, but I don’t.”

  Her mouth remained set in a frown. “That is clear, and yet . . . why? You always took pride in your appearance in the Rookeries . . . Why should it somehow be different here?”

  That gave him pause. “You’re making more of it than there is.”

  “Am I?” she insisted. “As it is, being accepted by your grandparents and Polite Society will prove problematic enough, as I’m the daughter of a drunk.”

  God, how he despised how closely she linked herself and her existence to the miserable bastard who’d sired her.

  He lightly touched his forehead to hers. “Temperance, you are more than the circumstances you were born to.”

  “I know that,” she said automatically.

  Did she, though? She’d always tied herself and her worth to that vile bastard who’d given her life . . . and her downtrodden mother, who’d died shortly after Dare had first met Temperance. “That is not what I am speaking about, however, Dare. I’m talking about how you for some reason are so very determined to let your grandparents see you and me a certain way.” Her shoulders came back. “And you might not care about how you will appear to them”—she wrinkled her nose—“or smell when we’re presented, but we do.”

  He faintly sniffed the air, and grimaced. Yes, there was a definite stench of horse and sweat to him.

  She gave him another pointed look.

  And when presented that way, he was humbled by the realization that he’d not fully considered just how difficult this upcoming exchange would be for Temperance. She, who’d been strong in facing the toughest drunks and street thugs, and as such he’d not let himself think of her as . . . unnerved by meeting with a pair of nobles. “You are not incorrect,” he said gruffly.

  A relieved sigh came from behind them, which Spencer quickly masked as a cough.

  “And you are as obstinate as you’ve ever been in your failure to concede when you’re wrong.”

  Her lips tipped in the first hint of a real smile since they’d reunited, and his heart somersaulted. He’d missed that smile. He’d missed it so very much and hadn’t realized just how much until he’d caught that glimpse.

  From where he hovered several paces away, Spencer shifted back and forth.

  “Spencer.” Dare called the other man over.

  The servant came running. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Please see Her Ladyship to her rooms, and then when she is ready, see she is escorted to the Opal Parlor.”

  Relief lit up the younger man’s eyes. “Yes, my lord.” He dropped a deep bow. “My lady, if you will follow me.”

  Dare waited, watching on as Spencer showed Temperance down the hall. She paused at the end and cast one last look Dare’s way, and he tried to make something of her gaze. The distance, however—real and that which had been imposed in their years apart—made it impossible.

  After she and Spencer had gone, Dare started for the Opal Parlor. It didn’t matter what garments he wore. The meeting was what was import—

  He slowed his steps.

  That is not what I am speaking about, however, Dare. I’m talking about how you for some reason are so very determined to let your grandparents see you and me a certain way . . . And you might not care about how you will appear to them or smell when we’re presented, but we do . . .

  She’d been incorrect. This had nothing to do with how he wished for the duke and duchess to see him. And yet there wasn’t just himself whom he had to consider. Now there was Temperance. Temperance, who’d done him an enormous favor in setting aside past resentments and differences to journey to this part of England she so hated.

  Dare let out a quiet curse, and shifting course, he made his way abovestairs and to his rooms. A short while later, having rinsed with cold water that had been set out in his washbasin and
changed into new garments, Dare found his way to the Opal Parlor.

  A liveried footman stood stationed at the door and clicked his heels when Dare stopped outside the room. When the young man turned to open the door, Dare waved him off.

  “I have it.” All this pomp and circumstance and people serving at his beck and call was as foreign as it was unwanted. Per the conditions the duke and duchess had set, he might have to live in this world, but it needn’t mean he had to surrender all parts of himself and the life he’d known. With one hand, Dare finished buttoning his tailcoat, and with his spare one, he opened the door. “My apologies,” he said as he entered. “I was—”

  His words cut off as he took in the unexpected sight.

  The duke and duchess sat beside another equally regal couple. Sandwiched between that pair of strangers was another, a slender, pale-blonde young lady. A tray of refreshments sat untouched beside a pot of tea.

  Dare opened and closed his mouth several times. “Uh . . . hello?”

  At that, the previously frozen room came alive. Everyone set down their teacups, and there came the staggered clinks of glass touching wood.

  The unfamiliar trio were the first to come to their feet.

  “Darius,” the duke boomed. Using his cane, His Grace pushed himself to his feet. He leaned on the marble head, as if the effort had strained his energies. “We’re so glad you are back, boy. To finalize the details of our agreement.” And for the first time since he’d been reunited with the duke and duchess, Dare found the pair smiling.

  Warning bells went off.

  “Our agreement.”

  “That you will marry.” The duchess beamed. Clutching her joined fists briefly against her chest, she looked over to the strangers.

  Dare followed her gaze to the young woman who’d earned his grandmother’s focus.

  The lady dipped her eyes to the floor.

  Dare looked back to his grandfather. “Forgive me, I’m afraid . . . introductions are required.”

  “Splendid idea.” Her Grace clapped once. Sweeping over, she took one of Dare’s hands. “May we present the Earl and Countess of Peregrine. Our families have been closely connected for nearly two generations. Your father and the earl were the best of friends. And your mother was closest with Lady Peregrine above all others.” She may as well have been speaking of strangers. “And after so very many years,” she said, guiding him across the room toward the young lady, “it brings me the greatest of pleasure and honor to introduce you at last”—she stopped before the serene figure—“to Lady Madelyn Wainwright”—she paused—“your betrothed.” With that, she joined Dare’s hand with the young lady’s.