Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  His neck went hot, and he made a show of drinking from his coffee. He didn’t want pity from her. When he’d finished, he set his glass down. “Shall we?” he asked, shoving back his seat.

  Temperance stood.

  The two servants stationed outside clicked their heels and straightened at their approach.

  Dare waved off those extravagant displays from the pair. “No need for any of that.”

  Moments later, as Dare and Temperance wound their way through the halls to the ballroom, Dare acknowledged that he’d been wrong before. It was awkward between them, after all. This was. They made the journey in silence, a stilted one . . . when it had never been uncomfortable between them. That was what had always confounded him. She’d been the one person whom he’d felt an ease with.

  With Avery it was all business and work, and comfortable and safe for it.

  With Temperance, he found himself questioning the rules and lessons of thieving in the Rookeries and also wanting . . . everything he shouldn’t. That hadn’t changed. That had remained a constant, and he feared it always would.

  When they reached the ballroom, Dare drew one of the double doors open and allowed Temperance to enter first.

  She hesitated before walking inside.

  “Oh, my . . . Saints of St. Giles,” she whispered. Touching a hand to her throat, Temperance swept forward. Twelve marble pillars, with bases and tops accented in gold, lined each side of the parquet dance floor. Her wide eyes took in every detail, including the seven crystal chandeliers that hung at the center of the room.

  As he crossed to join her, Dare took in these newly inherited rooms. The small, carpeted dais showed the same hints of age as the rest of the household. No framed paintings hung on the walls. The sconces were bronzed and not gold. “They are modest compared with most.” His voice echoed, inordinately loud in the empty space. “Many I’ve been inside have marble flooring throughout and—” He stopped himself abruptly, but it was too late to call it back, that reminder of the work he did.

  Temperance pulled her gaze back from the glass ceiling overhead, her expression stricken. “I . . . never truly thought of you being in these households,” she said softly. “Before. Now, I can see you here,” she continued in whispery-soft tones he strained to hear, even as close as they were to one another. “Now, it makes sense.” Then that was one of them who could see himself in this place . . . in this world. “I didn’t let myself think of you inside these homes . . .” She let her arms hang wide. “Inside this, because it made the risk of what you did all the more real.” Her eyes grew distant, taking on a far-off quality as she left him in thought. And it was the moment he lost her again to his work. “Although the times you were caught by constables and sent to Newgate served as the only reminders I needed.”

  But then unlike before, where discussion of his thievery left a wedge, this time her features settled into a placidity, and she smiled. “This time is different. Before, you’d no choice, and now . . .” Temperance caught his hands and held them in her own. She squeezed them lightly. “You are truly free of that life, Dare.” The smile curving those lushly beautiful crimson lips was a smile he’d never seen her wear—ever. One that was soft and free of cynicism or wariness.

  And lost as he was in the serenity of her expression, it took a moment for what she’d said to sink in.

  You are truly free of that life . . .

  It was a conclusion any rational, any sane, person would have reached, but stealing from society’s most undeserving and giving it to those who were in need? That was more part of his blood than any title or noble connections. Stealing was how he’d survived, and he couldn’t simply disentangle himself from that.

  Removing his hands from hers, Dare clasped them at his back and rocked on his heels. “Shall we?”

  She nodded.

  It was the first he ever recalled her . . . uncertain. This was a new layer of Temperance Swift.

  “The first thing to remember about the waltz—”

  “The waltz?” she choked out, interrupting him.

  “Is there something wrong with the waltz?”

  “It is just . . . you . . .” She cleared her throat. “I was thinking something . . .” Temperance stared helplessly back.

  And perhaps he was even more a bastard than the world took him for, because he wasn’t going to help her. Dare shook his head slowly. “Something . . . ?”

  “More distinguished,” she blurted.

  Distinguished? He tamped down a smile. “Ah, but where, Temperance, is the fun in that?” He drifted closer and looped a hand about her waist.

  Temperance gasped; it was the softest, slightest inhalation, and yet headily erotic for the lack of restraint to it. They remained there, chests touching, bodies pressed close. “I-is this proper?”

  He lowered his head and their breaths mingled. “Does it matter if it is?” he whispered against her mouth. “Given last night?”

  She slapped a finger against his mouth. “Shh,” she demanded, glancing about the empty room. “Will I be expected to dance this . . . with other gentlemen?”

  And just like that, his plans for their dancing lessons came to a screeching, staggering halt under the image she’d ushered in: one of Temperance locked in the arms of some unrepentant rogue, a rake with a hand too low on her back, and on the curve of her hip. Some scoundrel who was all too eager to seduce the Lost Lord’s wife out from under his nose. A gentleman who wasn’t a thief of anything but hearts.

  “Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “We could begin first with a country dance, the quadrille.”

  And damn if the relief in her eyes didn’t grate.

  “Now,” he began, focusing on the business at hand. “For country dances, what you should remember is the movements are a skip-change step with a little jump, and end with your feet together.” Humming a tune, Dare demonstrated those steps, slowly, several times, then increased speed so they matched the rhythm of songs played.

  Temperance’s mouth moved as if she were talking herself through his directions.

  “In formal sets, the feet come together, so one doesn’t blur the edges as one goes straight into the next figure,” he explained.

  “You remember . . . so much of this,” she said quietly . . . and he missed his first step.

  He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “I expect it’s no different from learning to walk or ride or anything else.” Only . . . there were memories there. Ones he’d not thought of: a woman who was a stranger, and yet not. A woman whom he’d not thought about, or of, because there’d been no need for it. But now, with Temperance’s observation, that ghost forced her way back in.

  It is no different from skipping or running, Darius . . . Come, let me show you . . .

  A child’s laughter lingered with that of his mother, in these walls still.

  “Dare?” A soft hand settled on his arm.

  “Fine,” he said abruptly. “I’m fine. The quadrille,” he said, bringing them back to something far safer—their dance lesson. “You step onto your left foot at the same time you throw your right foot forward, like so.” He demonstrated those steps once more, and waited for her to mimic them. Temperance attempted them several times. On the fourth, she was slightly breathless and laughing, with red color in her cheeks . . . and thoroughly entrancing. “It doesn’t have to be that far,” he said too late, and she completed that step, her leg extended too far out, and she nearly came down.

  Laughing, she caught herself against him.

  And all the air remained trapped in his lungs, and he wanted nothing more than to freeze her as she was now, blithe and without the cares she’d known. Without the struggles and suffering she’d endured.

  “What?” she asked, her breath coming in quiet little rasps. She didn’t release her grip upon Dare’s jacket, holding on so naturally to him.

  “Nothing,” he said softly. To say it was anything more would shatter the moment. “Careful with your right foot. If you extend it t
oo far forward and to the right, you can fall.”

  She pulled away and attempted the steps once more. “Good,” he said. “Now, jump, landing on both of your feet, but bending your knees slightly to prevent injury.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Who would have imagined dance would be so dangerous?”

  It wasn’t. Only this woman, and the longing he had for her, represented the greatest peril.

  Together, Dare and Temperance went through the steps. Over and over. And then they moved on to the Scotch reel . . . “And at last . . . there is . . . the waltz.” He left that there, allowing Temperance to decide whether she wanted to attempt what had once been a scandalous set.

  “Who taught you the waltz?”

  “My mother instructed me,” he said before he could call the words back. Why had he shared that?

  Temperance’s eyes softened. “Do you remember much about her?”

  “Some,” he said gruffly, keeping his eyes focused over the top of her head.

  “You’ve never talked about her . . . not to me.”

  Not to anyone. The mother he’d remembered may as well have died when Dare left.

  “If you would rather not?” he said, eager to bring them back to the lesson.

  “No. I will.”

  “It is very much accepted now. Hardly as scandalous as it once was when it first appeared here in London.”

  “It is scandalous, Lavinia . . .”

  “It is merely a waltz, Oscar . . .”

  Dare’s vision tunneled as he stared straight ahead down the length of the ballroom, and resurrected from his memory was a waltzing pair: a mother and her son of just seven, twirling wildly around the dance floor, a couple gliding in long, sweeping movements, their laughter filling the room, blending until . . .

  “What is the meaning of this, Lavinia?”

  “He is just dancing.”

  “Everything he does is outrageous. You shouldn’t encourage him more . . .”

  That fighting between his parents trailed off in an echo in his mind.

  Dare continued staring sightlessly ahead, seeing that image as if the moment played out in real time before him. He’d not allowed himself to think of them . . . for so long. And yet, having been forced back into this household and this way of life meant they were there haunting him at every turn.

  “Is it?” Temperance’s voice came as if from a distance.

  “Hmm?”

  “Very much accepted now?” she repeated.

  The present came rushing back in a loud whir. “I . . . Yes. From what I’ve . . . observed.” And this time, a memory intruded of this same ballroom . . . only he had stood on the outside of it, his nose pressed against the cold crystal pane as he stared in at a world he’d no longer belonged to.

  Feeling Temperance’s probing stare and not wanting any questions, Dare shoved off those thoughts and launched into instructions for their next set together. “What one must remember is that the waltz follows a basic box step.” Holding his arms in the correct pose, he demonstrated what would be her movements. “Forward left. Slide with the right. And then close, left foot to right foot. Now, switch weight.” Dare faced Temperance and found her features a study of concentration. “Your turn.”

  Her arms hanging at her sides, Temperance stepped forward, then right.

  “More of a slide,” he murmured. Going on a knee, he took her right leg and gently guided her through the motions.

  He froze. His fingers curved reflexively upon her knee, the thin wool of her dress and a chemise all that stood between them. Dare swallowed hard, wanting to resume exactly where they’d left off the night prior.

  “Dare?” she asked questioningly, and he abruptly released her.

  “Try again,” he said hoarsely, leaping to his feet. “Always remember,” he instructed as Temperance tested those movements several times. “There is an up-and-down quality to the rhythm of the dance.” Although there was a slight bouncing quality to some of those motions, there was even more a natural grace as she mimicked the steps he taught.

  “Now back, side, close . . . and you have it.”

  “I have it,” she muttered, practicing once more. “I trust when there is an orchestra and a room full of proficient dancers and a partner that it will be altogether different.”

  “All of which is easily rectified.” Dare held his arms aloft.

  Temperance hesitated, and for a moment, he thought she intended to refuse. But then she stepped into his arms.

  How right she felt there. And she’d been correct when she’d said intimacy had never been their problem. Their bodies had always moved in a harmony, be it lovemaking or now . . . dancing.

  “There’s no music,” she pointed out, faintly breathless.

  Was it from all her earlier exertions? Or the feel of his arms wrapped about her? And why did he so desperately want it to be the latter?

  Dare began to quietly sing an up-tempo melody and started them through the steps. Temperance stared down at their feet. She tripped and promptly cursed. Stifling a smile, lest she take it as a sign that he was making light, he tipped her chin up. “Look at me,” he murmured, pausing in his song.

  “You can sing.”

  “There’re no words.”

  “It is still singing. You are carrying a tune, and in flawless modulation.”

  “Music instructors,” he confessed, twirling her in a wide, dizzying arc that brought a laugh and, as importantly, an end to her questions.

  Temperance stepped on his left foot. “I am terrible at this,” she gritted out between clenched teeth.

  “You’ve only just begun, love. Close your eyes.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Close. Them.”

  And then wonder of wonders, Temperance complied.

  “Now, no talking. No questions. Nothing. Just feel the music . . . and movements. And dance.”

  Together, they glided through the one-two-three steps of the waltz. She stumbled, and Dare tightened his grip at her waist, holding her up, drawing her closer. And when she opened her eyes, so much passion blazed from within those sapphire depths, Dare faltered.

  Their legs became entangled, and they came down.

  Dare broke her fall, coming down on his back so that she landed on his chest.

  Breathless with laughter, Temperance touched the tip of her nose to his. “This is going to prove disastrous.”

  He rolled her under him, earning another, bigger, fuller laugh. “You dare doubt us?”

  “We’re on the floor, Dare.”

  “Yes, well, there is that.” He tickled that sensitive place at her side, pulling a squeal from her. She swatted and writhed under him, this game he’d long played with her, once upon a lifetime ago before they’d parted.

  “Mercy,” she cried between great, heaving guffaws of hilarity. “Merrrrcy.”

  “What?” Dare angled his ear close to her mouth. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize that last word, love.”

  “I take it this is your . . . wife? My sister-in-law?” A voice boomed from the front of the room, slashing a blade of sobriety through their exchange.

  Dare continued to hold Temperance. Her chest rose and fell in quick respirations.

  Framed in the doorway stood the Duchess of Pemberly alongside her granddaughter. Both women wore matching frowns.

  And where there were only questions whether Dare belonged to this family, there could never be any doubting that the young woman was cut of the same cloth and shared the same blood as the dour matriarch.

  “Your Grace,” Dare called from where he still lay on the floor.

  The older woman’s cheeks turned grey, and she reached about her neck.

  Kinsley helped the duchess to her smelling salts.

  Temperance pushed frantically against him. “Release me. Now,” she furiously whispered.

  Sighing, Dare hopped up, and held a hand down to Temperance.

  As the pair at the front of the ballroom swept forward, Temperance hurriedl
y smoothed her skirts and patted her hair.

  “You are fine.”

  “I’m wrinkled,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “Your sister?”

  “Is not wrinkled.”

  Temperance shoved a discreet elbow into his side, and Dare grunted. “Stop making light.”

  “Oh, fine.”

  The two ladies stopped before him and Temperance.

  Kinsley gave Temperance a once-over, wrinkling her nose ever so slightly. “This is where introductions would be best served,” she said coolly.

  “Temperance,” Temperance was quick to supply, with a deep curtsy.

  “Hmm. Yes, well, I am Lady Kinsley, and you are coming with me and Grandmother.”

  He frowned. They’d come here and steal Temperance from him . . . and the brief moment of happiness they’d found preparing for their entry to Polite Society? “I’m not aware of any plans—”

  “A wardrobe, Darius,” the duchess said with a thump of her cane. “Your wife requires a wardrobe.”

  “For—”

  “Grandmother and Grandfather have a dinner party planned.”

  “To introduce you to Polite Society,” the duchess added when no one immediately spoke. “It will be small. No more than sixty guests.”

  At his side, Temperance dissolved into a strangled fit.

  “The sooner you and your wife are introduced, the better off it will be. The gossips will have less stories to invent.”

  “When?” he asked tersely.

  “Saturday evening. The invitations have already gone out, and I’m happy to say there’s not been a single rejection amongst the guests.”

  Of course there wasn’t. He might not truly be a lord any longer, but he’d moved stealthily amongst them, through the years, enough to know precisely how they were. They’d not miss an opportunity to have access to gossip before anyone else. “I’ll see to my wife’s wardrobe.”

  “And see her properly attired before Saturday?” Kinsley retorted. “You don’t have any connections that can secure that feat. Not like Grandmother.”

  Sending Temperance off in a carriage ride with his ruthless kin? He thought not. “Bloody hell, she’s not going.”

  “Dare,” Temperance began.