He’d doubted she could love who he’d become . . .
God, how she despised what his father had done to him, the insecurity and doubt he’d placed in Dare’s perception of self-worth. He made sense in every way now.
Temperance drifted closer. “You worried she could not separate what you did on the streets,” she said, at last with an understanding of why he’d chosen to stay in the Rookeries. “Because your father made you believe that.” Taking his hands, she squeezed them, forcing his eyes to her own. “What you did, Dare? You did it in the name of survival. Your parents would have understood that.”
“My parents would have had a child who was an oddity, who’d committed horrible acts, scandalous ones that no nobleman could accept from his son.”
He’d been so afraid to bring shame upon them, he’d not been able to see . . . His mother would have cared only that he’d returned. Temperance knew, however, to say as much would neither sway his mind nor undo the fate that he and his mother had suffered.
He brushed his knuckles under her chin, and she lifted her gaze up. “Come now, Temperance, you never understood my thievery. Now, you’d make excuses for my actions.”
“That isn’t true,” she protested. “When you were a boy, and I a young girl . . . I understood, Dare. And then even when you were a young man? That made sense to me, too.” She shook her head, that action dislodging his touch. “It is that you continued on which I couldn’t understand. I saw that you had the ability to do more and be more. It doesn’t mean I don’t understand why you did what you did as a boy and then as a young man trying to survive.” Temperance took his hands once more. “But that is behind you.” Her eyes went to his bruised knuckles, and she frowned. “Wylie?”
“No. No.” Coloring, Dare freed his hands and tucked them behind his back. “It . . . happened before. I . . . went out.”
She stilled. “You went to find him that night,” she whispered, knowing intuitively the reason for those bruises. “Did you—”
“I didn’t kill him,” he interrupted her. “I wanted to, and I should have done so . . . for you. But I proved weak—”
Temperance touched a gloved fingertip to his lips, and then leaning up, she kissed him. “I never wanted you to make decisions that went against your moral fiber. And certainly not for me, Dare. Thank you.”
“You’d thank me for not killing him?”
“I’d thank you for doing that which was right.”
At the end of the hall, Spencer appeared. They looked to the servant. “The duke and duchess wished for me to . . . inquire as to whether you would be joining your company,” he called, his voice strained.
“They’re waiting,” Temperance said regretfully, sinking back onto her heels.
Dare caught her knuckles and raised them to his lips. “And I’m content to keep them waiting.”
Temperance smiled, her heart fluttering as he brushed his mouth over the top of her hand; the delicate silk did little to mute the feel of that kiss. “I know that.”
He held his arm out, and she made to slip hers through his, but stopped.
Dare stared at her questioningly.
“She loved you,” she said softly. She needed to say that. As a mother who’d loved desperately and lost, she needed Dare to know that. “Whatever evil your father was capable of, your mother loved you. She loved her daughter, your sister, Kinsley, just as she loved the son still with them, but that didn’t mean she ever stopped loving you. It didn’t mean she forgot you.”
Such raw emotion twisted his features that her chest went tight all over again. “You can’t know that,” he said hoarsely.
“I can.” She knew better than he ever could understand. That knowledge came from a place of different—but also great—loss. “I only held her a handful of minutes, Dare . . .” Tears welled, and she fought them. “A mother never forgets her child. Ever.” The memory of that little girl would remain with her until she drew her last breath. Her heart shuddered and her soul ached with the memory, and she briefly closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she found Dare’s agony-filled eyes upon her. Cupping her about the nape, he drew Temperance closer and pressed his brow to hers.
She remained that way, taking the support he’d offered, and for the first time since that tragic night, she wished she’d let him in on their loss . . . because there was a completeness to their grief, one that erased the sense of aloneness.
Dare held her that way, allowing her full control of how much support she wanted and needed. Yet again, he gave no indication that he cared about the roomful of powerful guests no doubt awaiting him—them.
Reluctantly, she drew back.
Still, he lingered . . . His eyes drifted over to the portrait of his parents and siblings.
She waited in silence, allowing him the time he needed to look on at the family—his family—as it had existed without him as part of it.
He turned to her. “I am ready.”
And as she slipped her arm through his, this time it felt like . . . mayhap he was ready to face and live his future, after all.
Chapter 23
Since the moment Dare had set foot inside his familial townhouse, he’d thought of nothing but the day he’d eventually leave. He’d craved that moment. Hungered for it with a ferocious intensity.
Only to at last have a sense of . . . peace in being here.
The duke, seated at Dare’s left, leaned over. “Your grandmother insisted I speak with you.”
“About?” Dare asked, picking up his goblet and taking a drink.
“Propriety. More specifically, etiquette. You were late for your own dinner party, Darius. It is bad form. Now”—the duke leaned in closer and continued speaking in a quiet voice that Dare strained to hear—“I understand it has been a very long time since you followed that . . . etiquette. It will take some getting used to.” His grandfather discreetly patted the top of Dare’s spare hand.
Once Dare would have taunted the older man for the lesson he doled out. Now, he looked back . . . at himself and how he’d responded to their efforts. How smug and condescending . . . when they were all at sea, as much as Dare had been, with his return.
His family, whose only intent had been to see Dare reintegrated with society.
Nay, not just society—his family. His eyes drifted across the length of the table to where his sister sat, fiddling with her fork and staring at her plate. If it had been about reclaiming his place amongst the ton, the arrangement the duke and duchess had held him to wouldn’t have had anything to do with Kinsley, or with Dare becoming a brother to her.
“I’m sorry . . . Grandfather,” Dare said quietly.
The duke started and cupped a hand about his ear. “Come again?”
“I said I am sorry . . . Grandfather.” For so much. For having rejected every attempt the duke had made to be close to him. For having made every aspect of his return to Polite Society . . . so difficult. Dare tried to get the words out, but the duke again patted his hand.
“Fine.” Tears misted the older man’s eyes. “It is fine, my boy.”
My boy.
And in this . . . there was an absolution of sorts.
How very long Dare had been fighting that connection. Fighting any bond. It had been just one more thing Temperance had made him open his eyes to. He’d gone out of his way to destroy everything, this relationship included. Had it not been for Temperance, he would have never seen as much.
From where he sat, Dare watched Temperance several chairs away, seated between Kinsley and the duchess. Graceful and elegant, she was a queen amongst mere mortals. She, who’d lived a life of strife and come out on the other side of evil to triumph—and without anyone to save her. Even as he’d wished to be there for her.
She was more woman than he’d ever deserved, and he was a selfish bastard, because he wanted her anyway.
“I want your twenty thousand pounds,” Dare said quietly, and his grandfather froze with his fork halfway to his m
outh. He was not, however, willing to sell his soul for it. “I’ve had time to think on it.”
“And?”
“And I’m not willing to require Kinsley to marry.”
“That is . . . honorable of you,” his grandfather murmured, and picking up his monocle, he studied Dare through that round glass. Did he think to search out his intentions? Different motives? “There is, of course, the—”
“Nor will I fulfill the other terms of your arrangement.” There’d be no child with Temperance. The pain of that was raw, still . . . and perhaps would always be so. Every corner of his heart ached. Even if she had been capable of carrying a child, however, he’d still not ask or require that of her. “I’ll not have my wife be expected to give me a child. She is no broodmare.” It was why he’d never really allowed himself to consider that as a real means to the funds.
The duke frowned. “This isn’t the place. We can talk on it—”
“There is nothing more to talk about,” he said quietly. “We are at an impasse. I cannot”—nay—“I will not give you either of what you seek.”
He braced for the pressing weight of panic at losing those monies. Funds enough to see so many people in the Rookeries cared for. And yet . . . this time, it did not come. There were other ways. He was not immune to the fact that men born of privilege had greater opportunities available to them. It was wrong. It was unfair. And yet Dare could and would use that for good. Eventually. In time.
“What will you do?” The duke’s query emerged, hesitant.
His grandfather held the same fears that Temperance did. And why should he not? Dare had shown no real commitment then, or up until now, to divorce himself of a life of crime and devote himself to an honorable way. “I don’t know,” he confessed. He briefly studied the silver fork dangling forgotten from his fingers, a piece so fine it could have filled many empty bellies. He slowly set the piece down. “But when I was ten, I chose a life of stealing.”
The duke’s features contorted, but he made no attempt to silence Dare. As he would have expected any lord would. Particularly with them both within earshot of any number of plummy guests. Instead, the duke angled closer, gripping the edge of the table, as he hung on to Dare’s every word.
“At first, it was all good fun. Easy. I was playing in those streets I’d never before visited, let alone knew existed . . .” Then the man had led him along, giving Dare a false sense of security, and ease had left, and Dare had been forced to confront the real Rookeries. The horror and fear of those earliest days would be with him always. “I knew nothing about East London. Or how to steal or beg, or how to survive.” And until Avery Bryant had come along, Dare had paid the price for that ignorance. Mayhap that was what had accounted for his loyalty to one who’d been so singularly bad for him. “I made something out of my time there. No one would dare dispute that the path I lived was a dishonorable one,” he allowed. “But I made a future, and I’ll do that now.” This time, however, the means would not need to be justified by the ends.
And with Temperance at his side, there was no doubting, whatever they had or did not have, there would be happiness.
Now came the matter of convincing her she should trust him again and let him back into her life in every way he truly wished.
He was in his element.
For the better part of the meal, he’d conversed intently with his grandfather. The two of them had spoken long . . . and often. And there was none of the usual coldness in Dare’s gaze or smile when he did so with the duke.
Had Temperance not been watching them as closely as she had, she’d have missed the way the duke patted Dare’s hand . . . and more, how Dare did not pull away and reject that display of affection.
Emotion wadded in her throat.
He was . . . finding his way here.
Nay, more than that.
He was thriving.
After he and his grandfather seemed to conclude their discourse, Dare went on to speak freely to the guests around him.
This was Dare. Fearless. Charming. Captivating.
In short, he was the very man she’d fallen in love with long ago.
And his perfection highlighted every way in which she was an outsider here.
The long table was resplendent with silver platters and forks and porcelain plates. So very many forks. And he knew precisely the one to use.
And he’d also gathered that she didn’t. But he protected her pride still. With every dish, he motioned ever so slightly to the correct utensil for her to use for the given fare.
She loved him for that, too.
She always would.
Temperance proved selfish, for even while she should only celebrate Dare and his achievements that night, never more had her own flaws and station been more on display than they were with him and the other perfect people around them.
And more, to the woman seated beside him—Lady Madelyn. The daughter of an earl, the young lady was not only born to a rank and station that matched Dare’s but was also as flawless in every way.
“They are striking, are they not?”
Temperance stilled, and it took a moment to realize those words in her head had actually been voiced aloud . . . by another.
She looked over to her table partner.
Dare’s grandmother sipped from her crystal goblet, and over the top of that thin, etched rim, she nodded ever so slightly to the pair in question.
Unbidden, Temperance looked once more.
“She was just a babe when the papers were drawn, but she was always lovely, and he . . . Well, he was always perfection, too.” Even if he did live in the Rookeries.
The duchess may as well have given her thoughts voice.
To give her hands something to do, Temperance fiddled with her napkin. Perhaps if she didn’t engage, the other woman would stop.
“They were meant to marry.”
Alas, the duchess was of single-minded intent . . . She’d a point to make, and Temperance wasn’t of the same station as the woman seated beside her, but she knew enough that the duchess wouldn’t be silent until she said her piece—contributions or not from Temperance.
“I am . . . aware of that.” And had they done so, the perfect young lady would have given him those children with whom he was so very good. The image of that, of what Temperance could never give him and the other woman could, had it not been for her inconvenient presence . . . It was too much . . .
Temperance made herself pop a piece of shrimp into her mouth; it sat, dull and tasteless, about her tongue.
The duchess, however, wasn’t done with her. “It is not that I do not like you, Temperance. I do. Very much so.”
Her Grace, however, had no reason to lie to her. As such, that revelation proved the greatest of surprises.
“It is merely that Dare and Lady Madelyn? They are so well suited—in personality and companionship . . . and their shared history.”
Their birthright: one of privilege and prestige that Temperance would never, ever share a bond over. Her heart turned in her chest.
The duchess was not through twisting the knife, however. “You’re also aware that she would have greatly suited him. Her dowry would bring wealth that would further advance Dare’s hopes for the people in East London.” Sadness wreathed the duchess’s words, and that was somehow even worse than the bitterness or anger that had met Temperance at their previous encounters.
For the duchess was correct. The young lady would have greatly suited Dare in every way, and in every way that Temperance could not . . . and never would.
Had the duchess been hate-filled, it would have been easier to resent her, and yet . . . she wasn’t. She was simply a grandmother who yearned for what was best for her grandson. She was a woman who wanted Dare to have the life he should, and would, have lived had it not been for that one act of evil committed by Mac Diggory and his henchmen.
“I take it you knew Lady Kinsley would never marry.” All the while she kept her gaze on Dare and his former
betrothed.
It was why the woman had resented Temperance at every turn. Because she’d seen her as the wife Dare would be stuck with in order to fulfill the terms they’d put to him.
“Yes, we suspected as much. However, it was less about seeing her wed as much as it was about ensuring that someone who was not her horrible cousin was there to ensure her well-being,” the duchess confessed. She dabbed her white napkin at the corners of her lips. “It was my husband’s hope that there would be more than that. My husband was . . . is of the hope that a child will keep Dare here.”
And the duchess, Dare’s grandmother, had begun to see a future in which Temperance both remained and provided Dare with the heir and babe to link him to Polite Society.
All the while, she didn’t know, could never guess, that was the one thing Temperance could no longer provide.
Pain slashed across her heart as understanding slid in . . . crawling forward with an infinite slowness and then rushing in, all at once: the funds can never be his.
Suddenly, the food she had managed to eat that night churned in her stomach, threatening to come up.
“I’m certain you are an absolutely . . . fine . . . young woman, Temperance,” the duchess said through that tumult. “My granddaughter, she likes you very much. You are one who showed, in coming to His Grace and me for assistance, that you genuinely care for, mayhap even love, him.” I love him. She always had. “But Darius? He is of a different world. Now, if there were grounds for annulment?” She pierced Temperance with a gaze, one that Temperance was certain could see inside to the places where secrets were kept. Her Grace sighed. “Think on it, dear . . .” She patted Temperance’s hand.
Think on it?
Just like that, as casually as if she’d remarked upon the weather and not a dissolution of Temperance’s marriage, the duchess turned and spoke to the guest at her other side—Lady Madelyn’s father. The man who should be Dare’s father-in-law, and not the likes of Abaddon, drunkard, wife beater.
Numb, Temperance reached for her glass of claret and took a sip. The slightly sickeningly sweet beverage slicked a path down her throat. The rub of it was . . . she couldn’t even be resentful, because the duchess was well within her rights to everything she was feeling. What would the noblewoman say if she learned Temperance and Dare had only even agreed to a temporary partnership? Nay, their marriage was one that even if they both wished it . . . couldn’t be. She couldn’t give him an heir . . . or any child. A wave of grief assailed her, and she wanted to slink under the table and lose herself in the weight of that misery.
Undressed with the Marquess Page 31
