Undressed with the Marquess

by Caldwell, Christi

  Instead, she did the next worst thing.

  She looked over at Dare and his flawless dining partner; possessed of gloriously golden curls, a gently rounded frame, and pale-white skin, she was . . . a model of English beauty. The counter opposite of Temperance with her black hair and olive-hued skin and coltish frame.

  The young lady said something that earned a laugh.

  And jealousy sluiced through Temperance. She took another, this time longer, swallow.

  Kinsley leaned in. “Do not listen to her.”

  Had she heard what her grandmother said?

  “I didn’t hear, but I could imagine because I know how she is. She wishes for Darius to marry Lady Madelyn. But he’s married to you. And she’ll accept that in time.”

  No, the duchess wouldn’t. Not when Temperance couldn’t be that which Dare needed.

  “And do you know why?”

  Devoid of energy and numb of emotion, Temperance shook her head.

  “Because my grandparents will see what I saw.”

  “What is that?” she managed to make herself ask. All the while, Temperance wanted to slink from the dining room and continue walking until she found a safe, quiet place removed from the world, and crumple under the emotion that threatened to drown her here before the ton.

  “They will see that you are good for him. They will see that you have changed him.”

  Changed him.

  “I didn’t change him,” Temperance said softly, her gaze drawn once more to where he sat speaking to Lord Sinclair, several seats away. Whatever he’d said had brought the handsome, faintly greying gentleman to laughter, that mirth contagious for the other guests around them. “He never really needed changing in the ways that mattered,” she murmured for the benefit of the other girl, as much as for herself. “Not inside, not who he really was.” He’d simply needed to learn and know that he needn’t follow a criminal path to do the good he sought.

  Even so, she didn’t know if he could ever truly set that life behind him.

  “No, he has changed,” Kinsley insisted. “When we first met, he taunted me. He went out of his way to do so. Not anymore. And . . .” The column of the young woman’s throat moved several times. “He didn’t sell them. Not all of them. None of the portraits of my family and I.” Kinsley caught her lower lip between her teeth. “And that is because of you, Temperance.”

  The guest on Kinsley’s other side called her attention over, and Temperance was left alone once more. Sitting back, a forgotten participant in the evening’s festivities, Temperance was afforded a glimpse of this newly evolved world . . . and how it would be for Dare. There was a family who loved him and saw his good. There was the chance to earn twenty thousand pounds, through marriage to a lady who’d equally charmed Dare’s end of the table.

  He’d very nearly found his way and, after only a very short time, returned to Polite Society. He would emerge even more triumphant than he had as a thief in the Rookeries.

  And sitting there, Temperance knew there was only one thing left to do.

  Say goodbye.

  Chapter 24

  The night . . . had been a success. The guests had been warm in their welcome of him and Temperance to their folds. It had been a wholly unexpected response from members of the peerage, which was no doubt in large part a product of whom the duke and duchess had chosen to enlist support from.

  And yet for the triumph the night had in fact been, through it he’d been singularly aware of Temperance—somber. Unsmiling. A shadow of who she’d always been . . . even in the face of every horror she’d suffered at her father’s hands.

  The moment the house was empty and quiet, he set out in search of her. Expecting to find her where he invariably did every night—in the nursery.

  Only this time, she didn’t sit beside little Rose’s crib.

  Dare found her in the Opal Parlor . . . that room that had been eternally a source of conflict between them. Standing at the window with her back to him, she gave no indication that she’d heard his arrival.

  Unnoticed, he used the moment to observe her. She’d not removed her evening gown, the silk clinging to the wide curve of her hips and the generous swell of her buttocks, making her already narrow waist impossibly smaller.

  “The night was a success,” she said quietly, shattering the illusion that he’d been the only one aware of the other’s presence.

  “Yes.”

  Pushing the door closed behind him, Dare joined her at the window.

  There’d always been an ease to their silence. They’d never been a couple who’d needed to fill voids of silence. They’d been as comfortable with nothing more than the quiet of being with one another as they had jesting or teasing or talking about anything and everything.

  Something in this, however, felt . . . different. Unease whispered up and down his spine.

  “I spoke to my grandfather,” he said, wanting to get to the heart of it.

  At last she faced him. “I saw you conversing.” Her eyes moved a tender path over his face. “I am so happy that you and he have found a way to be a family.”

  A family.

  Only there was just a partial peace with his grandparents. Temperance, a life with her, represented all he sought in a family.

  “I explained that I’ll not sell my sister to marriage, not even for his fortune.”

  A smile formed on her lips, and she smoothed her palms down the front of his chest, that wifely gesture the more automatic and beautiful for it.

  “I didn’t do that because of me,” he said, mourning the loss of that tender caress as she let her arms fall to her sides. “Nor do I believe I was truly capable of seeing how ruthless I was in my approach to my . . . family.” It was still foreign, thinking of Kinsley and his grandparents in those terms. Mayhap it always would be. He did see now that he couldn’t have a relationship with them . . . unless he tried. “I did it because of you.”

  She made a sound of protest. “You’re wrong. You would have eventually come to see Kinsley. It might have just taken you a bit longer.”

  She didn’t give herself enough credit for all the ways in which she’d changed him . . . for the better.

  “And . . . did you speak to your grandfather about his other terms for you?” She briefly dropped her gaze. “Did you tell him we could not have a child?”

  “No.” He saw the way her body tensed, and yearned to take her in his arms. “I didn’t tell him, Temperance, because that was never his business . . . or anyone else’s. I was never going to ask you or make you a broodmare for some arrangement. I wouldn’t whore you or myself.”

  “And definitely not now . . . knowing what you know.” She turned, angling her body and shutting him out. Her features, reflected in the window, were a mask, and terrifying for their absolute blankness.

  Panic rooted around his chest. She was shutting him out. Pulling away. And he’d be damned if he let her. Dare tried again. “I told him that we wouldn’t answer to anyone about the topic of babes, because it did not matter. Because it doesn’t, Temperance.” He paused. “You matter. Having a life with you matters.”

  Her back tensed.

  Dare drifted closer and lightly touched her shoulder, bringing her about to look at him. “I’m telling you, the funds? They do not matter.” He moved his gaze over every cherished plane of her face, willing her to see that truth. She was the only thing that did matter, a future with her.

  “You don’t mean that,” she countered. There was a slightly elevated edge to her voice, one that urged caution and told him the wrong word uttered would be a costly one. “You know the good you can do with that money. You’ve been plotting and planning all the ways to use it. You don’t just abandon that. Not you.” She drew in a breath, and when she spoke, she’d reclaimed her earlier composure. “So do not pretend like they don’t, Dare.”

  That had been before.

  Before he’d let himself to a vision of a future. Before he’d allowed himself to see that maybe he w
as worthy of one, after all.

  He forced himself to speak with a calm he didn’t feel. “You are right. That money could be used for good.” Her gaze flickered away from his. “But there can and will be other ways for me to secure those funds.” Her eyes darkened. “Honorable ways,” he hurried to correct. “Ones that don’t require me to steal anymore. I’m done with that way of life, Temperance.”

  He wanted a new start, a life with an intent and actions that were both honorable.

  And for a moment, he believed he’d penetrated her reservations. The hope and happiness in her revealing eyes proved fleeting. “I wasn’t enough before, Dare,” she said softly, “and I’ve even less to offer you.” Now that there couldn’t be a babe.

  His heart knocked uncomfortably against his rib cage. I am losing her. Because he’d never shown her that she was more important to him than even the role of savior he’d taken on. He closed his eyes. He’d charmed his way out of prison, any number of hangings. He’d had the words to navigate the complexities amongst men battling for supremacy in the streets of East London.

  But God help him . . . he didn’t have the words to keep her.

  “I don’t want anything from you. I just . . . want you,” he said hoarsely.

  A single tear slid down her cheek, winding a meandering trail, and somehow the solitariness of that lone drop proved more devastating for the finality of it. “The money will always be between us—”

  “To hell with the money, Temperance.” The avowal exploded from Dare, but she continued over that interruption.

  “The money that you won’t have, married to a barren wife. And you’ll regret not having that money, and you’ll resent that I couldn’t give it to you.” She brought her shoulders back. “I cannot be a real wife to you.”

  “I do not care that we cannot have children.”

  Sadness glimmered in her eyes. “I’ve seen you with Rose. I know that is a lie.”

  Dare ran a hand over his face. “You’re right.” She jerked, and it was all he could do to not take her in his arms and hold her tight forever. “I wanted children. But I wanted them with you. I wanted girls with your spirit and boys with your wit and strength.”

  Tears slid down her cheeks, and with shaky hands, he brushed those drops back. But they continued coming. And he’d been wrong before—this endless stream of grief was lash after lash upon his soul. “But, Temperance, I did not, and I do not, want those children more than I want you,” he implored, willing her to see. “We can be a family. You and I. And if you desire it, we can have children other ways, and they will still have your spirit and strength because you raised them.”

  She dropped her eyes to his cravat. “Not in the ways that will make them your legitimate heirs.” And there was such a quiet acceptance of that, he spun away from her.

  “To hell with the marquessate,” he cried, his voice echoing in the stillness of the room. “To hell with it,” he repeated.

  “You don’t mean that. People rely upon you as the marquess. You know that . . . and you wouldn’t ever abandon them.” Temperance drew in an agonizingly shaky breath. “I cannot stay, Dare.”

  She couldn’t stay with him? Why didn’t she say that which she truly meant?

  Panic and desperation swirled, and he took a step away from her, pacing, and then made himself stop. He faced her and leveled his gaze on her. “Is this what you want?” How was he so calm? How, when he was falling apart inside? “To leave me?”

  Please don’t let it be what you want.

  She bit down on her lower lip. “This is what we both want,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said sharply. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to speak for me and tell me what I want or need.”

  She held his gaze. “I don’t want to be with you, Dare.”

  His heart lurched, and he frantically searched his gaze over her face, looking for the lie. Needing to find it. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I sent you away before,” she pointed out, that snapped utterance striking like a spike to the chest.

  And she’d had every right to send him away. He’d failed her. He’d failed at their marriage. Whatever his motives, he’d put thievery ahead of her . . . all the while knowing precisely how she felt about the work he did.

  He’d lost the right to her love and a real union.

  And he proved a selfish bastard still because he wanted her anyway. “We’re married, Temperance, and that doesn’t just . . . sto-op.” Desperation lent an extra syllable to that word. “I want to fight for us and—”

  “There are grounds for a dissolution of our marriage.”

  He stared blankly at her. Surely she was not saying . . .

  “I’m barren,” she said, misunderstanding the reason for his silence.

  He rocked on his heels, the earth moving out from under him. She’d thought . . . all this through.

  “I spoke to your grandmother,” she said softly, as if in confirmation of his unspoken thoughts. Temperance glanced briefly down at the floor. “After the dinner party, we talked in private.”

  “She had no right to that, Temperance,” he hissed. “None at all.” That most intimate detail about Temperance’s past and her inability to conceive was information she needn’t ever explain to anyone, and certainly not the damned duchess.

  “I wanted her to know it, Dare.” Temperance looked him squarely in the eyes. “Because knowing would allow her to help us see the marriage dissolved so that you can . . . begin again.”

  “I don’t want anyone else,” he cried, desperation breaking down the little self-restraint and control he had of himself in this moment. “I only want you.”

  “And as you said to me before, you don’t get to decide that for the both of us, Dare.” She smoothed steady palms down the front of her gown, that glorious piece that he’d forever see her descending the stairs in. “This is what I want.”

  And with that calm, quiet utterance, she exited quietly from the room, and took his heart with her.

  Chapter 25

  One week later

  Mayfair

  London, England

  In the following days, Dare oversaw his estate business. He met with his man-of-affairs and solicitors and spent hours upon hours learning the ins and outs of his properties. He learned what the previous marquess had done to bankrupt them, and he also discovered the path of solvency the properties had been on, long before some dissolute, distant relative had inherited.

  Dare’s father had never done anything to modernize the title. Dare’s brother, however, had. He’d ventured into the scandalous world of trade and attempted to bring changes to properties that had been within the Greyson family for the hundreds of years before. And now Dare had stepped in where his brother had left off.

  Between his new work and the lack of thievery, his life had become what he’d never expected—mundane.

  Oh, he’d be lying to himself if he said stealing didn’t still call to him. It did. That hungering to slip inside and steal would always be with him. Not because of the items and wealth to be had, but rather because of the feeling it had brought him.

  An urge that he couldn’t and never would understand that was sated by stealing.

  Perhaps it was the familiarity of it. Perhaps it was the hungering for some manner of control in a life in which he was largely without.

  Joseph, since being freed, had returned and claimed Rose, and with that so, too, had gone another connection to Temperance.

  He missed his wife. God, how he missed her. Even full as his days were with his business and saving lives, still not a day passed where Dare did not think of her. Where he did not miss their battle of wits. Or her smile. Or her laugh. Or just everything about her.

  Seated across from Dare, Spencer looked up, a question in his eyes.

  Dare gave his head a shake. “Forgive me,” he said, motioning for the young servant to continue.

  “As I was saying,” his servant went on, “I’ve gone ahead and
cataloged those items which were purchased by that man.” That man, Dare had come to learn, was how his butler had taken to referring to the previous Marquess of Milford—the one who’d held the title between Dare and his late brother. “These are all free to be sold with no worry of emotional entanglements.” He turned the book around for Dare to look over.

  Dare passed his gaze over the meticulous columns. “If you weren’t such a damned good butler, I’d say you’d be better served as my man-of-affairs.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’ve also taken notes on items which do . . . or might . . . hold sentimental value for their connections to your late brother and parents, but were purchased . . . after . . . after . . .” The other man let his words trail off.

  “I left to live in the Rookeries,” Dare finished for him. “It is what happened.” And though there would forever be a crushing weight of sadness and loss that had come of that dark decision, neither could Dare bring himself to regret it . . . because then there never would have been Temperance.

  “Very well, then, my lord. I marked the items prior to your leaving, and then those objects that came after.”

  Dare collected the heavy leather tome and proceeded to flip through the pages. Not an item or artifact had been left off the other man’s impressive notes. Everything had been meticulously cataloged. “I don’t deserve you, Spencer,” he said with all sincerity.

  Color filled the servant’s cheeks. “We were once friends, my lord.”

  Friends?

  He stilled.

  My father served in His and Her Grace’s country estate in Yorkshire . . . I’ve only recently been brought to your London townhouse. The idea was that I would offer some . . . familiarity to you.