Now, she’d return to the place of it all: London. There, where there was only darkness and suffering and the hurt of old memories. And him . . . He is there, too . . .
A black curtain briefly fell over her vision, momentarily blinding her. And she forced herself to blink until the moment passed.
He won’t find you in Mayfair. Not as a marchioness . . . He’ll never have access to you again . . .
And before all courage deserted her, Temperance nodded. “I am ready.”
Gwynn paused with her fingers still on the handle. “We can come back.”
No. No, they couldn’t. She knew that. Nothing after this would ever be the same.
Gwynn drew the door open and promptly retreated behind Temperance.
Temperance’s heart fell.
For it wasn’t Dare standing on the stone porch.
What did you expect? That he’d have been there, waiting?
Except . . . she had. Because even with all he’d shared and the agreement they’d come to, she’d forgotten that he was a marquess. And marquesses had servants who knocked on doors for them. And . . .
Gwynn shoved Temperance between the shoulder blades and propelled her forward several steps. She glared at her friend, then looked once more to the servant.
The servant dropped a deep bow. “My lady.”
My lady?
Temperance glanced about before it hit her: he was speaking to her. She was the “my lady” to whom he spoke.
“May I offer my assistance?” the tall, uniformed servant asked when she didn’t speak.
Temperance shook her head, confusion making her mind move like mud. Was he thinking to spring her from the arrangement she’d foolishly agreed to?
“Your bags,” Gwynn said on a loud whisper.
“My bags?” she repeated.
“The carriages are ready, my lady.”
“Carriages?” Temperance knew she was parroting back every word out of the pained-looking servant’s mouth but was hopeless to help it.
As one, Temperance and Gwynn leaned out and peered around the lanky servant. Only there weren’t just two carriages. There were two carriages and a horse. There was that, too.
For “carriages” implied that there were more than one.
“Two?” Gwynn whispered noisily. “What did he expect you were bringing to London with you?” she asked as the servant gathered the collection of assembled bags and started for the carriages.
Temperance’s focus, however, was not on those black-lacquer, crested conveyances, but rather the towering figure astride his mount.
The sun radiated down, casting a bright halo of light upon him, highlighting the kaleidoscope of brown and auburn hues of his hair, giving him the look of a fallen archangel.
That had always been Dare, though: a blend between sinner and saint.
“He is . . . quite handsome,” Gwynn whispered.
“That he is,” she murmured as they fell in step and made one final walk down the length of the walkway to where Dare waited.
“Did I mention he was hands—”
“You did. I know,” Temperance muttered. She didn’t need Gwynn or anyone to point out that Dare Grey was a specimen of glorious male perfection. His dark-brown hair, slightly tousled, only added to his appeal. Broad shoulders encased in fine wool fabric. She itched to run her fingers down that quality material . . . and test the muscles within.
Dare swung down and started forward, his long, sleek steps eliminating the short divide. He stopped before them, and Temperance opened her mouth to perform introductions.
He greeted Gwynn with a smile. “Miss Armitage, I take it?” He doffed his hat and swept a bow, and Temperance gritted her teeth as Gwynn’s cheeks reddened under that gallant display of manners.
“My lord.” Gwynn sank into a masterful curtsy.
Temperance frowned. How had her friend learned to curtsy . . . like that?
As the pair exchanged small pleasantries, Temperance hovered there, forgotten. Something hot and unpleasant sat like vinegar upon her tongue.
I am not jealous. She’d grown accustomed to the charm he turned on . . . every woman. Every person, really.
Only that sharp, acidic taste had very much the flavor of jealousy.
“I trust we should be leaving,” she said curtly, interrupting them. All the while knowing it was unfair to be resentful of the ease with which Gwynn managed to speak to anyone—a like charm shared by Dare.
Dare and Gwynn’s exchange cut off abruptly, and awkwardly.
“Er . . . yes.” He beat a gloved palm along the side of his trousers.
Gwynn gave her a light nudge, and Temperance sprang into movement, heading for the conveyances.
“Gloves,” she said under her breath.
“What?” Gwynn asked, her shorter legs pumping to keep up.
“Nothing.”
He now wore gloves. He’d never donned those articles. It was a small detail to note, and yet another change. One that marked not only the small changes that had befallen him in their time apart but also the station divide that had sprung between them.
She reached the carriage, and found an older, grey-haired driver in wait.
And having been so focused on the greater horror of reuniting with Dare and rejoining him in London, she only just now faced the detail she’d let herself forget—the carriage ride. The last time she’d journeyed in one, she’d vowed it would be her last. Her hands automatically went to her stomach, and she pressed them against her lower belly, and the wrenching cramps that threatened to tear her apart.
She couldn’t climb back inside one. Not without remembering all there was about that day and the ones preceding it.
“Is there a problem?” Dare asked, a question in his voice.
“There are any number of them,” she whispered.
He cupped a hand to his ear as he’d always done when she’d spoken to herself. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she said now.
Accepting the driver’s proffered hand with a word of thanks, she drew herself inside. Gwynn followed close behind, and once again, there was an unexpected stab of disappointment as Dare swung into his saddle.
Of course he’d ride . . .
A different source of envy sluiced through her. What she wouldn’t give to exchange the closed-in carriage for the feel of a horse between her legs . . . and the fresh air. She hungered for that, too.
“I never thought to ride in a carriage fit for a queen,” Gwynn mused, taking up a spot across from Temperance.
While her friend prattled on about the grand conveyance, Temperance settled onto the plush, luxuriant squabs. She shifted back and forth on the bench. It was more spacious than the workstation she’d left behind at Madame Amelie’s, and perhaps she’d be all right, after all. Mayhap this would prove altogether different from the jarring ride she’d suffered through five years earlier. The one that had made it impossible for her to get herself into any other carriage since. And she had tried. A marquess’s stately carriage was nothing like the cramped quarters she’d suffered through, with passengers stinking of garlic and spirits and pipes . . .
Do not think of that day . . .
“People like us are destined for run-down hackneys,” her friend rightly pointed out, “and crowded mail carriages. The last time I journeyed anywhere was by mail coach.”
“Me, too,” Temperance whispered. She stared blankly at the heavy gold curtains drawn back at the windows. Her past and present blended.
“Miserable rides, aren’t they?”
I hate to send you by mail coach, but there is no other way . . . You cannot remain . . . It is not safe for you here . . .
Her lips twisted in a bitter, empty smile as she stopped fighting the past and finally made herself think about the last carriage ride she’d taken.
Terror, panic, and pain had buffeted her senses; a blessed numbness had prevented her from weeping before the eclectic crowd of passengers.
Gwynn to
uched her hand, bringing Temperance’s eyes open. “But this will be nothing like any ride we’ve taken before.”
She managed a nod.
God willing that her friend proved right.
The carriage lurched into motion, and along with it, her stomach.
And not even twenty minutes later, she’d all the confirmation she required.
“We should stop,” Gwynn said for a fifth time.
“I’m fine,” she said between gritted teeth, holding on to the sides of her bench and focusing on anything other than the churning of her turbulent belly.
“You are green.”
“I’m. Not.”
Gwynn peered at her. “I might point out that I can see you and you can’t very well see yourself, and so if you could look, you’d see that your pallor is, in fact, very nearly green.” The other woman reached for the valise resting beside her on the bench. “I can show you a mirror if you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Temperance said weakly. And she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her stubborn friend’s insistence.
At last, Gwynn quieted, and Temperance closed her eyes once more.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in . . .
She focused on that mantra, talking herself through her roiling belly. “How long has it been?” she asked in slow, measured tones.
Gwynn consulted a timepiece affixed to the front of her cloak. “Twenty-six minutes, now.”
She groaned. “It cannot be just six minutes from when I asked?”
Her friend glanced down at the piece once more, and looked up, beaming. “Twenty-seven now.”
Temperance pressed her cheek to the window, the velvet fabric smooth against her face, softening the blow as the carriage whipped her head about. The bumpy ride set the curtains fluttering, parting slightly, and then coming together. And all the while, to keep from throwing up, she stared out at the figure shifting in and out of focus.
Dare.
Regal and tall atop his horse. His cheeks were flushed a healthy red from the fresh air and the pace he’d set.
And I’m green . . .
Reaching up her opposite hand, she slammed it against the fabric, keeping those curtains shut.
“Temperance, you look like you are going to cast—”
Stifling a moan, Temperance glared the other woman into letting those words go unfinished.
Gwynn promptly closed her mouth. “I won’t say anything else.”
Closing her eyes once more, Temperance shifted in her seat and rested her head along the back of the bench. She refocused on breathing. “Please . . . don’t.” This was to be her penance, then, for letting Dare back into her life, despite the vow she’d made. There was no other accounting for this misery.
KnockKnockKnock.
The frantic rumble of the carriage wheels slowed, and then the conveyance rocked to a complete stop. Her eyes flew open. She stared questioningly across at Gwynn.
Her friend lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “I didn’t talk.” Gwynn smiled. “I knocked. It’s vastly different.”
She groaned. “What have you . . . ?”
The door opened.
This time, it would be him and not a servant.
He’d always been contrary in that. Concern glinted in Dare’s face. “What is it?” he asked quickly, moving his gaze over her.
“I’m fine,” she said between clenched teeth. Though in fairness, in this moment, now that the carriage had stopped, she was fine. And if she were being truthful with herself, she was grateful for the reprieve.
Dare leaned farther inside and peered at her face.
“She’s not fine,” Gwynn piped up. “She is sick.” She motioned to Temperance’s stomach and throat, and mimicked retching noises.
“That is enough, Gwynn. Dare—” Except that wasn’t what he would be to Gwynn or anyone in London. “His Lordship,” she corrected, “has affairs he must see to in London. We cannot simpleee—” Temperance’s words ended on a squeak as Dare plucked her out of the carriage. “What are you doing?” All attempts at affront, however, were dashed by the glorious spring air, a soft, luxuriant breeze that acted like a balm upon her sweat-slicked skin.
“Business can wait,” he said tersely.
Gwynn sighed and touched a hand to her chest.
Temperance rolled her eyes. And here she’d believed cynical, life-wary Gwynn Armitage would be the one person who could prove resistant to Dare’s charm.
Easily cradling her against his chest, Dare moved one hand over Temperance, lightly caressing her arms and the small of her back, and this time her belly fluttered for altogether different reasons. “Stop, Dare. I am f-fine.”
“She’s not,” Gwynn called from behind them.
From over Dare’s shoulder, Temperance glowered at her friend. “Enough,” she mouthed.
Wholly unapologetic, Gwynn winked and disappeared within the carriage.
“I really am,” Temperance said as Dare carried her off to the side of the road and through the thick, knee-length grass. He didn’t stop until he’d reached an enormous boulder, and with an infinite tenderness, he set her down.
“What happened?”
“I’m f—” He gave her a sharp look, silencing those assurances. Temperance sighed. “Carriage rides make me sick.”
“They never did before,” he said flatly.
Yes, because there’d been so many times when they’d stolen precious moments together, and he’d put her in a hack to get her home with time enough that she needn’t worry about earning her father’s wrath. “I do now,” she explained in even tones.
“That . . . doesn’t make sense. You’ve taken many carriage rides.”
But the day her world had crumbled—the day she’d been beaten beyond recognition and the babe she’d desperately yearned for had been dead from that act of violence—everything revolved around that day. From that one moment, light had died and darkness had dwelled, and reason hadn’t existed for any of it. Her chest seized with all the remembered agony for the babe who had never been. She gripped the sides of her skirts, praying to a God who’d been so very invisible throughout Temperance’s life that Dare would let it go. That he’d not ask. That she wouldn’t have to sidestep questions about something she’d no wish to speak about. Ever. “Yes.”
That was it. That was all she’d say. Yes.
When he’d first met Temperance Swift, she’d been a girl of ten, and he a lad of fourteen who’d been a cocksure, overconfident boy believing himself a man who could command the world with a word.
In short order, he’d come to appreciate Temperance as one who’d not be cowed or impressed by him.
Nothing had shaken her.
Only to find at some point in their years apart, she’d developed sickness from carriage rides.
It didn’t fit with what he knew of the girl he’d bundled into countless hackneys to help her avoid discovery from her mean, drunken father.
He stared expectantly at her. “That is it? ‘Yes’? All of a sudden, carriage rides make you ill?”
She shrugged. “Just ‘yes.’” It defied logic. “Nor is it recent, Dare. It’s been nearly five years since I’ve not been able to tolerate them. I just haven’t seen you in five years, where you’d know it.”
Tension crackled in the air around them.
And he’d have to have cotton in his ears to miss that thinly veiled barb.
His face went hot. She would blame him for their estrangement. When he’d written, and then gone to her? “Let us be clear,” he said, taking a step toward her. My God, how many times would they circle around this? “I came for you,” he gritted out. “I found you. You were the one who insisted everything between us was dead. You demanded I leave. You insisted you never wished to see me again.” Even as she’d now rewrite the final collapse of their relationship.
The color left her cheeks. “How dare you?” She didn’t allow a word edgewise. “Do not pretend as though you came back to have a marr
iage with me.”
Tension radiated along his jaw, and he made himself unclench his teeth. “I told you it couldn’t be a real marriage. You knew precisely what I was offering. We were friends who knew what the other might expect.” He, however, had anticipated that it wouldn’t be enough, that the offer was folly. And yet, even knowing that and all that had come to pass between them, he’d still make the decision again if it meant freeing her from her father’s abuse.
Smiling sadly up at him, Temperance hugged her arms around her middle. “How convenient, your definition of a ‘real marriage.’”
Heat again splotched his face. He should let it go. He’d be wise to abandon this discourse altogether. Nothing good could come from continuing it. Nothing that would advance the new arrangement they’d come to. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“It is just . . . You made love to me, you consummated our marriage, and . . . often. As such”—stalking over so quickly her worn boots kicked up dirt and gravel, she stopped before him, the tips of their shoes brushing—“you can’t very well go about claiming that it wasn’t real.”
She wasn’t incorrect, and that dulled the edge of his fury.
“It was a mistake, making love to you, Temperance,” he said softly, and her lower lip trembled. “I always knew taking you in my arms and bed would complicate any deal we’d agreed to.” Which was precisely what had happened. “And yet”—Dare brought his mouth close to hers—“making love to you was a mistake I’d happily commit over and over.”
The wind teased and toyed with several black curls, tossing them about her shoulders.
Their gazes locked, and without thought, he slid his focus lower, to her wide mouth. Her breath kissed his lips in the embrace his body hungered for.
“Why did you come?” she whispered, her voice so faint he’d not have heard it had they not been as close as they were.
“You know. I require your assistance—”
“Not now,” Temperance said. She lowered her voice, protecting the secrecy of their words. “When I left, why did you even bother searching me out?”
Undressed with the Marquess Page 10