Dare had never entertained the idea of being a father. Lord knew he’d hated—and been hated by—his own enough that he’d never romanticized what that relationship was or could be. And then after he’d gone? Well, young boys in the streets didn’t think about fatherhood. But he knew the precise moment he’d realized he’d never have and didn’t want a child: he’d been unable to scrape by the funds to free seven-year-old Taylor Stephens from Newgate. In the end, he’d watched on, hopeless, just another face in the crowd, as young Taylor had swung from the gibbet for the crowd’s amusement, and for a crime of filching figs from a street vendor.
And that was when he knew . . . he’d nothing to offer a child. He’d nothing, really, to offer anyone. Other than money, that was.
Hovering now at the front of the nursery, seeing Temperance cradling a sleeping Rose . . . something shifted in his chest.
Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise
That he pleased both the girls and boys
And they did dance when he played
over the hills and far away.
In her sleep, the child reflexively clutched her finger and suckled, oblivious to the tumult that had been unleashed within Dare.
Temperance held the babe close, as naturally as a mother who’d done it the whole of her life.
Her expression was one of equal parts joy and . . . pain. That emotion at odds with . . . so much.
Her eyes met his over the cherubic babe’s head, and their gazes locked.
And just like before, that misery was gone so quickly he may as well have imagined it.
Temperance gasped, her song coming to a jarring halt.
And he found himself mourning the end of that child’s lullaby.
Chapter 13
Of all the places she’d expected Dare to be . . . the nursery certainly hadn’t been one.
Nor had that been the reason she’d sought out little Rose.
Temperance just hadn’t thought she’d find Dare here and have to confront this room . . . and this child . . . and the memories of what had almost been and what would never be, with him beside her.
“I . . . Forgive me,” Temperance said softly. “I didn’t know you were here.” She turned to set the babe down.
“No!” he called quickly.
The babe let out a small wail. Temperance hesitated a moment, her heart twisting at the sound of that plaintive cry. Recalling another . . . weaker, frailer one. Needing to put the babe down, and yet warring with herself for that selfishness. In the end, she was saved . . .
“Forgive me,” Dare murmured. And even with that admission, he was stretching his arms out for the small child.
She was saved by the one who’d always been her savior. By the man who’d been everyone’s savior. Not just hers. She’d just been selfish to want more parts of him than he’d given to all. Dare bounced on his heels. All the while he lightly thumped the babe on the back until the child quieted. Rocking back and forth, he stroked his hand in little circles.
How many times had she seen him in the Rookeries as he was now? With some adoring mother pressing their babe into the arms of East London’s savior. And he’d never rejected that, had simply held the child with a comfort and ease. How many times had he even held her brother as he did Lionel’s niece?
Of course, all those memories of him existed before.
This was . . . now. This was an image of him, after . . .
Temperance hugged her arms tight to herself. She tried to get air into her lungs.
Then Rose opened her eyes. She blinked several times as if clearing sleep, or mayhap it was that she tried to make sense of the stranger holding her.
Alas, the little girl proved as hopeless and helpless as Temperance herself—and every last woman where Dare Grey was concerned. She cooed and giggled, batting at his hand.
Dare held his palm up for the little girl to swat at.
Temperance stared on at them, a silent observer in that bucolic exchange.
Her body throbbed with the pain of loss and what would never be.
The little girl squirmed in his arms, shimmying herself lower, and Dare complied. He set her down, and they both watched on as Rose toddled off to explore. And without the shield that the girl had been, Temperance took in those details that had previously escaped her: his coarse dark garments. The cap he wore.
The manner of articles he’d worn . . . before he’d claimed his title of marquess.
“You have the look of long ago,” she murmured, dread slithering around her insides. And never more had she wanted to be wrong. To be told that she was seeing things and worrying about that which she’d no need.
His cheeks flushed as he followed her gaze over his telltale garments.
Her stomach sank at the confirmation she hadn’t wanted, but needed anyway.
“You were . . . out.” And yet . . . that didn’t make any sense, either. Why should he thieve? He, a man on the cusp of earning twenty thousand pounds and in possession of material baubles that could see him comfortable?
For a moment, she didn’t think he intended to answer. “I . . . was,” he said gruffly. He wandered closer to where Rose now sat, playing with a pair of metal, painted soldiers. “I went walking.”
She bit the inside of her cheek hard, hating the pull stealing had always had over him. Hating the danger he’d willingly put himself in, again and again. “Where. Did. You. Go?”
He stared down at the child in the middle of the carpet, confirming everything she’d feared. “A baron’s.”
“A baron’s,” she repeated.
“Bolingbroke.”
Quitting her spot at the cradle, she joined him over by little Rose. “Why did you visit him, Dare?” Because she’d have the words from his own damned lips. She’d have him own where he was and what he’d been doing.
Only with his next words, he proved he couldn’t. “You know, Temperance.”
That was it.
You know.
And she did.
She swiped her hands over her face. “Oh, Dare,” she whispered.
A muscle throbbed at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t want me selling the contents of this household, and yet you don’t want me robbing from those who deserve to be robbed.”
He expected a fight. Mayhap even craved it. She’d not give that to him. “You don’t get the right to determine that someone should have their things taken, Dare,” she said calmly. Mayhap it was simply that she’d uttered those words so many times before to him that allowed them to emerge as evenly as they did.
“His family sold a child to Mac Diggory,” he said bluntly. “What do you say to that?”
Her entire body tensed. She heard what he was saying, and yet after all the evil she’d known at her father’s hands, still she could not process this depravity.
“He is responsible for some boy having been lost to his family and rightful place. I’m not the only one Diggory purchased.”
“Is that what happened to you?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You were . . . purchased?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “I wasn’t taken. I was ten and I . . . left. I went freely with one of Diggory’s henchmen, imagining a grand adventure: me, living on the streets without my father’s disappointment and anger to follow me there.”
Her heart buckled under the weight of what he revealed: Dare’s first real offering about his past. A past he had clear memories of . . . and memories that were not the grand, happy ones she’d expected.
He took a step toward her. “And everything that happened to me was my fault for it.”
Tears threatened, and she gave thanks for the cover of darkness, lest he mistake that moisture for pity and not the regret it was. “You were a boy,” she said, wanting to know everything there was about his past. Needing to know more about him than the stranger he spoke of. And mayhap in his speaking of it, Dare could free himself of the chains that still held him.
“I was a boy with an unhealthy fascination wit
h East London.” He spoke as one who recited words that had been spoken to him many times before. “A man there offered to show me everything I wished to see of the Rookeries.” His gaze grew glazed, distant. “And for several weeks, it was a grand adventure. Me learning to steal and filching bread that I could give to the hungry boys and girls. It was all fun.” His expression darkened. “Until it wasn’t. Coins were exchanged, and I was passed over to Diggory . . .”
She shivered, unable to let her mind think about the hell he’d known.
Dare gave his head a shake. “Until I managed to get free and go back to . . . stealing and passing things out.”
But he’d not returned home?
Rose banged the two soldiers together, clanging the metal and squealing loudly at her efforts. One of the toys skittered out of her reach, and Dare sank to his haunches and returned the item to her care.
Temperance weighed her words. “And . . . what did you hope in going to the baron’s?”
“I think that should be fairly obvious,” he said dryly, shoving to his feet.
“No, I rather think it is not.” It had never been straightforward or matter-of-fact where his efforts were concerned. There’d always been more to Dare’s motives. To each decision he’d made about which household to rob or not. Of which artifact to steal or not steal.
Just as she didn’t believe it was a coincidence that he was here, even now.
Together, they watched Rose while she played. “Do you know what I think, Dare?”
Lost in thought, his brow contemplatively furrowed, he gave his head a slight shake.
“You could have gone to your rooms unobserved when you found me here. You could have gone before I’d seen you and known where you’d gone and why you were out.” She waited until he looked to her, then met his gaze squarely. “But I believe you wanted me to know. I believe you wanted me to remind you that this path isn’t yours. Not anymore. That it shouldn’t be. That you are better than this.”
He flexed his jaw. “I am this.”
“No, you’re not,” she said, unable to keep the sadness from creeping into her voice. “It’s just all you’ve known, but it’s not all that you are.”
Rose yawned widely, and Temperance went over to rescue the child from the floor. Taking the toy soldiers away, she returned them to the little bench the girl had retrieved them from. Temperance carried Lionel’s niece back to the cradle and settled her into the thick folds of the plush bedding.
The little girl protested, resisting sleep with several little cries.
Temperance rocked the intricately crafted cradle until Rose’s eyes grew heavy and then closed.
Soon, little snores filled the room.
Temperance continued rocking the babe and stared on . . . seeing another child there . . . the original one to sleep in that bed—Dare. Back when he’d been the beloved and pampered and nurtured child of a marquess and marchioness.
Her nape prickled, and she glanced back.
Dare’s gaze bored into hers.
Temperance’s cheeks warmed. “What?”
“I’m looking at how very natural you are doing that. How right you look.” Her entire body turned to stone. But he wasn’t done. Dare drifted closer. “You deserved that.”
Stop.
Except . . . she couldn’t get the word out, and he continued torturing her.
“I denied you the right to a real husband and a real marriage—”
“Don’t,” she entreated.
“A child. You should have had a family in every sense.”
And there it was.
Her eyes slid closed.
Had he removed the dagger he always kept strapped to his back and slammed it into her breast, he couldn’t have hurt her more than he did in that moment. Temperance focused on breathing, and when the pressure eased from her breast, she opened her eyes once more. “You were very clear in what you offered me. I didn’t expect more.” I just wanted it . . .
Dare stretched a hand up.
Turn away.
Resist.
Instead, she again let her lashes flutter shut and leaned into that touch, anticipating his caress, even before he palmed her cheek.
He slid his hand lower, down her nape, cupping her, drawing her closer.
“Temperance—”
Footfalls sounded in the hall, and he abruptly released her just as Gwynn entered.
Clearing her throat, she looked back and forth between them. Temperance could see a wealth of questions . . . and worry . . . in the other woman’s eyes. “Forgive me,” Gwynn said and turned to go.
“No. It is fine,” Dare called, motioning for her to enter.
As he fetched a small doll from the floor, Gwynn gave Temperance a sharp look. “What are you doing?” she mouthed as she set the cradle rocking.
Looking pointedly at a still-distracted Dare, Temperance gave her head a slight shake.
Dare straightened, and she immediately stopped.
Gwynn took the toy from him with a word of thanks, and even as she deposited it into the cradle, her focus was all on Temperance.
And Temperance proved a coward because, when presented with a deserved lecture from her friend, she opted to follow Dare out.
Silent, no words passing between them, they made their way through the corridors.
Or is it really just that you didn’t remain with Gwynn because you want to be with Dare . . . that you are reluctant to let go of the closeness you’ve just shared?
Ludicrous.
Of course it wasn’t that.
Time and time again, he’d proven himself unable to separate from the life of crime he’d lived. He’d never quit steal—
Temperance slowed her steps as something worked around her brain, and then she stopped, whipping back to face him.
Why did you visit him, Dare?
You know, Temperance.
“What is it?” Dare stopped beside her, a question in his gaze.
“You went to steal from him,” she breathed as that understanding slammed into her. He’d been evasive as to his intentions, and flippant, but he’d not been direct and blunt about what he’d done . . . which he’d always been. Another might not have gathered that particular detail. But she knew this man. She knew the nuances in how he spoke and what he said with his words and actions . . . and just as importantly, what he didn’t say, as well. “But you didn’t. You didn’t rob him.”
“What?” Dare’s eyes moved around the hall as he looked everywhere but at her.
“I know you,” she said softly . . . simply.
He sighed, his gaze sliding past her to the path they’d just traveled. “I went there with every intention to steal from the baron. I brought the blade I use to work my way into residences.” As if there might be another instrument in question, he lifted the back of his jacket and revealed the holster there and the blade strapped in. “I jammed it under the sill and worked the window up.” Dare wandered ahead several steps, and she moved to put herself in his path.
“What happened?” she asked, not realizing she held her breath until he spoke his next words.
“I . . . couldn’t do it,” he said hoarsely.
And her heart did an endless stream of somersaults in her breast. Not once in all the years she’d known him had he ever altered his course when it came to his thievery. This . . . was the first time. And it was also the first hint that mayhap he had changed after all, despite his insistence that he couldn’t and never would. “Why? What . . . was different this time?”
Dare raked an uneven hand through his hair, knocking his cap loose. “I don’t know. And I cannot say that I never will again, but in that moment, I thought of the damned family and the child he has and couldn’t bring myself to—”
Dragging him by his shirtfront, Temperance went up on tiptoe and kissed the remaining words from his lips.
He stiffened, and then all at once, his hands were on her.
As she had hers on him. Sliding her fingers under his jac
ket, she ran them over the contoured walls of his chest.
There, in the hall, for the world to see, with the risk of discovery and passing servants, he pressed her against the wall and made love to her mouth.
Not breaking contact, their bodies moved, him propelling her backward, away from the window and toward her room, but she ultimately led the way. Leading and yet, at the same time, surrendering.
Folly . . . folly . . . folly.
It was a litany, muffled, muted, and then ultimately drowned out by the feel of Darius Grey’s mouth on hers.
Except, mayhap if she allowed herself to give in to this once more, she could purge herself of this aching need for him.
Even as Temperance parted her lips, allowing him entry, she sensed the inherent lie in that hope.
The taste of him flooded her senses. Berries and mint, one of those foreign, the other familiar. And she both mourned the small changes that had left him a stranger to her and reveled in the constants that remained.
Reaching past her, Dare pressed the handle and shoved the door open. “Do you want to stop?” he rasped in between kisses.
Her answer came instantaneously, born of honesty and pure desire. “No.”
With a low growl, he guided her backward into the room, pausing only long enough to kick the panel closed behind them. “That is the first time I’ve ever longed for the word ‘no’ from you, love.”
Love. That gentle endearment he’d always had for her sent another fiery wave of heat through her.
The backs of her knees collided with the mattress, and Dare gathered her buttocks to keep her from tumbling back . . . and instead, lifting one of her legs, he rucked the cotton fabric up, that thin material a flimsy barrier that was still much between them. Until it was gone, and she was exposed to him.
The cool spring air was a balm upon her heated skin.
They tangled with their tongues, their flesh coming together in a scandalous dance that mimicked the act which her body truly longed for, hungered to again know.
Desperate to get closer, she wrapped her thigh about him, thrust, and arched. A keening little moan slipped out. Over and over. Those desperate sounds of her desire were swallowed by each kiss.
Undressed with the Marquess Page 19