She winced.
“I’m sorry,” Gwynn said, horror filling her eyes. “That was the wrong choice of words.”
And yet . . .
Temperance’s gaze caught in the windowpane. Her expression wasn’t vastly unlike what it had been the day she’d gone to face Dare at that hated prison.
“Come. It is simply dinner,” her friend went on, mistaking the reason for Temperance’s forlornness. “We’ve been eating since we were born. Perhaps Lady Kinsley will find a suitor tonight, and we can be that much closer to leaving.”
And yet . . . that wouldn’t happen because it wasn’t what Kinsley wished.
And there wouldn’t be a babe, which meant . . . there was no money forthcoming by which to help Gwynn and Chance.
In the end, it had all been for naught.
And yet . . . these days she’d spent with Dare? Not once had she thought of the money to be had at the end of their arrangement. Or even really of Gwynn and Chance. She’d simply thought of him.
Gwynn hummed happily to herself.
“Lady Kinsley doesn’t wish to marry,” she said quietly.
Her friend’s little song faded to a slow stop. “What?”
Before she lost the courage to say what needed to be said, she spoke. “She doesn’t wish to marry, and . . . so the terms of the arrangement cannot be met. There will be no funds.” Which meant there would be that continued impediment between Gwynn and Chance.
Silence.
Thick and heavy and palpable.
Gwynn’s lips formed a little circle, and out slipped just one breathy utterance: “Oh.” She sat on the vanity chair.
Temperance sank into the sliver of a seat left alongside her friend. “I’m so sorry.” Those three words, however, didn’t solve the divide that continued to exist between Gwynn and Chance. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek.
Gwynn glanced over. “I want to marry your brother and be close to him,” the other woman murmured.
“I know,” she whispered, her voice shattered. “I—”
“Hush.” Her friend glared at her. “Let me finish. What I was going to say was that I want to marry your brother and be close to him . . . but I wouldn’t have you sacrificing yourself for me.” Gwynn hung her head. “It was wrong of me to ask you to.”
“You asked nothing of me.”
Gwynn shook her head. “I knew you chose to come to a place you didn’t wish to be for me and Chance. I let you do that. And it was wrong.”
Temperance cried softly, the tears falling freely. “Why are you taking this so well?”
Her friend dusted them back. “Because I love you. You are like a sister to me. We will figure this out.” Gwynn folded an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “All three of us.”
Temperance buried her face in Gwynn’s shoulder and wept.
Gwynn patted her and made a clucking sound. “Come. Enough of that. You’ve the dinner party, and I’d not have you go there with swollen eyes and splotchy cheeks.”
“I-I suspect it is too late for that.”
“Yes, probably.”
A little laugh broke through Temperance’s tears. Gwynn hugged her close, and she folded herself in the arms of a woman who’d been like a sister she’d never had.
“Now, where were we?” Humming once more, Gwynn popped up. “We just need several more pins,” she said more to herself as she fetched the pins and set to work sliding them into place. Her eyes lit. “Have a look.” Pulling Temperance by the hand, she guided her over to the vanity.
And Temperance stood there and simply stared at . . . the stranger before her.
“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered. She evaluated her gown with the critical eye of a seamstress who’d designed countless gowns. She had designed and sewn evening dresses for several noblewomen who’d lived in or near Cotswold. The garments she’d created had been made of the highest-quality satins and silks, adorned with the best lace and beading.
Or so she’d thought.
With that stranger staring back, she realized just how wrong she’d been. She’d known nothing about luxuriant material or intricate designs.
“It is . . .” Gwynn’s reverent tones trailed off.
“I know,” she finished for her friend.
Gwynn stroked a finger along the Austrian crystal beading that dripped from Temperance’s cap sleeves. “Look at this tailoring of the material.” The other woman spoke with that same reverent awe as she stroked the glorious beading. “This detail,” Gwynn whispered.
And while her friend went back to pinning Temperance’s hair, Temperance dug deep, looking at what the other woman saw, searching for a shared excitement for what Gwynn spoke about . . . and came up empty. Working as a seamstress had never been a source of joy. No, she’d not even thought about what made her happy, or searching it out, until Dare had urged her to consider what dreams she carried.
And there was a . . . desolation that came from knowing that when she left, that was the future that awaited her. Not one with Dare.
Her heart clenched.
Humming to herself, Gwynn pinned several more curls into place. She made quick work of the remaining pins, hiding them in Temperance’s hair. She took Temperance by the shoulders and brought her about to face her. “You belong there.” She lightly squeezed her arms before smoothing the fabric.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were feeling unworthy.” The other woman paused. “But never forget, you have every right to be here. You’re married to a marquess, and that makes you a marchioness and of more lofty station than almost anyone else you’ll meet tonight.”
How simple Gwynn made it sound. That black-and-white way of thinking, however, didn’t match with the strict social stratification that existed.
“Having a title and being accepted into their world are vastly different,” she said, letting Gwynn shift her head so she could better reach the other curls.
“You don’t need to be accepted there,” her friend pointed out from around the pin she’d stuck between her teeth. “Not really. When you are ready . . . you are free to continue on your way.”
When she was ready . . . So why did the idea of that future . . . leave her forlorn?
Come, you know why. It is him.
Dare had planted doubts and made her think about things she’d never before considered.
Regardless of whatever came between them, for everything he and they together had not gotten right, he’d been the only one who’d challenged her to look at life as though she should demand more of it for herself. And no matter what had passed between them, when she left and they parted, this time for good, she would miss him. She’d miss his challenging her and his valuing her as an equal.
Tears pricked her lashes.
Her friend stopped. “Again?” Gwynn murmured. “What is this?”
Temperance angrily swiped at those drops and shook her head.
“It is him.” Worry filled the other woman’s eyes.
“No, it’s . . .” Temperance sank onto the vanity bench. “He’s done . . . nothing, really. Not anything that he’s not within his rights to do.” She went on to explain his connection to Avery Bryant and Dare’s decision to sell his family’s belongings. And his latest trip to Newgate.
When she’d finished, Gwynn sank onto the edge of the bench. “You love him.”
Still. I love him still. Temperance dropped her head onto the smooth lacquer surface of the vanity. “It makes no sense.” He’d never live a straight-and-narrow path . . . And even if he did, she could still never be a true wife to him. She could never give him an heir or any child. Tears threatened all over again.
“Love doesn’t make sense, Temperance,” her friend murmured in the tones of one who knew. “If it did, I would have fallen in love with a local villager and not a mill worker all the way in London whom I rarely am able to see.” Sighing, Gwynn stroked the small of her back. Pulled to the moment, Temperance stared at the final product wrought
by her friend . . . and a stranger reflected back. Gwynn had looped and twisted two plaits about Temperance’s head; they formed a coronet of sorts, framed by loose curls that hung about her shoulders and back.
“You shall be the most beautiful woman present,” Gwynn murmured. “Now, off you go.”
Temperance came to her feet and made the slow walk from her rooms to the main landing.
She would play this part she’d agreed to.
And then after? She would again leave. But she’d never be the same.
These past years, she’d only lied to herself in thinking she was all right without Dare in her life.
When she reached the top of the stairwell, she froze. Temperance’s heart knocked wildly against her rib cage.
Long after she was gone from this place . . . and him, this was how she would see him in her mind . . . as he was now: attired in a flawless, midnight wool tailcoat with matching black trousers and boots. A cravat perfectly tied, and the longer-than-fashionable strands of his hair drawn neatly behind his ears.
Hands folded at his back, he paced, those movements precise and focused.
How could he not see that no matter what hell he’d known in the Rookeries, no matter the crimes he’d committed, he was and would always be a king amongst men.
As if he felt her presence there, Dare stopped and looked up.
She knew she’d have to face him again after her revelation and had braced for the stilted awkwardness or discomfort that would be between them.
In this instant, with his eyes on her, however, she was incapable of . . . anything . . .
She’d never given much thought to her appearance. Some women were gloriously beautiful, and others . . . not. She’d been quite content in the latter category. Nor had modesty made her objective. In the Rookeries, being pretty was more a bane, and as such, she’d been quite content to be plain and not the kind of woman to attract notice.
Or that had been the case. With Dare frozen, motionless, his jaw slack and his gaze locked on her, she could almost believe she was beautiful, after all. But then he’d always made her feel special. He’d always treated her as though she were something more than Abaddon Swift’s daughter. And being seen by him, this man, had been an aphrodisiac, one that sent the same butterflies dancing in her belly now.
He was the first to break the spell.
Giving his head a shake, Dare bounded over and took several of the steps, meeting her on her descent.
She reached him.
“You are magnificent,” he said quietly.
Her cheeks warmed under that praise. “Then it makes me perfectly suitable to be on your arm, Lord Milford.” The breathless quality to that reply ruined her attempt at flippancy. He reached for her arm and then stopped.
“I have not thanked you. I’m alive . . . because of you.”
“Then we’ve saved each other, Dare Grey,” she said softly.
And as he held his arm out and she linked hers through it, she could also almost believe the game of make-believe they played at—husband and wife. Happy couple. Lord and lady.
He’d spoken to her of dreams, and yet that had really been the only one she’d carried in her heart—him. She would have happily lived in the streets of East London if it had been with him at her side.
They made the journey the length of a hall with a silence between them. As they walked, she ran her gaze over the portraits that hung there now . . .
Temperance slowed her steps.
Dare frowned and brought them to a stop. “What is it?” he asked. “Are you having reservations?”
Yes, she was, but she had been since the moment she’d cornered him in the Cotswolds’ countryside and agreed to play companion to his sister. Incapable of words, she walked back several paces . . . and stopped before an ornate gold frame. The portrait within contained four figures: a serious-looking lord and lady, and an equally serious boy. The fourth and last person was a small babe in a long white gown, cradled close in the arms of the woman holding her. Transfixed, Temperance tipped her head. There was an afterthought quality to the way the mother held the child.
The only one with a smile . . . was the babe. Her adoring gaze lifted up to the figures looking out.
Dare’s family . . .
Only . . .
Dare’s family as it had come to be and existed after he was gone.
All these years, she’d resented him. She’d hated his ability and willingness to shut everyone—especially her—out. She’d not understood him . . . until now.
Now, seeing that portrait, it all made sense.
And for the first time, she looked at what he’d endured, and Temperance saw him . . . For the first time, she understood what had compelled Dare . . . and still did.
“You didn’t sell it,” she whispered, her voice hoarsened with tears. She looked back and found him there; his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, he rocked on his heels.
When he didn’t respond, Temperance looked the length of the hall; the paintings that had previously filled the Opal Parlor had been restored to their rightful places.
He cleared his throat. “I . . . no. I figured there were other things I could sell where I might leave that one.” For his sister.
Temperance doubled back along the path they’d just traveled. Only . . . it wasn’t, as he’d suggested, “just one.” She passed painting after painting: of Lady Kinsley alone. Lady Kinsley with an older boy who had the look of Dare—their brother. “You didn’t sell . . . any of them.” She did a quick inventory of the hall. “There are . . . ten in this corridor alone.” Temperance stole a glance over her shoulder to where he trailed after her at a more sedate pace.
“Twelve,” he corrected automatically.
He’d always been a cataloger, meticulously counting and tracking all the belongings he pilfered and then sold off.
Except . . .
Temperance stopped at the end of the hall, and frowned as she noted one poignant detail. “But I saw people collecting items and carting them off. What of those?” she asked softly, drifting back to his side.
“What others?”
He knew, and yet he evaded her question. Temperance rested her hands along the front of his jacket and brushed her palms lightly over him. “The portraits that contained you and your family.”
Dare grunted. “It made no sense to keep them,” he said gruffly, not meeting her eyes.
Her heart ached. “You sold them.” Those last links that placed him with the parents and brother he’d had, he’d dissolved.
“Spencer had buyers in mind. He helped me secure them. He was able to fetch a sum for the frame. It’ll feed a number of families.”
He’d figured out a way to squeeze money out of the household, while allowing Kinsley to retain the connections she had to those heirlooms. It was the first time Dare had held on to anything of value. And he’d done so . . . because of his sister. So much love for this man filled her.
He was not perfect. And yet he attempted to change.
She waited until he finally looked at her. “Your mother didn’t stop loving you,” she said softly.
His answer was instantaneous. “Either way, I was the child she was better off without. My father was right . . . and I knew it.” He stared stonily at that first image she’d studied of the four. “When I came back, I saw them. I . . . One night? I was pickpocketing for Mac Diggory, and I sneaked off.” He paused. “To be here. Even though my father had told me not to. I wanted to . . . see . . .”
She started. He’d returned even after his father had sent him away. Her heart twisted at the thought of that little boy trying so desperately to find his way back to his family.
Dare’s eyes were locked on that forlorn-looking family of four, and as he spoke, his voice was distant, deadened. “I just walked and walked that night. Even though he said there was no one looking for me. I’d believed him . . . Except that night, I wondered if he was wrong. I found a window—one of the parlors. My mother w
as playing pianoforte, and my brother was waltzing a little girl . . . a stranger to me.” Lady Kinsley. “My . . . sister,” he made himself say. “About the empty parlor. They were smiling and laughing, and it was when I knew.”
“What?” she asked quietly.
“That I’d been forgotten,” he said so matter-of-factly. “Replaced with this new person. That night, I left and swore never to return, because I knew it was what was best . . . for all,” he added.
And here she’d believed her heart could break no further where this man was concerned. Tears stung her lashes. “Oh, Dare,” she whispered. Every sliver of her soul ached and hurt for the boy who’d stood outside, looking in. Filled with a restiveness, she worked her gaze over the corridor . . . halls he should have been running along throughout his boyhood, and then continued walking through as the rightful heir and marquess. How very close he’d been to escaping the hell of the Rookeries. If only he’d trusted that he’d been missed . . . loved. If only he’d trusted that a mother’s love was a bond that could not be broken, even by death.
And once more, he made sense in ways he never had before. She understood him, this man who couldn’t truly bring himself to commit to loving and had instead devoted himself to looking after everyone else the way he had needed someone to look after and care for him. He had become . . . what he’d needed. What if he’d stumbled upon every other memory his sister remembered of her heartbroken parents? How would his life . . . How would their lives all have been different?
Color suffused Dare’s cheeks. “It is fine,” he said, clasping his hands at his back, his gaze still on that family he’d lost.
But it wasn’t. No matter the assurances he gave her or himself. He’d been indelibly shaped by those darkest days, and more . . . by what had happened when he’d returned—the father who’d rejected him.
And where his father had been evil, there had been a mother who had missed her son. Who had loved him. And she would have Dare know that.
“Your mother loved you, Dare.”
“I know that,” he said automatically. “I left when I was ten. Just as I knew my mother loved me was the same way I knew my father hated me . . . But she loved me as I’d been . . . not what I became.”
Undressed with the Marquess Page 30