Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Caldwell, Christi Page 0,11

to stand. “What? Where are you going?” She glanced frantically at her husband. “Where is he going?”

Dare ignored the glare Lady Kinsley turned on him. Not that the woman was a sister to him in any way. Nor, for that matter, did Dare intend to remain here.

He started for the door.

“The way I see it, Darius, you have two options afforded you,” the duke called out.

Pausing, Dare turned back. “Oh?”

“One . . . you might remain here and become the marquess you are.”

That wasn’t an option. That wasn’t even a consideration any longer. He folded his arms. “I trust option two is completing my walk to the gallows?”

His Grace snorted. “There’s some family whom I’d let to that fate. You aren’t one of them. I’m not going to let my grandson hang.”

And Dare found himself having to mask his surprise at that unexpected display of humor from this duke . . . and that matter-of-fact defense of him. He nudged his chin at the old duke. “Option two, then?”

“You can go back to living the life you’ve lived”—Pemberly’s mouth tensed and moved, as if he were struggling to get his next words out—“picking pockets.”

Picking pockets. That was what the whole of the world believed Dare’s crime to be. Society—and certainly not those of Pemberly’s station—could imagine no grander scale of thievery. One where Dare stole from the wealthiest, the men and women Dare’s newly found family likely called friends and certainly brushed elbows with. “I prefer the latter.” Dare spoke without inflection. “Though I do . . . appreciate your intervention on my behalf.”

“Let him go, Grandfather,” Kinsley said briskly. “He’s made his decision. You’ve already wasted enough of your time.”

Yes, Dare trusted the young lady would far prefer that outcome to welcoming a street rat into the fold of her family.

Pemberly ignored his granddaughter. “If you carry on with this life, you’re eventually going to hang, Darius. I won’t always be able to intervene.”

Yes, Dare had always known what fate awaited him. It was why he’d sought to avoid true entanglements.

A memory slid in.

I cannot quite decide which is more perilous to my heart, Dare Grey: a life without you or one with you, knowing you’ll one day be gone . . .

“I know that,” he murmured, forcing back those memories he’d not allowed himself. Since his near hanging, however, she, Temperance, had wound her way back into his thoughts at the oddest of times.

If only I could entice you to stay, Dare . . .

“Perhaps I might entice you to stay?”

For a moment, the past blended with the present, and Dare struggled to sort his way through which was real.

Pemberly stared squarely back. And for all the ways in which the duke was in full command of himself, it was his eyes. That weakness Dare wagered the other man didn’t know he possessed. And just then, those intent eyes hinted at the old man’s fear—that Dare would walk away rather than hear him out.

Dare, however, had never been too proud to entertain any proposal put to him. It was how he’d built his reputation and created the existence he had for himself. Returning to his seat, Dare nudged his chin. “I’m listening.”

Kinsley shot to her feet. “This is madness!” she exclaimed. “You don’t need him, Grandfather. Look what the last man who had no place being the marquess did to this family.”

There was the faintest stirring of curiosity about the fellow who’d come before Dare. Not enough, however, for him to ask questions.

In the end, he needn’t have asked, as the duke provided answers to those unspoken ones anyway. “The woe of distant cousins without any meaningful connection to a title,” the old man went on with a sad shake of his head.

“Don’t let him manipulate you, Grandfather,” Lady Kinsley pleaded. When not even a facial muscle ticked in Pemberly’s wrinkled face, the young woman turned to the duchess. “Grandmother, you must make him see reason. He doesn’t need to entertain this”—she slashed a hand in Dare’s direction—“miscreant.”

Dare curled his lips at one corner. “Miscreant.” He touched the brim of an imagined hat. “That is certainly the politest of the insults I’ve been dealt.”

Kinsley surged forward. “This is all a game to you,” she spat.

The duchess shot the end of her cane up, halting the young lady’s charge. “Sit down this instant, Kinsley Daria Greyson.”

Daria Greyson.

His chest clenched.

They’d named her after him.

The replacement babe that she’d been.

And he hated there was any feeling or reaction on his part