Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Caldwell, Christi Page 0,20

her eyes, wise—steps back.

Alas, where he’d once been capable of charming her, she met his efforts with only ice in her eyes. “Your time here is done, Grey.”

And for the first time since he’d set out to the Cotswolds, panic rooted around his belly. He’d convinced himself that she could be persuaded.

Not that you’ve done a spectacular job of swaying the damned woman . . .

“I need you, Temperance,” he said bluntly, dropping all attempts at seduction and sway. He opted instead for cool, hard logic.

Temperance clutched her scissors close . . . but she did lower them. “Get. Out.”

“I’m asking you to hear me ou—”

“Get. Out,” she repeated, her voice creeping up an octave.

Footsteps came rushing from the back of the shop. A moment later, a trio of women came staggering into the front room, each seamstress bumping into the one before her.

The severe, Spartan woman at their front looked to Dare and Temperance, her gaze lingering on the scissors pointed upright at Dare’s chest. “Whatever is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

“Madame Amelie.” Temperance hastily lowered her scissors. It did not escape his notice that she retained a hold on that weapon. She’d always been endlessly resourceful.

As if she’d followed his silent praise and disapproved, Temperance glared at him. “This man, he has no place here. I’ve asked him to go.” Her eyes bored into his. “Which he is.”

“Actually, I’m not.” God, how much fun it had always been to tease her. It had been ever more fun when she’d laughed and teased him in return. Now, there was only an icy hatred . . .

“Very well.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’m telling you now. Leave.”

A thoroughly befuddled-looking Madame Amelie looked back and forth between Dare and Temperance. “Whatever is the meaning of this, Mrs. Swift?”

She’d used her previous name . . . different from the one he’d conferred to her upon their marriage, and instead belonging to the monster who’d sired her. It was an inconsequential point to note and even more peculiar that it should sting.

When neither answered, Madame Amelie put a question directly to Dare. “Are you a . . . thief?” She proved shockingly on the mark. Just not in the way she thought.

A smile twitched at his lips. “I’m a marquess.” Temperance’s eyebrows went flying to her hairline. “The Marquess of Milford.” He knew that when presented with the truth of his title, none would ever notice he’d evaded that question.

Murmurings rose amongst the audience of women now watching.

Madame Amelie clapped her hands once. That crowd instantly dissolved, scurrying back through the black velvet curtain.

The woman was instantly all smiles. “Are you a client, then?”

He and Temperance spoke at the same time.

“No.”

“Yes?” He flashed a smile at the tall woman. “I could be.”

Temperance’s furious stare fairly singed. It wasn’t the first time he’d been the recipient of that heated look.

Madame Amelie sized him up, touching her appraising stare on his garments, the gold chain connected to a heavy gold timepiece. “Forgive Mrs. Swift. Allow me to fetch one of my other—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he called when she started for the curtain leading to the back. “I would have . . . Mrs. Swift, is it?”

The black-haired minx gnashed her teeth loudly enough that they rattled noisily in the quiet. “It. Is.”

“I’m certain any number of your”—he glanced over to the young women who’d slipped out from behind the curtains to watch the discussion unfolding—“lovely staff are capable; however, I have very specific requirements that only Mrs. Swift might see to.”

Chapter 5

Temperance had been married for just eight months.

That was, eight months before Dare Grey, a thief of everything, not the least of which being her heart, had gone from devoted husband always at her side to his next big theft.

It hadn’t been unexpected.

Quite the opposite, in fact, given the terms of their marriage: he would offer her his name as a means of protecting her from her monster of a father, and she’d accept that his life of thieving was his work. She’d understood those terms . . . and accepted them. Having first been best friends, it had made sense. They may have been married only eight months, but they’d been sweethearts for ten years before that. Then he’d gone to rob a wealthy lord in the country, and she’d been left vulnerable, alone to face her father’s wrath . . .

In fairness, neither she nor Dare could have anticipated that her father would be more outraged at