Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Caldwell, Christi Page 0,35

only suffering.

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