Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Caldwell, Christi Page 0,40
different demons had haunted her thoughts and stolen all peace—the loss of a babe, a child who should have never been. Fate had known it, and robbed her of the tiny girl because of it.
She’d never thought to know rest.
And then somehow, someway, she’d learned to sleep. Yes, in some part, the long days and strenuous work at Madame Amelie’s were what accounted for the mind-numbing fatigue and exhaustion. But it hadn’t been just that. For she’d never worked harder than she had in the Rookeries. No, the gift of sleep was one she’d taught herself. She’d learned to close her eyes and shut out the day’s trials and the past and the fears, and just turn herself over to the oblivion that came with unconsciousness.
Or that had been the case.
This night, sleep eluded her.
This time, however, the absolute inability to let go of the day had nothing to do with the past or the heartache of loss or the nightmares of her father.
This time, it was Dare . . . Dare, with whom she was returning to London.
She continued to drag her needle through the pink fabric, attaching it to the pale-green cotton. Whatever scraps had been set for discarding at Madame Amelie’s Temperance had rescued, and saved to create something when her time was her own.
That wouldn’t be the case when she arrived in Dare’s fine London townhouse. There, she’d live the life of a marchioness. A marchioness with a houseful of servants and a duke and duchess whom she and Dare had to answer to. And she’d be expected to attend ton events with the most powerful, wealthy, influential members of Polite Society. Her palms grew moist, her fingers trembling slightly, and she steadied her grip.
The idea of being with Dare had been sufficiently terrifying enough that she’d not had time to think of everything their arrangement entailed.
She slowed, her needle hovering along the perfect line she’d just stitched.
Soon she’d be in a position where she needn’t rely on anyone ever again. Soon there would be funds enough to see her settled forever. That was what she needed to focus on . . . everything awaiting her and Gwynn when she saw through this arrangement with Dare. All she needed to do was suffer about the ton for as long as it took for his sister to find a husband.
Given the young woman was the sister of a marquess, and the granddaughter of a duke and duchess, it wouldn’t be long at all.
And then Temperance would be free to go on her way and live comfortably forevermore.
And it was all because of Dare.
“Dare the Savior,” she whispered into the quiet. The rescuer of innocents. The saver of damsels. That was the role he’d always craved and one he’d carried out with all—including with her. And perhaps there was something very wrong about her for having wanted more from him.
For them.
He’d always wanted to shield her from suffering, just as he had everyone else in East London. At first, she’d fallen head over heels in love with him, this dashing, mighty man who’d fought to protect and defend her.
It had been heady and shocking.
She, who’d grown up witnessing her father’s frequent beatings of her mother. That same violence she’d also seen carried out against women on the streets . . . So she’d believed that was the only way between men and women.
A bleating snore rent across the small quarters Temperance shared with Gwynn, cutting into her musings. Temperance shook her head, clearing those thoughts, and stared with no small amount of envy at a perfectly rested Gwynn, sprawled on her back with the covers off and her mouth hanging open. The other woman was sleep personified. From belowstairs, the noisy din of the taproom had no impact on the other woman’s slumber.
Abandoning all hope of rest, Temperance briefly set down her sewing. She lowered her legs, the cool penetrating her feet. Shivering, she hurried across the room, and as she went, she shrugged out of her night wrapper and exchanged it for another serviceable chemise and dress. After she’d donned her shoes, she gathered up the fabric she’d been working on and headed for the front of the room.
The moment she opened the door, the ungreased hinges squealed.
Behind her, Gwynn sputtered in her sleep, and then her snoring resumed its regular cadence.
Drawing the door closed behind her, Temperance blinked to adjust her eyes to the nearly pitch-black corridor and then froze.