to process those last words.
When he did, two thoughts registered at the same time, two confused thoughts, neither of which made sense: one, he was holding the hand of a woman who was certainly not his wife, and the other . . .
His . . . betrothed?
“My . . . betrothed?” he croaked, his voice pitching slightly up.
“Betrothed,” the duke repeated in a joy-filled, bellowing voice. His Grace smiled widely. “Your future wife.”
Dare’s stomach fell.
Yes, yes, he’d heard his grandparents correctly, after all.
He stared at the small gloved hand joined with his. Oh, bloody hell.
Dare frantically jerked his palm out of her delicate grasp.
The duke’s expression faltered. “Darius? I trust everything is . . . all right?”
Wordlessly, Dare took in the assembly of guests, his grandparents.
No. This wasn’t all right.
It was a damned disaster.
A short while later, having washed the remnants of travel from her person and changed into her finest dress, Temperance was escorted belowstairs by Spencer.
Periodically, the butler cast strained glances back her way, only adding layer upon layer to her unease.
As they wound their way through the corridors, to keep herself from giving in to panic over her upcoming meeting, she scanned her gaze over Dare’s household—and for as long as she lived here, her household, too.
The varnish upon the hardwood portion of the floors added a layer of shine to the monochromatic heartwood flooring and spoke to the wealth of this place . . . which was at odds with the words Dare had spoken about an insolvent marquessate. Ornate, teardrop-shaped crystal dangled from gold sconces. Sconces filled with nub-size candles, those shortened tapers the first telltale indication of the financial state of this household.
If one looked past the initial trappings, one noticed the previously neglected details: the slight fading of the Chinese-paper walls. The velvetlike Wilton carpeting that lined the halls had begun to fray at the edges.
And still . . . despite that evidence of wear and aging, none would ever doubt the grandeur and wealth that had gone into the townhouse.
With every step that brought her closer to Dare’s duke and duchess grandparents, Temperance’s panic intensified. To steady the trembling of her palms, she smoothed them along the front of her finest dress.
Finest dress . . . ? Even upon its best day, the article she’d constructed of the remnants that had gone unused by one of Madame Amelie’s most influential patrons had never been suited to this place. A nervous laugh bubbled up and spilled from her lips.
Spencer stole a glance her way, and she forced herself to draw an even breath.
“Have you been employed long by the marquess’s family?” she asked in a bid to break the tension and establish some manner of rapport with the head servant. After all, given her new—though temporary—role within the household, they would be required to work closely with one another.
“I was only hired just shortly before His Lordship’s death,” Spencer murmured.
“Might I beg a favor, Mr. Spencer?” She reached into her pocket and drew out the note she’d hastily written to her brother, informing him of her and Gwynn’s arrival in London. “Would you see that this is delivered for me?”
“Of course, my lady,” he said, immediately collecting the missive. He glanced down at the name and address upon the front before tucking it inside his jacket.
There should have been only joy at thinking about her brother’s response to discovering she and Gwynn now resided in London. And there likely would have been . . . had she not been about to face Dare’s noble family.
Spencer brought them to a stop outside a pair of arched pine double doors. The servant hesitated a long moment, and then with a customary pained expression on his features, he drew the panels open. “Her Ladyship, the Marchioness of Milford.”
That pronouncement rang about the otherwise silent room. A silence so heavy and thick the small flicker of fire in the hearth provided the only other sound.
Dare, along with five strangers, stared back at her with horror, and one of those individuals was a young lady . . . a young lady who also stood very close to Dare.
Unease rippled along her spine. The sense of dread that she’d learned to listen to . . . That was now screaming just one single command. Run.
She curled her toes tightly and made her feet stay planted.
Clearing his throat, Spencer hurried from the room, and even as he drew those ornate pine panels shut behind him, Temperance caught the relieved sigh.
That