Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Caldwell, Christi Page 0,48

click of the doors shutting managed to penetrate across the shocked collection of guests.

“Temperance,” Dare greeted. Color splotched his cheeks as he strode over to where she hovered in the entranceway.

She tried to make herself focus on him and find a lifeline in his familiar face and presence. He’d always represented that for her.

Until now.

“What is the meaning of this?” the bewhiskered stranger barked.

The blonde-haired woman clutching at his arm stared with shocked eyes at Temperance. “The marchioness?”

“Temperance.” Dare spoke in hushed tones. “Perhaps it might be better if we—”

“Who is this woman?” the white-haired gentleman thundered from the center of the room.

The voice, those garments, and the monocle could mark him as only one: the duke.

The regal lady on his arm—the duchess—looked Temperance over. “I am certain she—this—can be explained, Lady Peregrine.”

All the while, the pretty young lady took in the exchange with enormous blue eyes.

Temperance’s belly clenched. Many times in the course of her life, she had been made to feel somehow less than others. None of those instances, however, could compare with the look in the duke’s eyes as he scraped a hard, unforgiving stare over her. Or the feeling of the other strangers gawking at her.

Wordlessly, Temperance glanced about the room. She’d anticipated this meeting would be uncomfortable. Uneasy. Distressing. Many things . . . But not even she could have foreseen this level of misery. Reflexively, she found herself sliding closer to Dare’s side.

Lady Peregrine gasped and jabbed a finger at Temperance and Dare. “Who iiiis she?”

“I can explain,” Dare said with his usual calm, as if he were merely pointing out details on the English weather and not justifying Temperance’s presence to a roomful of horrified nobles. “And prior to Temperance’s arrival, I was attempting to . . .”

She lifted her chin. She’d not be spoken about or over. Not by Dare. Not by his grandfather. Not by anyone. “I am Dare’s wife.”

“Who is Dare?” Lady Peregrine cried.

“I believe she is referring to the marquess, Mama,” the young lady said in dulcet tones.

“But . . . but . . . he . . .” Lady Peregrine wilted, collapsing into the chair.

“What manner of game is this, Duke?” the bewhiskered gentleman thundered.

“I . . .” And amidst the confusion, Temperance witnessed that which she’d never thought to witness: not only a duke but also one who’d been cowed and silenced by another. “I do not know, but I’m certain it can be explained.”

“Come,” Lord Peregrine snapped. “We’re leaving.” Taking his wife by the arm, he guided her to her feet, and collecting his daughter’s hand, he led that pair quickly toward the door.

Temperance hurried to step out of their way as they sailed past her.

The duchess set after them, with the duke limping more slowly behind. “Please,” the duchess cried. “This can all be . . .” Those assurances grew more faded as she raced to keep up with the retreating trio.

Until all that was left in the room . . . was silence.

Nay, that wasn’t altogether true.

Narrowing her eyes, Temperance looked to Dare.

Dare, always unflappable, even in the face of a capture and trip to Newgate, now tugged at his cravat.

“What. Was. That?” she managed to grind out between clenched teeth.

He pushed the door shut.

And the warning bells, already blaring, screamed all the louder.

“There appears to have been a . . . misunderstanding.”

She made herself go motionless. “Oh?” she asked, striving for a casualness she didn’t feel.

Dare crossed the room, making for a gilded and crystal tantalus. Drawing open the clear, bronze-lined doors, Dare drew out a bottle of brandy and a glass. “It appears I didn’t altogether understand the discussion the duke intended to have.”

“You didn’t tell them you were married.”

“There was a misunderstanding,” he said as he splashed several fingerfuls into a snifter.

“I know.” She bit out those two syllables. “You said as much, two times now.”

He swirled the contents of his glass once and then tossed it back in a long, painful-looking swallow. Grimacing, he set the empty glass back down. “I was under the assumption that they were expecting me to take a wife.”

“And what were they expecting?”

“The same.” Dare grabbed the bottle of brandy and poured himself another glass. “However, there was apparently a betrothal.”

“A . . . betrothal?”

“Between myself and . . .” With the decanter in hand, Dare motioned to the front of the room.

Temperance followed his focus over to the doorway the regal couple had fled through just moments ago. The young lady. “Oh,” she said,