Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,116

shoulder and wept.

Gwynn patted her and made a clucking sound. “Come. Enough of that. You’ve the dinner party, and I’d not have you go there with swollen eyes and splotchy cheeks.”

“I-I suspect it is too late for that.”

“Yes, probably.”

A little laugh broke through Temperance’s tears. Gwynn hugged her close, and she folded herself in the arms of a woman who’d been like a sister she’d never had.

“Now, where were we?” Humming once more, Gwynn popped up. “We just need several more pins,” she said more to herself as she fetched the pins and set to work sliding them into place. Her eyes lit. “Have a look.” Pulling Temperance by the hand, she guided her over to the vanity.

And Temperance stood there and simply stared at . . . the stranger before her.

“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered. She evaluated her gown with the critical eye of a seamstress who’d designed countless gowns. She had designed and sewn evening dresses for several noblewomen who’d lived in or near Cotswold. The garments she’d created had been made of the highest-quality satins and silks, adorned with the best lace and beading.

Or so she’d thought.

With that stranger staring back, she realized just how wrong she’d been. She’d known nothing about luxuriant material or intricate designs.

“It is . . .” Gwynn’s reverent tones trailed off.

“I know,” she finished for her friend.

Gwynn stroked a finger along the Austrian crystal beading that dripped from Temperance’s cap sleeves. “Look at this tailoring of the material.” The other woman spoke with that same reverent awe as she stroked the glorious beading. “This detail,” Gwynn whispered.

And while her friend went back to pinning Temperance’s hair, Temperance dug deep, looking at what the other woman saw, searching for a shared excitement for what Gwynn spoke about . . . and came up empty. Working as a seamstress had never been a source of joy. No, she’d not even thought about what made her happy, or searching it out, until Dare had urged her to consider what dreams she carried.

And there was a . . . desolation that came from knowing that when she left, that was the future that awaited her. Not one with Dare.

Her heart clenched.

Humming to herself, Gwynn pinned several more curls into place. She made quick work of the remaining pins, hiding them in Temperance’s hair. She took Temperance by the shoulders and brought her about to face her. “You belong there.” She lightly squeezed her arms before smoothing the fabric.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were feeling unworthy.” The other woman paused. “But never forget, you have every right to be here. You’re married to a marquess, and that makes you a marchioness and of more lofty station than almost anyone else you’ll meet tonight.”

How simple Gwynn made it sound. That black-and-white way of thinking, however, didn’t match with the strict social stratification that existed.

“Having a title and being accepted into their world are vastly different,” she said, letting Gwynn shift her head so she could better reach the other curls.

“You don’t need to be accepted there,” her friend pointed out from around the pin she’d stuck between her teeth. “Not really. When you are ready . . . you are free to continue on your way.”

When she was ready . . . So why did the idea of that future . . . leave her forlorn?

Come, you know why. It is him.

Dare had planted doubts and made her think about things she’d never before considered.

Regardless of whatever came between them, for everything he and they together had not gotten right, he’d been the only one who’d challenged her to look at life as though she should demand more of it for herself. And no matter what had passed between them, when she left and they parted, this time for good, she would miss him. She’d miss his challenging her and his valuing her as an equal.

Tears pricked her lashes.

Her friend stopped. “Again?” Gwynn murmured. “What is this?”

Temperance angrily swiped at those drops and shook her head.

“It is him.” Worry filled the other woman’s eyes.

“No, it’s . . .” Temperance sank onto the vanity bench. “He’s done . . . nothing, really. Not anything that he’s not within his rights to do.” She went on to explain his connection to Avery Bryant and Dare’s decision to sell his family’s belongings. And his latest trip to Newgate.

When she’d finished, Gwynn sank onto the edge of the bench. “You love him.”

Still. I love him still. Temperance dropped her head onto the smooth