Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,117

lacquer surface of the vanity. “It makes no sense.” He’d never live a straight-and-narrow path . . . And even if he did, she could still never be a true wife to him. She could never give him an heir or any child. Tears threatened all over again.

“Love doesn’t make sense, Temperance,” her friend murmured in the tones of one who knew. “If it did, I would have fallen in love with a local villager and not a mill worker all the way in London whom I rarely am able to see.” Sighing, Gwynn stroked the small of her back. Pulled to the moment, Temperance stared at the final product wrought by her friend . . . and a stranger reflected back. Gwynn had looped and twisted two plaits about Temperance’s head; they formed a coronet of sorts, framed by loose curls that hung about her shoulders and back.

“You shall be the most beautiful woman present,” Gwynn murmured. “Now, off you go.”

Temperance came to her feet and made the slow walk from her rooms to the main landing.

She would play this part she’d agreed to.

And then after? She would again leave. But she’d never be the same.

These past years, she’d only lied to herself in thinking she was all right without Dare in her life.

When she reached the top of the stairwell, she froze. Temperance’s heart knocked wildly against her rib cage.

Long after she was gone from this place . . . and him, this was how she would see him in her mind . . . as he was now: attired in a flawless, midnight wool tailcoat with matching black trousers and boots. A cravat perfectly tied, and the longer-than-fashionable strands of his hair drawn neatly behind his ears.

Hands folded at his back, he paced, those movements precise and focused.

How could he not see that no matter what hell he’d known in the Rookeries, no matter the crimes he’d committed, he was and would always be a king amongst men.

As if he felt her presence there, Dare stopped and looked up.

She knew she’d have to face him again after her revelation and had braced for the stilted awkwardness or discomfort that would be between them.

In this instant, with his eyes on her, however, she was incapable of . . . anything . . .

She’d never given much thought to her appearance. Some women were gloriously beautiful, and others . . . not. She’d been quite content in the latter category. Nor had modesty made her objective. In the Rookeries, being pretty was more a bane, and as such, she’d been quite content to be plain and not the kind of woman to attract notice.

Or that had been the case. With Dare frozen, motionless, his jaw slack and his gaze locked on her, she could almost believe she was beautiful, after all. But then he’d always made her feel special. He’d always treated her as though she were something more than Abaddon Swift’s daughter. And being seen by him, this man, had been an aphrodisiac, one that sent the same butterflies dancing in her belly now.

He was the first to break the spell.

Giving his head a shake, Dare bounded over and took several of the steps, meeting her on her descent.

She reached him.

“You are magnificent,” he said quietly.

Her cheeks warmed under that praise. “Then it makes me perfectly suitable to be on your arm, Lord Milford.” The breathless quality to that reply ruined her attempt at flippancy. He reached for her arm and then stopped.

“I have not thanked you. I’m alive . . . because of you.”

“Then we’ve saved each other, Dare Grey,” she said softly.

And as he held his arm out and she linked hers through it, she could also almost believe the game of make-believe they played at—husband and wife. Happy couple. Lord and lady.

He’d spoken to her of dreams, and yet that had really been the only one she’d carried in her heart—him. She would have happily lived in the streets of East London if it had been with him at her side.

They made the journey the length of a hall with a silence between them. As they walked, she ran her gaze over the portraits that hung there now . . .

Temperance slowed her steps.

Dare frowned and brought them to a stop. “What is it?” he asked. “Are you having reservations?”

Yes, she was, but she had been since the moment she’d cornered him in the Cotswolds’ countryside and agreed to play companion to his sister. Incapable