Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,118

of words, she walked back several paces . . . and stopped before an ornate gold frame. The portrait within contained four figures: a serious-looking lord and lady, and an equally serious boy. The fourth and last person was a small babe in a long white gown, cradled close in the arms of the woman holding her. Transfixed, Temperance tipped her head. There was an afterthought quality to the way the mother held the child.

The only one with a smile . . . was the babe. Her adoring gaze lifted up to the figures looking out.

Dare’s family . . .

Only . . .

Dare’s family as it had come to be and existed after he was gone.

All these years, she’d resented him. She’d hated his ability and willingness to shut everyone—especially her—out. She’d not understood him . . . until now.

Now, seeing that portrait, it all made sense.

And for the first time, she looked at what he’d endured, and Temperance saw him . . . For the first time, she understood what had compelled Dare . . . and still did.

“You didn’t sell it,” she whispered, her voice hoarsened with tears. She looked back and found him there; his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, he rocked on his heels.

When he didn’t respond, Temperance looked the length of the hall; the paintings that had previously filled the Opal Parlor had been restored to their rightful places.

He cleared his throat. “I . . . no. I figured there were other things I could sell where I might leave that one.” For his sister.

Temperance doubled back along the path they’d just traveled. Only . . . it wasn’t, as he’d suggested, “just one.” She passed painting after painting: of Lady Kinsley alone. Lady Kinsley with an older boy who had the look of Dare—their brother. “You didn’t sell . . . any of them.” She did a quick inventory of the hall. “There are . . . ten in this corridor alone.” Temperance stole a glance over her shoulder to where he trailed after her at a more sedate pace.

“Twelve,” he corrected automatically.

He’d always been a cataloger, meticulously counting and tracking all the belongings he pilfered and then sold off.

Except . . .

Temperance stopped at the end of the hall, and frowned as she noted one poignant detail. “But I saw people collecting items and carting them off. What of those?” she asked softly, drifting back to his side.

“What others?”

He knew, and yet he evaded her question. Temperance rested her hands along the front of his jacket and brushed her palms lightly over him. “The portraits that contained you and your family.”

Dare grunted. “It made no sense to keep them,” he said gruffly, not meeting her eyes.

Her heart ached. “You sold them.” Those last links that placed him with the parents and brother he’d had, he’d dissolved.

“Spencer had buyers in mind. He helped me secure them. He was able to fetch a sum for the frame. It’ll feed a number of families.”

He’d figured out a way to squeeze money out of the household, while allowing Kinsley to retain the connections she had to those heirlooms. It was the first time Dare had held on to anything of value. And he’d done so . . . because of his sister. So much love for this man filled her.

He was not perfect. And yet he attempted to change.

She waited until he finally looked at her. “Your mother didn’t stop loving you,” she said softly.

His answer was instantaneous. “Either way, I was the child she was better off without. My father was right . . . and I knew it.” He stared stonily at that first image she’d studied of the four. “When I came back, I saw them. I . . . One night? I was pickpocketing for Mac Diggory, and I sneaked off.” He paused. “To be here. Even though my father had told me not to. I wanted to . . . see . . .”

She started. He’d returned even after his father had sent him away. Her heart twisted at the thought of that little boy trying so desperately to find his way back to his family.

Dare’s eyes were locked on that forlorn-looking family of four, and as he spoke, his voice was distant, deadened. “I just walked and walked that night. Even though he said there was no one looking for me. I’d believed him . . . Except that night, I wondered if he was wrong. I found