Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,120

hands and tucked them behind his back. “It . . . happened before. I . . . went out.”

She stilled. “You went to find him that night,” she whispered, knowing intuitively the reason for those bruises. “Did you—”

“I didn’t kill him,” he interrupted her. “I wanted to, and I should have done so . . . for you. But I proved weak—”

Temperance touched a gloved fingertip to his lips, and then leaning up, she kissed him. “I never wanted you to make decisions that went against your moral fiber. And certainly not for me, Dare. Thank you.”

“You’d thank me for not killing him?”

“I’d thank you for doing that which was right.”

At the end of the hall, Spencer appeared. They looked to the servant. “The duke and duchess wished for me to . . . inquire as to whether you would be joining your company,” he called, his voice strained.

“They’re waiting,” Temperance said regretfully, sinking back onto her heels.

Dare caught her knuckles and raised them to his lips. “And I’m content to keep them waiting.”

Temperance smiled, her heart fluttering as he brushed his mouth over the top of her hand; the delicate silk did little to mute the feel of that kiss. “I know that.”

He held his arm out, and she made to slip hers through his, but stopped.

Dare stared at her questioningly.

“She loved you,” she said softly. She needed to say that. As a mother who’d loved desperately and lost, she needed Dare to know that. “Whatever evil your father was capable of, your mother loved you. She loved her daughter, your sister, Kinsley, just as she loved the son still with them, but that didn’t mean she ever stopped loving you. It didn’t mean she forgot you.”

Such raw emotion twisted his features that her chest went tight all over again. “You can’t know that,” he said hoarsely.

“I can.” She knew better than he ever could understand. That knowledge came from a place of different—but also great—loss. “I only held her a handful of minutes, Dare . . .” Tears welled, and she fought them. “A mother never forgets her child. Ever.” The memory of that little girl would remain with her until she drew her last breath. Her heart shuddered and her soul ached with the memory, and she briefly closed her eyes.

When she opened them, she found Dare’s agony-filled eyes upon her. Cupping her about the nape, he drew Temperance closer and pressed his brow to hers.

She remained that way, taking the support he’d offered, and for the first time since that tragic night, she wished she’d let him in on their loss . . . because there was a completeness to their grief, one that erased the sense of aloneness.

Dare held her that way, allowing her full control of how much support she wanted and needed. Yet again, he gave no indication that he cared about the roomful of powerful guests no doubt awaiting him—them.

Reluctantly, she drew back.

Still, he lingered . . . His eyes drifted over to the portrait of his parents and siblings.

She waited in silence, allowing him the time he needed to look on at the family—his family—as it had existed without him as part of it.

He turned to her. “I am ready.”

And as she slipped her arm through his, this time it felt like . . . mayhap he was ready to face and live his future, after all.

Chapter 23

Since the moment Dare had set foot inside his familial townhouse, he’d thought of nothing but the day he’d eventually leave. He’d craved that moment. Hungered for it with a ferocious intensity.

Only to at last have a sense of . . . peace in being here.

The duke, seated at Dare’s left, leaned over. “Your grandmother insisted I speak with you.”

“About?” Dare asked, picking up his goblet and taking a drink.

“Propriety. More specifically, etiquette. You were late for your own dinner party, Darius. It is bad form. Now”—the duke leaned in closer and continued speaking in a quiet voice that Dare strained to hear—“I understand it has been a very long time since you followed that . . . etiquette. It will take some getting used to.” His grandfather discreetly patted the top of Dare’s spare hand.

Once Dare would have taunted the older man for the lesson he doled out. Now, he looked back . . . at himself and how he’d responded to their efforts. How smug and condescending . . . when they were all at sea, as much as Dare had been,