Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,122

.” Then the man had led him along, giving Dare a false sense of security, and ease had left, and Dare had been forced to confront the real Rookeries. The horror and fear of those earliest days would be with him always. “I knew nothing about East London. Or how to steal or beg, or how to survive.” And until Avery Bryant had come along, Dare had paid the price for that ignorance. Mayhap that was what had accounted for his loyalty to one who’d been so singularly bad for him. “I made something out of my time there. No one would dare dispute that the path I lived was a dishonorable one,” he allowed. “But I made a future, and I’ll do that now.” This time, however, the means would not need to be justified by the ends.

And with Temperance at his side, there was no doubting, whatever they had or did not have, there would be happiness.

Now came the matter of convincing her she should trust him again and let him back into her life in every way he truly wished.

He was in his element.

For the better part of the meal, he’d conversed intently with his grandfather. The two of them had spoken long . . . and often. And there was none of the usual coldness in Dare’s gaze or smile when he did so with the duke.

Had Temperance not been watching them as closely as she had, she’d have missed the way the duke patted Dare’s hand . . . and more, how Dare did not pull away and reject that display of affection.

Emotion wadded in her throat.

He was . . . finding his way here.

Nay, more than that.

He was thriving.

After he and his grandfather seemed to conclude their discourse, Dare went on to speak freely to the guests around him.

This was Dare. Fearless. Charming. Captivating.

In short, he was the very man she’d fallen in love with long ago.

And his perfection highlighted every way in which she was an outsider here.

The long table was resplendent with silver platters and forks and porcelain plates. So very many forks. And he knew precisely the one to use.

And he’d also gathered that she didn’t. But he protected her pride still. With every dish, he motioned ever so slightly to the correct utensil for her to use for the given fare.

She loved him for that, too.

She always would.

Temperance proved selfish, for even while she should only celebrate Dare and his achievements that night, never more had her own flaws and station been more on display than they were with him and the other perfect people around them.

And more, to the woman seated beside him—Lady Madelyn. The daughter of an earl, the young lady was not only born to a rank and station that matched Dare’s but was also as flawless in every way.

“They are striking, are they not?”

Temperance stilled, and it took a moment to realize those words in her head had actually been voiced aloud . . . by another.

She looked over to her table partner.

Dare’s grandmother sipped from her crystal goblet, and over the top of that thin, etched rim, she nodded ever so slightly to the pair in question.

Unbidden, Temperance looked once more.

“She was just a babe when the papers were drawn, but she was always lovely, and he . . . Well, he was always perfection, too.” Even if he did live in the Rookeries.

The duchess may as well have given her thoughts voice.

To give her hands something to do, Temperance fiddled with her napkin. Perhaps if she didn’t engage, the other woman would stop.

“They were meant to marry.”

Alas, the duchess was of single-minded intent . . . She’d a point to make, and Temperance wasn’t of the same station as the woman seated beside her, but she knew enough that the duchess wouldn’t be silent until she said her piece—contributions or not from Temperance.

“I am . . . aware of that.” And had they done so, the perfect young lady would have given him those children with whom he was so very good. The image of that, of what Temperance could never give him and the other woman could, had it not been for her inconvenient presence . . . It was too much . . .

Temperance made herself pop a piece of shrimp into her mouth; it sat, dull and tasteless, about her tongue.

The duchess, however, wasn’t done with her. “It is not that I do not like you, Temperance. I do. Very much