Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,127

to conceive was information she needn’t ever explain to anyone, and certainly not the damned duchess.

“I wanted her to know it, Dare.” Temperance looked him squarely in the eyes. “Because knowing would allow her to help us see the marriage dissolved so that you can . . . begin again.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” he cried, desperation breaking down the little self-restraint and control he had of himself in this moment. “I only want you.”

“And as you said to me before, you don’t get to decide that for the both of us, Dare.” She smoothed steady palms down the front of her gown, that glorious piece that he’d forever see her descending the stairs in. “This is what I want.”

And with that calm, quiet utterance, she exited quietly from the room, and took his heart with her.

Chapter 25

One week later

Mayfair

London, England

In the following days, Dare oversaw his estate business. He met with his man-of-affairs and solicitors and spent hours upon hours learning the ins and outs of his properties. He learned what the previous marquess had done to bankrupt them, and he also discovered the path of solvency the properties had been on, long before some dissolute, distant relative had inherited.

Dare’s father had never done anything to modernize the title. Dare’s brother, however, had. He’d ventured into the scandalous world of trade and attempted to bring changes to properties that had been within the Greyson family for the hundreds of years before. And now Dare had stepped in where his brother had left off.

Between his new work and the lack of thievery, his life had become what he’d never expected—mundane.

Oh, he’d be lying to himself if he said stealing didn’t still call to him. It did. That hungering to slip inside and steal would always be with him. Not because of the items and wealth to be had, but rather because of the feeling it had brought him.

An urge that he couldn’t and never would understand that was sated by stealing.

Perhaps it was the familiarity of it. Perhaps it was the hungering for some manner of control in a life in which he was largely without.

Joseph, since being freed, had returned and claimed Rose, and with that so, too, had gone another connection to Temperance.

He missed his wife. God, how he missed her. Even full as his days were with his business and saving lives, still not a day passed where Dare did not think of her. Where he did not miss their battle of wits. Or her smile. Or her laugh. Or just everything about her.

Seated across from Dare, Spencer looked up, a question in his eyes.

Dare gave his head a shake. “Forgive me,” he said, motioning for the young servant to continue.

“As I was saying,” his servant went on, “I’ve gone ahead and cataloged those items which were purchased by that man.” That man, Dare had come to learn, was how his butler had taken to referring to the previous Marquess of Milford—the one who’d held the title between Dare and his late brother. “These are all free to be sold with no worry of emotional entanglements.” He turned the book around for Dare to look over.

Dare passed his gaze over the meticulous columns. “If you weren’t such a damned good butler, I’d say you’d be better served as my man-of-affairs.”

“Thank you, my lord. I’ve also taken notes on items which do . . . or might . . . hold sentimental value for their connections to your late brother and parents, but were purchased . . . after . . . after . . .” The other man let his words trail off.

“I left to live in the Rookeries,” Dare finished for him. “It is what happened.” And though there would forever be a crushing weight of sadness and loss that had come of that dark decision, neither could Dare bring himself to regret it . . . because then there never would have been Temperance.

“Very well, then, my lord. I marked the items prior to your leaving, and then those objects that came after.”

Dare collected the heavy leather tome and proceeded to flip through the pages. Not an item or artifact had been left off the other man’s impressive notes. Everything had been meticulously cataloged. “I don’t deserve you, Spencer,” he said with all sincerity.

Color filled the servant’s cheeks. “We were once friends, my lord.”

Friends?

He stilled.

My father served in His and Her Grace’s country estate in Yorkshire . . . I’ve only recently been brought to