Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,21

being thwarted in having control over his daughter than he would be afraid of Dare’s influence.

All her muscles seized, and she hurriedly pushed aside thoughts of her father and the night of his last and most violent beating.

Yes, she and Dare had been young lovers, but ones who had never been able to make their lives align because of the work he’d refused to give up and the expectations she had for them . . . as a couple.

And it had been five years since she’d seen him.

Now, she made herself look at him, conversing with Madame Amelie.

How easily he charmed, but then that was why he’d always been able to slip free of the constable or the hangman’s noose.

It took a moment to register that the pair had stopped talking and now looked squarely at her.

Something was expected of her . . . on the parts of both her employer and her . . . husband. But whatever it was would have required that she be attending the idle chatter they’d been making, while Temperance’s mind had swirled with just one truth: he was here.

Now.

It had been five years since he’d come and found her after that big country estate theft. Five years since she’d ordered him gone, and . . . he’d given his vow to do so.

He’d honored that promise.

Until now.

Why?

I have very specific requirements that only Mrs. Swift might see to . . .

Specific requirements, indeed.

She resisted the urge to grind her teeth.

From across the shop, a handful of the young women lingered at the curtain, watching Dare with wide, dazed eyes.

Alas, he’d always had that effect on women.

I was that girl, too. Captivated. Entranced. Besotted.

After all, he’d had that dazzling effect on nearly everyone.

“Mrs. Swift?” Madame Amelie said through a strained, patently false smile. “If you would see to . . . whatever His Lordship wishes?”

Temperance clenched her teeth. Make that everyone. For even Madame Amelie proved herself capable of being charmed by Darius Grey. None had ever been able to resist his charm or his smile or his requests. Her miserable employer should prove no exception.

When Temperance still didn’t formulate words, the head modiste clapped her hands once. “Mrs. Swift will be happy to assist you.”

All the girls at her back sprang into movement, filing quickly from the room so that only the three of them remained.

At last, Temperance found her footing. She gave her head a clearing shake. “Actually, I’m not at all interested in helping His Lordship.” What is he up to, pretending to be a marquess?

Bright color splotched Madame Amelie’s cheeks. Yes, because none contradicted her. And even as Temperance knew no good could come from daring to publicly challenge her employer, she couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “And as he pointed out, there are any number of girls who will be happy working with him. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Tugging off her apron, Temperance hung it on a nearby hook . . . and marched to the door, through it, and down the flower-lined path.

With each step she took that put her away from the shop and Darius Grey, the cinch in her chest eased. Until she reached the old Roman road that led to her modest cottage . . .

And the implications of what she’d done hit her.

She turned back and stared at the small shop in the near distance.

This was . . . not good.

Where her seamstresses were concerned, Madame Amelie held strict expectations, and tolerated little.

Being called out and defied by one of them . . . and in front of a marquess, no less?

With a groan, Temperance scrubbed her hands over her face. No, the only outcome was . . . she would lose her employment.

She’d always been hopelessly without control of her emotions when he was near.

But not like this.

This shock at finding he had not only survived another trip to the gallows but also returned . . .

Her stomach churned.

There’d once been a time when all she’d wanted in the world was to hear those words from his lips.

She let her arms fall back to her sides . . . and her heart lurched as, in the distance, her gaze collided with him. Marching forward . . . toward her. Those long, graceful, and more purposeful steps carried him ever closer.

And even as everything said “run,” this time she curled her toes sharply and made herself stay planted. She’d been running from the thought and memory of Darius Grey from the