Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,31

anymore. But if he was going to be thrust amongst Polite Society, knowing she would be there eased some of the pressure in his chest. A pressure he’d not even known was there until she’d given that assurance.

“But that is the extent of our relationship, Dare,” she added quickly, as if she needed to remind herself as much as she needed to remind him. Or mayhap that was only his own imagining. “We aren’t friends. We aren’t real spouses. We are partners.”

A voice—his voice—from long ago echoed at the back of his mind, where he’d kept the memories of them.

Temperance, I’m offering you my name and the protection that comes with being my wife, but that is all I can give you . . . a partnership . . . but not a real marriage . . . There cannot be anything more . . .

“I’m not looking for anything more,” he assured. After he received the duke’s money, Dare would return to his former life. And she could never accept that. As such, this would only ever be temporary. “And in return? What will you receive out of our marriage of convenience?”

A blush splotched her cheeks. “Funds. I require money.” She directed that admission to the hard dirt road.

And as she spoke those words with her head bent, she was once more the proud young woman who’d come to him, asking for his help. Never realizing that she needn’t feel shame near him, because he’d only ever seen her strength . . . even in knowing when she needed to ask for help.

He waited, and when she didn’t say anything more, he gently prodded her. “For . . . ?”

She lifted her head, and her mouth tightened. And then . . . “I’d like funds. Money.”

He waited for her to say more.

Dare narrowed his eyes. “You’re in trouble?” He should have known. Why hadn’t he known—

Temperance spoke quickly. “No, I’m content with my life as is.” But . . . The word hovered on the end of her unfinished sentence. “Chance.”

Her brother.

She toyed with the fabric of her cloak. “It’s an opportunity for me to . . . to see that he has that which he wants.”

“Which is?” That question, however, didn’t come from the deal they now negotiated, but from a place of caring for who Temperance and her younger brother had once been to him.

“He’s a weaver and . . . not very successful. Not yet,” she said on a rush, as if she’d felt the betrayal in the simple fact. “But he will be. He is working toward becoming supervisor, and his employer favors him greatly.” And yet . . . “Until he does, Chance cannot offer Gwynn more.” She spoke as if he knew or should know the woman Chance had fallen in love with. And perhaps he, as her husband and best friend and former love, should. “This would allow them to start their future together,” Temperance added hesitantly when he didn’t immediately respond.

“I see.” Of course she’d put her brother first. She always had, caring for the boy better than most mothers did the children they birthed. That devotion had just been one of too many reasons to count as to why he’d fallen in love with her.

“What about what you want?” The question left him of its own volition, a product of the freedom with which they’d used to speak to one another . . . when they had been friends and lovers.

Color flooded her cheeks. “Are you trying to talk me out of . . . ?”

He held up a hand. “No.” He’d have her do that which brought her happiness. And having been separated as they had been, who was he any longer to say what brought her contentment? “I would wonder what you might get out of our arrangement . . . for yourself.”

Her frown deepened. “I . . . I have work,” she said, backing up a step.

Which would hardly supply her with the funds to see herself settled for life, but she’d not think of that. She’d not ask for more for herself.

Dare closed that distance she’d made with her last step. “With your talent, I always said you deserved more than darning socks,” he said. She’d always had a skill with the needle, had even sewn him up on more than one occasion.

Her eyes lit, and for a moment she was the girl he’d fallen in love with back when she’d still had a starry gaze