Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,34

around Temperance. Alas, he’d never been able to do what he should around the woman. “Temperance?” he called after her.

Her steps slowed, and she turned about.

“As for making love? It could happen again . . . if you want it, too . . .”

“I’ve no interest in having you in my bed, Dare Grey,” she said, the slight tremble to her words otherwise ruining the crisp quality to them.

With that, she used a nearby boulder to get herself into the saddle of her greying mount and nudged the creature onward.

He stared after her. She’d agreed to accompany him. She was joining him in London when she’d vowed to never set foot in those city walls, and would see him with a fortune when their time was done.

That should be enough.

So why did he find himself regretting that it wasn’t . . . more?

Chapter 8

Dare had asked whether two hours were enough for Temperance to pack her belongings.

In her twenty-six years on this earth, she’d never had much to her name. These past few years, however, she’d accumulated more than all the collective ones before them. And still, as it would turn out, she’d needed just thirty-three minutes to pack up all that mattered to her and all she had: Her dresses. The handful of knickknacks her brother had given to her over the years: Her cameo. Her porcelain clock. Her sewing kit.

No, there’d never been much, and as such, packing had been easy. Only, when the knock came, she still wasn’t ready.

KnockKnockKnock.

From where she stood at the window, Gwynn peeled back the curtain and peered outside. “He’s arrived,” she murmured, more to herself. And needlessly.

It was the first time Dare Grey had ever been on time for a meeting between him and Temperance.

A panicky giggle built in her chest at the thought.

Standing in the middle of her small living room with two tattered valises beside her, Temperance bent slightly and gathered the handles.

Yes, the packing had proven easy. It was the leaving which left her stomach tangled up in a thousand knots.

That, and the idea of joining him.

And staring at the door panel, nothing more than a rectangular slab of wood, the only physical barrier between her and Dare, made this—what she’d agreed to—real in ways that it hadn’t been.

Sweat slicked her skin.

I cannot do this . . .

She’d been so very sure that she was entering into this latest arrangement with Dare in a coolheaded manner, and yet she’d never been in full possession of her wits and heart where he was concerned.

What if this is different? What if I fall all over again for a man who never wanted a wife and only married me to protect me, and—

A light hand came to rest on Temperance’s shoulder, and she jumped. Her panicky gaze went to Gwynn’s fingers, life-worn like her own, and the sight of them and that touch managed to ground her.

Her friend stared back with troubled eyes. “I’ve forced you to do this.”

“You didn’t.” She paused. “You made me see reason, which is altogether different.”

Gwynn twisted her hands. “I don’t know what drove you and the marquess apart, and perhaps if I’d been a better friend I would have asked that first and put that before everything, but I’m telling you now, you don’t have to do this, Temperance.”

She’d not fault Gwynn for seeing hope beyond the offer Dare had put to her. “Yes,” Temperance said softly. “I do.” And mayhap for more reasons than Chance and Gwynn. Mayhap, there could be some sense of closure. That important piece that had been missing all these years since she’d sent Dare away and asked him to never return. And from there, with the money Dare would give her, there’d be funds enough to see she lived a life of comfort—an existence where she wasn’t reliant upon Madame Amelie.

KnockKnockKnock.

They looked to the front of the room.

And still, despite her assurances to the other woman and her resolve to join Dare, she could not make herself move. Instead, as Gwynn trotted over to the door and reached for the handle, Temperance called out, freezing her and this moment. “Wait!”

And allowing herself several last, stolen moments, Temperance passed her gaze around the living quarters she’d called home with Gwynn these past years.

Here, she’d retreated and hidden herself away. It had come to represent a place of only new memories, ones she’d made for herself. The Cotswolds had represented hope and anonymity . . . from the father who’d brought her