Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,54
reliant upon him. People Dare hadn’t considered in the vein Spencer had forced him to.
Temperance had accused him of intentionally trying to destroy the arrangement he’d come to and free himself.
His sightless gaze settled on the doorway across from him.
What if she’d been only partially wrong?
What if, subconsciously, from the place deep inside that hated everything and anything associated with this world, he’d unintentionally set out to avoid joining Polite Society? What did that say about him as a man who’d committed himself to doing absolutely whatever he could to help the suffering souls in the Rookeries? It marked him as a coward who cared more about his own comfort than he did the people most in need of help.
And that went against all he’d attempted to be.
Coming to his feet, he ventured into the Portrait Room.
Not a candle had been lit, and yet from the enormous frames that hung along the corridor to the walls resplendent in gold satin wallpaper, an artificial light was cast over the space. Dare made the march past various noble figures in powdered wigs. Ladies ridiculously clad in enormous hooped skirts. All the people painted had been frozen in time, as they were . . . his . . . ancestors. And yet it was singularly odd to think that anyone who’d walked these halls had been family.
Because he’d been without family more years than he had been with it.
Dare paused in the center of the room, his gaze locked on one heavy giltwood frame.
Because we do not play in portrait rooms, Darius. We pay our respects to the family who came before us . . .
A child’s groan—Dare’s groan—reverberated from somewhere deep within his brain.
He stared unblinkingly out across the gleaming parquet wood floors, seeing the tall, smartly dressed gentleman leave . . . so that only a child and a small, delicate young lady remained.
My mother . . . She was my mother, and that boy . . . was me.
Ah . . . but one would never say dancing was playing.
There came his answering giggle.
Dare closed his eyes and let himself see her. The woman he’d not allowed himself to think of in so long, he’d believed her forgotten. Only to find she dwelled there in his memory still. In his mind’s eye, he saw her as she winked and took him in her arms, twirling Dare wildly about . . .
Dare forced his eyes open, and when he did, only the dark, empty room met him.
This solitariness was what he’d come to prefer . . . to crave. It was why he’d been content to deal just with Avery Bryant and let no one else closer than his partner. Until he’d allowed himself, against all better judgment, to marry Temperance. He’d convinced himself that he could have the same uncomplicated partnership he did with his thieving partner. But deep down he’d known that could never be the case. He’d told himself what he’d wanted to hear because . . . he’d wanted her.
It was just one reason his relationship with Temperance had changed. She’d come to expect . . . to want him to be more than he was or could ever be.
Which was likely the reason he should let her go now. Dare could very well strike different terms with his grandparents. After all, he’d negotiated the releases of countless souls with Wylie at Newgate. A duke and duchess so desperate to see glimpses of the grandson they’d once known would prove far easier to bring ’round to his wishes.
So do it . . .
Free her . . .
Free yourself . . .
From somewhere in the townhouse, a shout went up.
And then silence.
Maudlin musings immediately forgotten, Dare snapped erect. He trained his gaze on the doorway. What he’d discovered in the short time since he’d been flung into Polite Society was that any noise was nonexistent in Mayfair; quiet reigned over all. Unlike East London. There, some commotion or another always filled the Rookeries. Some skirmish saw the streets filled with cries born of violence, and the ruthless battles of men and women fighting for supremacy . . . and survival. The hint of battle hung on the air, a state a man had to always be prepared for . . . or ultimately fall to.
But this was West London. As such, when there was no answering cry, he relaxed his shoulders.