Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,6
hadn’t been.
“You’re the last man I should marry, Dare Grey . . .”
“That’s no doubt true, Temperance,” Dare, the most arrogant thief in London, said somberly. He flashed his devil-may-care grin. “But I’m also the only man you’ll ever want . . .” He reached for her . . .
The echo of her squealing laughter pealed around her mind.
Even as she’d been distracted, Temperance had also given her friend the truth.
She was fine. Far better off these years than she’d been . . . ever. Born to the ugliest drunk in London, one of the hands of gang leader Mac Diggory, Temperance had spent her earliest years in hell, and the only brief respite had come from a London thief.
She’d been hopelessly weak for him, and it had very nearly destroyed her.
This new life was far better.
Or rather, it was the best she could hope for.
Temperance went about draping Mrs. Marmlebury, creating the illusion of a dress for the older woman to assess.
All the while, she let her mind wander.
Where in blazes had thoughts of Dare Grey come from? It had been at least a year that she’d managed to keep him buried. Not that his memory was always an unwelcome one. It wasn’t. For the pain had receded at some point, and with all remembrances of him came a stark reminder of what happened when a woman wasn’t resourceful, when she allowed herself to care too deeply for someone who wasn’t so very deserving, and allowed herself to put feelings and emotions before building a foundation and future all her own.
The tinny bell at the front of the shop jolted her from her musings.
Disinterestedly, she glanced over to the latest customer—
Not a customer.
His arms laden with several crates, her brother, Chance, stepped inside. “Ladies,” he called out in greeting, and seemingly effortlessly balancing that enormous burden against his hip, he doffed his hat with the other hand.
Her brother was a moderately successful weaver for one of the most successful mill owners in England, and Temperance couldn’t have been prouder of how far he’d come from their beginnings in East London if she’d given birth to him. But then, their own mother having died when he was just a babe, Temperance had stepped in to fill that role.
She watched as he moved deeper into the shop. Smiling as he went, he possessed an urbane charm that no one was immune to, not even Temperance’s employer, Madame Amelie.
Of course, it did help that he was the favored employee of a more-than-successful textile mill owner.
As the shopgirls called out greetings, Chance flashed his usual charming grin before settling his focus on one.
Gwynn blushed under that look.
Temperance stared on wistfully, proving herself to be a disloyal sister and an even more disloyal friend for the flash of envy she felt at what the pair shared. At what she’d hungered for, for herself . . . and what she’d never have. There was that, too.
But you almost had it . . .
And for a very, very brief while . . . she had.
She went absolutely still at that whisper of a past long forgotten.
Something sharp stung her arm, startling her from that reverie. Madame Amelie had her flicking finger out once more. “You were distracted, Mrs. Swift. You don’t get distracted.”
No, Temperance was the second in command at the shop, and the reason why she was never a recipient of that notorious flick.
“I will help Mrs. Marmlebury,” her employer said. “See to Mr. Swift, if you would.” Madame Amelie’s fleeting smile was gone in favor of the cool look she reserved for her shopgirls. “And take those crates from him, Miss Armitage.”
Together, they hurried over to Chance. “I have them,” he said, all eyes for Gwynn.
More sighs went up at that chivalry.
With a wry grin, Temperance rescued the heavy crates from her brother, sagging under the weight of them. She, however, may as well have been invisible to the pair of young lovers as they stared misty-eyed at one another. “Come along, you two,” she muttered, starting for the back of the shop. Before realizing she made the trek alone.
Adjusting her hold on the crates of linens, she glanced back at her brother and best friend. “Now.”
That barely snapped the romantic reverie as the two, with eyes only for each other, moved in tandem, side by side, down the aisle of the shop. Their hands periodically brushed as they walked, in a discreet but absolutely intentional caress.