Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,71

Other than money, that was.

Hovering now at the front of the nursery, seeing Temperance cradling a sleeping Rose . . . something shifted in his chest.

Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise

That he pleased both the girls and boys

And they did dance when he played

over the hills and far away.

In her sleep, the child reflexively clutched her finger and suckled, oblivious to the tumult that had been unleashed within Dare.

Temperance held the babe close, as naturally as a mother who’d done it the whole of her life.

Her expression was one of equal parts joy and . . . pain. That emotion at odds with . . . so much.

Her eyes met his over the cherubic babe’s head, and their gazes locked.

And just like before, that misery was gone so quickly he may as well have imagined it.

Temperance gasped, her song coming to a jarring halt.

And he found himself mourning the end of that child’s lullaby.

Chapter 13

Of all the places she’d expected Dare to be . . . the nursery certainly hadn’t been one.

Nor had that been the reason she’d sought out little Rose.

Temperance just hadn’t thought she’d find Dare here and have to confront this room . . . and this child . . . and the memories of what had almost been and what would never be, with him beside her.

“I . . . Forgive me,” Temperance said softly. “I didn’t know you were here.” She turned to set the babe down.

“No!” he called quickly.

The babe let out a small wail. Temperance hesitated a moment, her heart twisting at the sound of that plaintive cry. Recalling another . . . weaker, frailer one. Needing to put the babe down, and yet warring with herself for that selfishness. In the end, she was saved . . .

“Forgive me,” Dare murmured. And even with that admission, he was stretching his arms out for the small child.

She was saved by the one who’d always been her savior. By the man who’d been everyone’s savior. Not just hers. She’d just been selfish to want more parts of him than he’d given to all. Dare bounced on his heels. All the while he lightly thumped the babe on the back until the child quieted. Rocking back and forth, he stroked his hand in little circles.

How many times had she seen him in the Rookeries as he was now? With some adoring mother pressing their babe into the arms of East London’s savior. And he’d never rejected that, had simply held the child with a comfort and ease. How many times had he even held her brother as he did Lionel’s niece?

Of course, all those memories of him existed before.

This was . . . now. This was an image of him, after . . .

Temperance hugged her arms tight to herself. She tried to get air into her lungs.

Then Rose opened her eyes. She blinked several times as if clearing sleep, or mayhap it was that she tried to make sense of the stranger holding her.

Alas, the little girl proved as hopeless and helpless as Temperance herself—and every last woman where Dare Grey was concerned. She cooed and giggled, batting at his hand.

Dare held his palm up for the little girl to swat at.

Temperance stared on at them, a silent observer in that bucolic exchange.

Her body throbbed with the pain of loss and what would never be.

The little girl squirmed in his arms, shimmying herself lower, and Dare complied. He set her down, and they both watched on as Rose toddled off to explore. And without the shield that the girl had been, Temperance took in those details that had previously escaped her: his coarse dark garments. The cap he wore.

The manner of articles he’d worn . . . before he’d claimed his title of marquess.

“You have the look of long ago,” she murmured, dread slithering around her insides. And never more had she wanted to be wrong. To be told that she was seeing things and worrying about that which she’d no need.

His cheeks flushed as he followed her gaze over his telltale garments.

Her stomach sank at the confirmation she hadn’t wanted, but needed anyway.

“You were . . . out.” And yet . . . that didn’t make any sense, either. Why should he thieve? He, a man on the cusp of earning twenty thousand pounds and in possession of material baubles that could see him comfortable?

For a moment, she didn’t think he intended to answer. “I . . . was,” he