Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,77

been able to bring herself to care about anything, not when he made love to her.

With her still under him, Dare slipped a knee between her legs, shoving them farther apart.

Whimpering, she clung to the sheets and rocked her hips in restless anticipation, waiting for him to fill her. Arching back to look at him, she pleaded with her eyes and words. “Please,” she begged when he still tempted and teased . . . tormenting her.

He slid the tip of his length in, only drawing out her misery.

And then, catching her by the hips, he rammed himself high and deep, and she shattered, screaming his name over and over.

And this time, when she came undone, there was no room for regret. There was nothing but feeling . . . and a perilous longing to live in his arms forever.

Chapter 14

The following morn, Temperance came to breakfast all business.

With her hair drawn back tightly at her nape and her high-necked gown, one would never look at her and imagine the fiery, passionate creature who’d come alive in his arms.

Nothing different may have transpired between them. Last night may as well have never happened, existing instead as longing thoughts he’d carried for so many years. Only the taste of her on his lips and the feel of her skin on his lingered still. Each cry, whimper, and moan of his name as she’d given voice to her passion had echoed in his ears, and he’d happily surrendered his sleep to those memories.

No, it had been real and wonderful. And the most alive and joyous he’d been . . . since she’d sent him away.

A plate of buttered toast forgotten, untouched, and shoved aside in favor of a notepad, Temperance scribbled away. Her pencil flew back and forth frantically over the page, with emphatic clicks of the tip as it struck the page, that same zeal with which she’d always written, and which had always fascinated him.

“As I see it,” she was saying, “there are certain areas in which we must become proficient. Many of them. There are dancing and discourse and the rules of Polite Society,” she fired off, and he found himself smiling.

She’d always taken charge, and it was just one of the many reasons he’d been captivated by Temperance Swift.

“You’re not paying attention,” she charged, not lifting her head from those notes commanding her attention.

“I am.” Somewhat. That was, when he’d not been woolgathering about her.

She finally looked up. “There is also the matter of being properly introduced to your sister.”

“There’ll be time enough for that,” he muttered. Now that was a certain way to bring to an end any wistful thoughts—the sister who’d have been happier to see him hang, and who went out of her way to avoid Dare at any and every cost. The same sister he’d now be responsible for squiring about London, and whom his funds were inextricably linked to. What could possibly go wrong there? he thought wryly. He schooled his features.

Temperance narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, reaching for his cup of coffee.

She put a hand over his, forcing the glass back to the table. “What?”

“One might say she isn’t overly fond of me.”

“Isn’t . . . ?”

“She doesn’t like me,” he said flatly.

“She doesn’t even know you.”

“She knows me enough to know she doesn’t like me.”

Temperance pushed aside her notes and fully attended him. And he had an inkling how her younger brother must have felt all these years.

“She may have taken exception to my not properly appreciating the great Milford line.”

With a groan, Temperance buried her face in her notepad and knocked her forehead lightly against the page. “You showed the same arrogance you did with your grandparents?”

“I wouldn’t call it arrogance.”

She picked her head up. “Call it what you will. You’ve done nothing to make this easier for either of us.” Temperance gave her head a slight but firm shake. “It is done. No good is going to come from dwelling on how you handled the situation before this. We are going to have to begin again.”

He moved his gaze over her. In his work, Dare had had dealings with many over the years—men. Women. Most of whom had been facing precarious situations with the law or various gang leaders on the streets. Not a single one of them had ever displayed the military-like control Temperance had.

She blushed. “What?” she asked, a defensive edge lining that question.

Dare made himself focus on the charcoal smudge upon her forehead.