Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,78

“Here,” he murmured, lightly dusting that remnant away. “You’ve pencil here.”

Temperance went absolutely still as he brushed the mark from her skin. He stroked his fingers over her brow, caressing her, recalling the night they’d shared.

She trailed her tongue along the seam of her lips, and hunger flared once more. He’d never have enough of her. “W-we should . . . ?”

“Yes,” Dare whispered.

Temperance’s gaze went to the row of servants stationed along the wall, and with that look, she found the restraint he lacked. Clearing her throat, she angled slightly away, putting a discernible space between them. “I took the liberty of compiling this list.” She turned it out for him to read. “And I shall defer to you which matter we might begin with.”

1. Proper forms of address

2. Proper forms of dress

3. Curtsying and bowing

4. Dancing

“I feel quite confident in my curtsying abilities—” Temperance punched him lightly on his arm. “Oomph.”

“Dare.”

“Oh, fine,” he muttered. “Always serious, you are.”

“And not serious enough, you are.”

“Fair enough.” He grabbed her pencil, circled the item at the very bottom of her list, and went back to his coffee.

She leaned over his shoulder. “Daaancing?”

“It is on your list.” If he was going to have to suffer through the miseries of Polite Society’s norms, he’d begin by enjoying the feel of Temperance in his arms. “By your response, one would think you weren’t the one to write it as an option,” he said with a wink. Dare made another attempt for his drink.

She again swatted at his fingers. “You promised to take this seriously, Dare.”

“I am.” Where his motives were concerned, she’d every reason to her doubts and suspicions.

“I’m not making light of this, Temperance,” he said quietly.

She appeared wholly unmoved by his solemnity. “Given my work, I’ve some knowledge of the peerage,” she said, her attention trained once more on her meticulous notes. “My experience isn’t extensive; however, there was a baroness in the Cotswolds who frequented the shop I was employed at. As a result, I and the other seamstresses were instructed as to how one should and should not speak to lords and ladies.”

As a marchioness, Temperance outranked most of the ladies and lords they’d come into contact with. He knew her enough, however, to withhold that particular detail, as it would only unsettle her.

“We shall begin there,” she said, placing a little star next to item one on her list.

He frowned. “But I chose this.” Wrestling the pencil and notepad away, he made another circle over the last item. This time, as she grabbed for the pencil, Dare held it beyond her reach.

From over her shoulder, he caught the small smiles from the servants stationed there.

And had they been alone, he’d no doubt she would have stamped her foot as she did when annoyed. “Dare, we have to begin with something we have some knowledge of. We’ll need to find dance instructors. In fact, I suspect your grandparents will have the names of gentlemen who might assist in that area, and they’ll also likely approve of the evidence you are try—”

“I know how to dance.”

Her jaw slipped as her mouth fell open. “What?”

This time, he picked up his coffee, free of interruption. “I know how to dance,” he repeated, blowing on the hot contents of his glass.

She continued to stare gape-mouthed at him. Unnerved by that look—the one that made him out to be more oddity than man—he took a sip of the bitter black brew. When Temperance still didn’t say anything, Dare winged an eyebrow up.

“I . . .” Temperance looked down at her page. “Oh.”

“The nobility does not waste time. They start early in instructing their children on life’s most important lessons and skills,” he said, unable to keep the cynical amusement out of his voice. “Though I’d argue my parents would have been best served in having seen me taught how to handle a knife or throw a punch.” Instead, they’d given him no talents of any real use or value for surviving in the streets. Everything he had learned, every meaningful skill, he’d either taught himself or learned from Avery.

Temperance lowered her book. “Oh, Dare.” Her expression softened.

His neck went hot, and he made a show of drinking from his coffee. He didn’t want pity from her. When he’d finished, he set his glass down. “Shall we?” he asked, shoving back his seat.

Temperance stood.

The two servants stationed outside clicked their heels and straightened at their approach.

Dare waved off those extravagant displays from the pair. “No need