Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,85

Kinsley’s cheeks. “You know nothing about anything.”

Yes, there were many times Temperance felt that very way. This, however, was not one of them. “You strike me as a capable woman. Independent. Confident. In control.”

“Don’t waste your time thinking to ingratiate yourself to me with compliments,” the young lady muttered, her color rising.

Temperance hid a smile. “They are not compliments,” she assured. “I don’t waste my time with flattery. No one from the Rookeries does.” That trait had proven problematic during her tenure at Madame Amelie’s, when Temperance had been expected to issue any and only pretty words to the clients. “You are well within your rights to feel resentment. I trust it is frustrating to have a person whom you’ve never met suddenly return.” Lady Kinsley’s mouth flattened into a hard line. “Your resentment, however right you are to that emotion, is wrongly placed. Dare isn’t the one deserving of your anger.”

“You come here, simply arriving one day, the bride to my brother’s groom, and not even knowing me, you presume to tell me who I should or should not be angry with?”

“You are . . . not wrong,” Temperance said quietly. “I’m telling you, your brother did what he had to in order to survive, and I would hope that as his sister you should find some happiness in that, and in his return.”

And refusing to engage the young lady one moment more, Temperance opened the door and jumped out.

And then promptly wished she’d never left the carriage. Which would be a first since she’d developed carriage-sickness.

A sea of brightly clad, elegant ladies streamed down the pavement, all stealing long looks and whispering as their gazes caught on Dare’s crest and then on Temperance.

Oh, bloody hell.

Temperance’s stomach lurched all over again for entirely different reasons. Raising her chin, she sailed forward with all the pride a woman clad poorer than most servants could muster outside the high-end shops. She hurried up the three steps and let herself in—only to be met with more stares.

So many of them.

This is what you agreed to.

Something about having it confirmed here, and without Dare at her side, made it all the worse. It had been one thing imagining herself suffering through this hell with Dare on her arm. With him and his confidence, she’d always believed she could conquer anything. And she was filled with the sudden, powerful urge to weep because of the fact she was alone. Because of the reminder that she’d never truly been invincible, even with Dare’s name for protection . . . as he had believed . . . and she had also allowed herself to believe.

Her breath came hard and fast in her ears as the past crept in.

You think you’re going to go and marry Dare Grey and I’ll forgive that, you whore . . .

Do not let him win here. Not now.

Her father had always been determined to steal her every happiness. He would want nothing more than to see her fail in this.

And it was that reminder, and that alone, which allowed her to bury away the pain of that day and focus on the seamstress fast approaching.

She was . . . the first woman to wear a smile. And it briefly confused and confounded Temperance. “This is my grandson’s wife,” the duchess was saying. “No expense is to be spared.”

“My lady,” the young seamstress greeted. “Shall we begin?”

Over the next seven hours, Temperance was undressed, draped, poked, prodded, turned, turned back, and turned around once more. She had more fabrics laid against her person than she’d known had ever existed. She was spoken over. About. Never to.

And when it was done, she found herself discovering a belated understanding of what the women who’d come to her shop had felt like.

A bevy of whispers went up, followed moments later by giggles.

She stiffened and braced to confront those first of no doubt many gossips . . . and . . . found a trio of young ladies, of like pale coloring, laughing as they pointed to a figure seated at the corner of the shop.

Lady Kinsley?

Well, this was . . . unexpected.

Oddly, when she’d agreed to join Dare in London, she’d anticipated being the source of gossip and cruelty because of her birthright. What she’d not expected was that coldness would be reserved for those of their lofty station.

This same woman who sat with her shoulders back but her gaze downcast on the embroidery on her lap bore no hint of the venomous figure who’d