He ignored the words. “If you won’t go inside for yourself, perhaps you will for the pig. She will catch a chill.”
She looked down at Lavender, asleep in the crook of her arm. “Yes, she looks quite uncomfortable.”
His gaze slid past her, over her shoulder, making her feel slight and small, even as she herself stood a half a head taller than most men she knew. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
She turned at the words to find the wide-eyed residents of the MacIntyre Home for Boys collected in the open door, edging out onto the snowy steps leading up to the orphanage. “Boys,” she said, putting on her very best governess voice. “Go inside and find your breakfast.”
The boys did not move.
“Is every male of the species utterly infuriating?” she muttered.
“It would seem so,” Temple replied.
“The question was rhetorical,” she snapped.
“I see you making eyes at the carriage, boys. Have at it if you like.”
The words unlocked the children, who tumbled down the stairs as though a tide were pushing them toward the great black conveyance. Temple nodded to the coachman, who climbed down from his perch and opened the door, lowering the steps to allow the boys access to the interior of the coach.
Mara was distracted by the exclamations of excitement and amazement and glee that came from the dozen or so boys who were now clamoring about the carriage. She turned to Temple. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She did not want him to be kind to them. She did not want them trusting him—not when he held the keys to their full bellies and warm beds.
He gave a little shrug, watching the boys intently. “I’m happy to. They don’t get much chance to ride in carriages, I’m guessing.”
“They don’t. They don’t see much beyond Holborn, I’m afraid.”
“I understand.”
Except he didn’t. Not really. He’d grown up in one of the wealthiest families in England, heir to one of the largest dukedoms in Britain. He’d had the world at his fingertips—clubs and schools and culture and politics—and a half-dozen carriages. More.
But still, she heard the truth in the words as he watched the boys explore. He did understand what it was to be alone. To be limited by circumstances beyond one’s control.
She let out a long breath. There, at least, they were similar.
“Your Grace—”
“Temple,” he corrected her. “No one else uses the title.”
“But they will,” she said, recalling their deal. Her debt. “Soon.”
Something lit in his black gaze. “Yes. They will.”
The words came threaded with pleasure and something more. Something colder. More frightening. Something that reminded her of the promise he’d made the night they had agreed on their arrangement. When he’d told her that she would be the last woman he paid for companionship.
And perhaps it was the cold or lack of sleep, but her question was out before she knew it. “What then?”
She wished she could take it back when he turned surprised eyes on her. Wished she hadn’t shown him just how interested she was in his world.
He waited a long moment, and she thought perhaps he would not answer. But he did, in his own, quiet way. With the truth. As ever. “Then it will be different.”
His attention returned to the boys, and he pointed to Daniel. “How old is he?”
She followed his attention to the dark-haired boy leading the pack that now clamored over the carriage. “Eleven,” she said.
Temple’s serious gaze found hers. “How long has he been with you?”
She watched the boy. “From the beginning.”
Black eyes turned blacker. “Tell me,” he said, and she heard the bitterness in his voice. “Did you always have plans to hold that night over my head? Did you come back knowing you’d use it to get your brother’s money? Did you sew me up knowing it would soften me? Did you kiss me for it? Was this your grand plan the moment he lost it all?”
Cacophonous laughter saved her from answering—gave her a moment to collect herself at the thought that he might believe such things of her. At the instant desire to defend herself. To tell him everything.
Nothing you could say would make me forgive.
She looked away as the words echoed through her, to the coach, where nearly a score of boys were attempting to fit themselves.
“Sixteen!” someone called out, as Henry headed into the crush, hands first, Daniel pushing him from behind.
Mara moved to stop them.
Temple stayed her movement with a hand. “Leave them. They deserve some play.”
She turned back to him. “They shall ruin your upholstery.”
“It can be repaired.”
Of course it could. He was rich beyond measure. She returned to the conversation. “I didn’t plan it.”
He looked up into the grey sky, his breath coming in little clouds. “And yet you offer a trade instead of the truth.”
She hadn’t a choice.
But he didn’t see that.
A frigid wind ripped down Cursitor Street and she turned to brace herself from it, her wool walking dress no match for the cold. Lavender woke, giving a little snuffle of protest before Temple captured Mara in his strong grip, moving her to one side, shielding her with his enormous body.
She resisted the urge to lean into him. How was he so warm?
He cursed softly and said, “Your pig is getting cold.”
He had released her once she was shielded from the wind, his free hand stealing between them. Mara watched long fingers stroke down Lavender’s little, soft cheek and felt the piglet snuggle into the caress.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered how those fingers would feel on her own cheek. And then she realized she was vaguely jealous of a pig.
Which was unacceptable.
She pulled herself straight, looking up into his face, forcing herself not to notice the way his lips twisted in wry amusement at the piglet’s abandon. “How long will you have me watched?”
He was watching the boys again. “Until I am through with you.”
The words were cold and unwelcoming. And they made her retort easier. “And my trade?”
He stopped stroking Lavender, and returned his cool attention to Mara. “I believe I can extract the information in another way.”
A shiver coursed through her. Trepidation. Fear. Something else that she did not wish to acknowledge.
“No doubt you do. But I am stronger than you think.”
“You are precisely as strong as I think.”
The promise in the words seemed echoed in the cold wind that whipped her skirts against her legs. “And until then, I am the lucky recipient of your watchful eye.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a humorless smile. “It is good that you see the silver lining in this cloud.”
“More like the lightning storm.” She took a deep breath. “And what is the watch worth to you?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not the agreement.”
“No, the agreement was that I pay you for your time. This is my time. And my men’s.”
“Watching us, like villains.”
“Does it make you feel better, putting me in the role of the villain? Does it help to absolve you of your sins?” The words were soft and unsettling and far too astute.
Mara looked away. “I simply prefer that you and your men not scare the children.”