Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues

by Caldwell, Christi

  He gave her a skeptical look. “Still not the very least honor—oomph.” Carol buried the tip of her boot in his shin once more.

  Theo gave her friend a smile, a way of showing she truly appreciated her support. She did. And with the Raynes’ luck, these years, she’d take any and all support she could get.

  “All I am saying—”

  “I do not care what you are saying,” Carol, the viscount’s younger by two years sister, snapped.

  As brother and sister launched into a squabble about the word honor, and Theo’s actions, and a pairing of that word dishonor that resulted in further grunts from Herbie, Theodosia turned her attention to the window. She tugged back the curtain and peered out into the passing, dark, London streets, her masked visage reflected back in the crystal panel.

  The rub of it was…she did see the merit of Herbie’s argument. It wasn’t honorable, even if it was common, to enter someone’s ball without an invitation. But the Duke of Devlin and his lucky-in-every-way family were not going to be handing out invitations to any member of the Rayne family. It just wasn’t going to happen.

  The rivalry between them was an age-old one that dated through the years; a bitter feud fought for some beautiful lady and the rights to that lady. The animosity between their two families had only been intensified when her family’s great sword had been sold off to none other than one of those monstrous Renshaw ancestors. Even with all the years that had passed since that theft, the acrimony burned just as strong.

  She pursed her lips. Particularly when one of those blasted gentlemen went and stole another man’s love. Her poor brother. The carriage hit a particularly nasty bump in the road and she knocked into Carol’s side, interrupting her friend’s impressive rant.

  “Pardon,” she murmured as Carol steadied her.

  Her friend waved her hand dismissively. “Where was I?” She jabbed a finger at her brother and launched once more into her diatribe for poor Herbie. “I’ve not finished with you, Herbert Harold Cresswall.”

  Before, Theo had felt just a niggling of guilt, now she felt all manner of guilt. When Carol was in one of her tempers it really wasn’t pleasant. When one of those tempers was directed at one person, it was all the worse. She should know. Closer to sisters than friends, Theo had been on the receiving end of one of those jabbing fingers far too many times.

  Theo returned her attention to the surprisingly quiet streets as the carriage rattling through them at an impressive clip. Unease turned in her belly. She brushed it back. Or she tried to. The nasty little churning remained. She’d so carefully considered this whole scheme, knew the rightness of her plan, and her family’s claim to that sword, and yet now…unease rolled along her spine.

  “Don’t be silly,” she muttered under her breath. Neither the Duke of Devlin nor any of his three devilish siblings would dare find her hidden amidst their masked guests at their annual, famed masquerade.

  She pursed her lips. One of the most famed, favorite events of a London Season, which she’d never had an opportunity to attend. Granted she’d only just entered her third Season, but it never felt pleasant to be left out—of anything. She should know. Plenty of doors were closed to the Raynes, all because the Duke of Devlin and his devilish kin had done nothing to hide their disdain of the Rayne family.

  Who would welcome a mere earl’s family when it would earn the displeasure of a duke? You didn’t do it. You just didn’t do it.

  The carriage jerked to a sudden, unexpected stop. Her heart dipped. “We’re here?”

  Carol’s lips, turned up in a gleeful smile. “We’re here.” Then, Carol had always found romanticism in subterfuge.

  The driver pulled the door open and Herbie stepped down, wincing as his feet collided with the pavement, likely sore from having so many kicks dealt him by Carol in her shepherdess’ costume with those serviceable boots. Carol allowed the servant to hand her down, and turned, looking back questioningly at Theo, who was frozen inside the carriage.

  The frisson of unease grew, spiraling inside her. And she knew it must be madness because she never worried about Herbie, the habitual worrier, well…worrying. But the manner in which the thick, London fog rolled over the pavement, and the night clouds eerily rolled past the moon bespoke doom. Oh, don’t be a ninny.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Come along then, Th—” She clamped her lips tight.

  Giving her head a shake, Theo stepped down from the carriage. The metal of her costume rattled noisily. She adjusted her armor and then reached back for the enormous, and more importantly, fake broadsword upon her seat. Just a small piece in her plot. A necessary piece that would ensure her actions this night attracted no suspicious looks.

  She fell into step alongside Carol and hurried after Herbie. As they walked, Theo studied the pink stucco townhouse awash in the soft glow of candles. The Devil, as she’d come to call him, of course, lived in London’s most fashionable end of Mayfair and likely had an elegant, white marble foyer and a grand sweeping staircase.

  She climbed the handful of steps and the butler, resplendent in a mask, drew the door open. Theo filed in behind Herbie and Carol, entering…the elegant foyer resplendent in, of course, the white marble floor and grand sweeping staircase.

  “Of course,” she mumbled to herself.

  Footmen rushed forward to relieve them of their cloaks. She hesitated and then shrugged out of the green muslin garment, feeling entirely naked, even as she was fully concealed in her armor, piecemeal, and black breeches.

  “Quite scandalous donning breeches,” Herbie muttered.

  Yes. But then, it was the least scandalous thing she’d done yet this evening, and would do for the remainder of it.

  He looked as though he wished to say more on it but then Carol quelled his words with another dark look.

  Then, the butler led them toward the noise filtering from deep within the townhouse. The ballroom. Her heart sped up, a thrill that had nothing to do with the excitement likely filling every other unwed, young lady present. Those ladies would be seeking stolen kisses and the promise of a mere taste of passion.

  Theodosia had only one manner of theft on her mind…and had for the better part of a fortnight.

  Carol slowed her step and Theodosia adjusted her stride to match the pace set by her friend. “You’re blinking.”

  “Of course I’m blinking,” Theodosia muttered. Except she knew what her friend meant.

  “Oh, come, you know what I mean.” Yes, those rapid, too many blinks that had made her a deplorable liar as a child.

  Did you steal your brother’s biscuit? Blinkblinkblink.

  Did you cut up your brother’s shirt and stitch a gown for your pug? Blinkblinkblink.

  Did you—

  Carol caught her hand. She passed her gaze over her face. “You’ve…we’ve, worked through all the details.”

  Theodosia looked after Herbie and the butler…of course wildly—blinking. “I’ll not be discovered,” she said, not sure if she sought to convince herself or Carol.

  “You’ll be in and then you’ll be gone.” The driver had, of course, been instructed to wait at the opposite end of the street for Lady Theodosia and Carol. Her faithful friend would forego the evening’s fun for her.

  “It shall go perfectly smoothly.” She shifted her weapon to her other hand.

  Carol took her by the other and pulled her down after Herbie, who stood in wait beside the butler, a pained expression revealed even through the black domino he’d donned as…a king’s jester. It really was the perfect costume for the ever-worrying Herbie.

  At last, they reached the ballroom and Theo became an interloper from the enemy family, hidden by a mask and some armor and a carefully conceived plan. And as she slipped into the ballroom alongside Carol and Herbie, gay laughter and the thrum of the orchestra blared loud, nearly deafening in its exuberance.

  For a moment, she allowed herself, who’d been far too serious for far too long with her hopelessly unfortunate family
to forget that she’d snuck in uninvited, to steal the host’s ancient weapon.

  Er…her family’s ancient weapon. For the promise she’d made Herbie to steal her sword and be on her way, she’d allow herself but a small moment to enjoy the evening’s festivities. Purely to avoid attracting notice is all.

  Yes, that was it.

  “You said you were leaving,” Herbie hissed.

  “Do hush.” She nudged him with her elbow. “You’ve injured my feelings.”

  He frowned. “It wasn’t my intention.”

  She’d merely been teasing him. She knew he wasn’t trying to be unkind, but rather feared the duplicitous role he’d agreed to. “Do not worry, I’ll slip out and then you’ll…”

  “Yes, yes, I know my role.” Sweat dotted his high forehead. Obviously, the fear of being discovered stealing something from the Devil Duke was a far more egregious offense than agreeing to secret her into the duke’s home. All entirely accurate.

  “I shall meet you in the foyer,” Carol said from the side of her mouth.

  Everyone knew his or her respective roles.

  “Now, go,” she ordered brother and sister. It wouldn’t do for them to be discovered speaking or together…but for the end…when she was triumphant in her plan.

  Herbie sprinted off, entirely too eager, by her thinking, to be free of her.

  “That one gives me doubts,” Carol whispered hurriedly and then without another word, disappeared into the crowd.

  Theo hesitated and surveyed the crowded room. She shifted her armor, wishing Joan of Arc had managed to fight a battle in something at least less sweltering. Then, gossamer or satin or silk provided little protection against an enemy’s blade.

  The orchestra concluded a lively country reel and the room erupted into a blaring cheer. An involuntary grin pulled at her lips and, for a moment, she forgot what brought her here. Forgot that her brother Richard had taken to overindulging in spirits after his heart had been broken and forgot that another brother had gone missing after fighting Boney’s forces.

  For in this moment, if even for just a bit, it felt nice to simply be any other young lady lost in the merriment of the evening. On the heel of that was the tug of guilt. Even if all her efforts here this evening were for her family…all they would know is that she’d entered the Devil’s lair.

  Theo eyed the door. She really should be after the broadsword, now. In fact, she should have begun her search as soon as she’d arrived. And yet…she lingered in the corner of the ballroom, on the fringe, unnoticed by all.

  Which was best. It was far safer this way. Yes, it was best if she remained as invisible as possible. Anything else would be calamitous.

  Chapter Two

  He’d noted her the moment she walked in the room.

  And Damian, the Duke of Devlin, made it a point to not notice anyone. A duke who noted the appearance of young ladies often found himself inevitably trapped, tricked, or seduced into more with those young ladies.

  He peered over the heads of the couples now filing onto the dance floor for a tedious quadrille. At three inches past six feet, his height proved rather advantageous in this moment of studying the young woman.

  The young lady alternated her gaze between the dance floor and the door, and even through the silver helmet she’d donned, the damned piece obscuring the color of her eyes, he saw the pull of longing.

  Only, he couldn’t determine whether she one, wanted to dance, two, wanted to leave, or three, made eyes at a lover and pointed the nameless gentleman to the exit, an idea he found not at all palatable.

  Damian preferred the first. Because in her armor-clad frame and too tight breeches that clung to generously abundant hips and buttocks, it would be quite a shame to see her leave. Not without knowing who the diminutive, if plump, warrior, in fact, was.

  Someone took up position at his side. He silently cursed at the sudden and both untimely and unwelcome appearance of his younger brother, Gregory. “You can, at least, try to appear as though you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I am not enjoying myself,” Damian said coolly, from the side of his mouth, to his most bothersome sibling.

  Gregory grinned widely and Damian forced his stare away from the stranger in her armor. He held out a glass of champagne. “Ah, yes, but now you are in disguise and you shan’t have all those ladies fawning over you if you’re your usual boorish, ugly self.”

  “I have little interest in having anyone fawn over me.”

  His brother gave a mock shudder. “Egads, have a care what you say, man.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Should Mother hear you so disinterested in your Minerva she’ll have a fit of the vapors.”

  Clearly not enjoying the evening’s festivities as he ought, Gregory opted to stay at his side and continue to make a nuisance of himself. “Though, I daresay I can never understand your appeal to the ladies. You’re deuced ugly.” There was the scar. “And you’ve a foul temper.” Which was more a product of devoting more attention to the title duke and the responsibilities that went with it, since he’d inherited the title and tasks charged him at age eighteen. But more importantly he had a dukedom, and that mattered to young ladies. And old ladies. Really, all women it often seemed.

  “Shouldn’t you be off doing whatever it is you do at these events?” So he could attend the business of studying the plump warrioress across the hall.

  “Dance,” his brother said with a wink. “You dance at these events.”

  Damian ignored Gregory’s baiting in favor of studying the plump warrioress who now skirted the edge of his ballroom, with her back pressed against the plastered walls. He narrowed his eyes. Whatever was the chit doing?

  “Though I daresay I’ve not seen you dance with anyone but your betrothed.”

  The expectation had been there since he’d been a young boy of twelve and she’d been a proper, English girl of five. There’d been the talk with his father about the connection between their two great, ducal lines. However, “She is not my betrothed,” he muttered. She would be, or his father would turn in his grave.

  His brother snorted. “Do not allow Mother or your Lady Minerva to hear you say as much.”

  “Yes, that much is true,” he admitted. His mother would dissolve into a fit of vapors if he hinted at not offering for the Lady Minerva Quigley. Stunning, blonde, and with a sultry set of blue eyes for one just on her second Season, he supposed there could be any number of worse candidates for his future duchess than the daughter of his late father’s closest friend, a fellow duke. He thought of the creeper. “Though there is no formal arrangement,” he felt inclined to point out. For himself?

  Another snort escaped Gregory. “And most assuredly do not let Mother hear you say that.”

  The dancers parted, allowing him an unfiltered view of the lady warrior creeping along his wall like a growing vine of ivy. From across the room, their eyes locked. Where everyone was a Greek goddess or ruffled shepherdess, she, even in her bid to not stand out—stood out. Through the lady’s visor, he detected the rapid one-two-three blink of her eyes, and then she jerked her attention away…and continued her creeping. What was the lady doing in his ballroom, attempting to blend her form to the plaster of his walls?

  Gregory cursed, jerking Damian’s attention away from the mysterious young woman. He followed his brother’s stare.

  “Mother,” they said in unison.

  Even with the first spare to the heir, Charles, very nearly wed, their mother would not be happy until her remaining children were properly wed. More precisely—Damian. She bore down on them with an intentness in her hard, ice blue stare.

  Gregory groaned. “She has the look.”

  “Yes, yes she does.” They all knew the one. The look that said, even with the costumed ball, she planned on matchmaking, and as she’d already settled on Lady Minerva for Damian, this matchmaking likely involved the youngest Renshaw brother.

  “Go.”

  Gregory’s eyebrows shot to h
is hairline. “You’re being magnanimous? You’re never magnanimous.”

  Mother was nearly upon them. “Unless, you’d care to meet the young woman she’s selected…”

  His brother spun on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Wherever did Gregory take himself off to?”

  Damian glanced from the corner of his eye. “Mother.” Unbidden, he looked for the lady plastering herself against his wall. He scanned the ballroom for the glint of metal, but it was as though she’d at last managed to merge herself with the wall and disappear from sight. Gone. Damian set aside the fleeting intrigue. With the exception of the members of his family, he didn’t make it his business to wonder after anyone or worry about them, and a lady likely meeting a lover certainly held little appeal.

  “Blast, I was trying to coordinate an introduction between him and Miss Carol Cresswall, the Viscount Fennimore’s sister.” She jerked her chin toward a shepherdess. “Regardless,” she said on a wave. “Minerva has arrived.”

  “Has she?” he asked in clipped tones. He found this annual masquerade quite tedious. In fact, he found balls, soirees, trips to the theatre, all of it tedious.

  “Must you act as though you find your own ball tedious?”

  “It’s hardly my ball,” he drawled. In truth, none of it interested him. Nothing, really interested him. There were the responsibilities to see to: his three brothers, one particularly trouble-seeking and an oft-displeased mama. The armor-clad warrior, however, had interested him.

  He turned to go.

  “Are you leaving?” she squawked.

  Damian paused. “I’ve put in my requisite appearance, Mother.” He tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “Good evening.” He spun on his heel and left the indignant duchess gape-mouthed.