Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues

by Caldwell, Christi

  Damian rubbed his thumb over her lip. “I believe we’ve moved past formalities when you destroyed my sideboard and ruined my floor.” After this night, they would, by sheer circumstances of their families’ loathing for one another, and their dark history, never again meet. They’d long taken care of avoiding the same social functions. If he didn’t at least once know her mouth, he would always wonder as to the taste of her. He lowered his lips to hers.

  “What are you doing?” The breathless whisper froze him, their mouths so close, their breath mingled as one.

  “I am kissing you,” he said hoarsely. Praying she shoved him away and restored logic to the moment.

  “Why?”

  And because he had no plausible answer for the lady, he claimed her lips, gently at first. Honey and mint. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again until her lips parted on a small moan, permitting him entry. Damian swept his tongue inside and she met his in a bold thrust and parry, a rhythm to match that sword long fought over by their families. With a groan, he folded her in his arms and he, who’d long maintained control, searched the curves of her body. The cold armor was a mocking deterrent to the efforts. A shield, real and imagined, that cemented the truth that nothing more than a forbidden exchange could or ever would exist between them.

  The intrepid lady leaned up on tiptoe and twined her fingers in his hair, angling his head, availing herself to his offering. The suddenness of the movement sent the metal of her breastplate rattling and the glaring reminder cut across the momentary spell she’d cast upon him. With a curse, he backed away from her, heart beating loudly in his ears.

  Theodosia swayed on her feet. Her eyes glazed with passion and her lips were swollen from the imprint left by Damian’s kiss. She touched trembling fingertips to her mouth.

  “I suggest you leave, Theodosia,” he said with a gruffness that seemed to douse the lady’s ardor. She blinked several times and then horror filled her vision.

  For a brief, infinitesimal moment, he wanted her to boldly contradict his highhanded order. With a jerky nod, the lady fiddled with the lock and then yanked the door open. She fled, leaving nothing but silence and the raggedness of his own breath in her wake. Damian rubbed a hand over his face. What spell had the lady cast upon him?

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and his hand fell swiftly to his side.

  Theodosia swept into the room, as boldly as though she were the owner. “I forgot my helmet.”

  His lips twitched and he longed for the exchange to carry on, but the lady with her fiery eyes was clearly of a differing mind frame. She jammed the helmet upon her head and then gave him a pointed look. “And I assure you, this will not be the last time you see me, Damian.” With that, she took her final leave.

  And as Damian stood staring after her, a slow grin pulled his lips upwards at the challenge she’d tossed him, suddenly very eager to confront the remainder of the Season.

  Chapter Five

  Two nights later, Theo stood outside the parlor her family was now assembled in. Their words and the periodic chuckles of her older brothers lost to her. She chewed at her lower lip and considered her meeting with the Devil Duke from two nights prior. Never had there been a moniker more apt for a man than his. With the ink black of his thick, slightly curled hair to the sharpness of his features and the jagged scar upon his face, he could very well be the devil himself. And yet, she leaned against the plaster walls and closed her eyes. It would be so very much easier if he were the devil she’d taken him for. The coldhearted duke the papers had purported him to be would have had her pay for the crime of entering his home and destroying his property, and with the long-standing feud between their families, would have reveled in exposing her, and shaming all the Raynes with Theo’s actions. Instead, he’d knelt beside her and cleaned the mess she’d made of his office and then there had been the kiss. God help her. There had been the kiss.

  She pressed a hand to her chest. Her first kiss. No gentleman had ever dared to kiss her. None had even expressed so much as a fledgling of interest in her, the too rounded, plump Rayne daughter. Short where other ladies were tall and trim, carrying themselves in a manner befitting a regal queen. Theo had long been the bumbling sort. The one say, who miscalculated the size of a certain broadsword and then with that same weapon destroyed a floor, and shattered a collection of brandy and various other spirits. A rather expensive collection, she’d wager.

  “…to marry his Miss Roberts.”

  From within the room, Mother’s words cut into Theodosia’s musings. Her ears pricked up. They all knew of Richard’s love and subsequent broken heart for his Miss Roberts who’d gone and chosen a Renshaw. It was not, however, a matter they spoke of.

  “She’d choose a vile beast,” her brother Aidan spat, loyal as the rest of the Raynes.

  Ah, they would, however, mention Richard’s sadness if it were a means to disparage the Duke of Devlin’s family. As her family proceeded to attack with their words the enemy family, an unwitting frown formed on Theo’s lips. How many years had her family sat about discussing the Renshaw family, reviling them with their words and tones and telling? Since as long as Theo could remember, being a girl of four, seated at her father’s knee, listening to the story of the Theodosia sword, her namesake, and that villainous Captain Ormond who’d commandeered the weapon and so destroyed her ancestor’s right to happiness. All for a handful of coins. Granted, a rumored small fortune from the Renshaw family.

  Now, hovering in the doorway, a coward too afraid to announce herself and her plans for the evening, she acknowledged that her family had become a bitter, angry lot. Or had they always been so?

  There was a pause in her family’s discourse and Theo took advantage of that silence. She stepped into the doorway. “Hullo.”

  “Hullo, Theo,” her mother greeted, glancing up from her needlepoint.

  Her father lowered his paper and took in her formal ball gown. “Where are you off to?”

  Tonight was the betrothal ball of Miss Roberts to Lord Charles Renshaw. As the most distinguished, anticipated event of the Season, her family had wisely decided some time ago to not present themselves at any other inferior event. Not on the night of the ball for their enemy’s offspring.

  “No words from you?” her brother Aidan teased. “This is usually a sign of—”

  “I’ll be attending the betrothal ball with Carol and Herbert.” Framed in the doorway, attired in her lavender, satin skirts, Theo forced a smile and met the baffled, befuddled, and annoyed glances of the Rayne family. Silence met her pronouncement. With a jaunty wave, she turned to leave.

  Her brother’s sharp bark of laughter froze her mid-movement. “By God, Theo, you’re not usually humorous.”

  She turned around on a frown. “I am humorous.” Though, she supposed if one had to say as much, they weren’t truly as amusing as one hoped. She shook her head. Nor was this a matter of amusement. This was a matter of seeing Damian. With a silent curse she gave her head another shake. Nay, not Damian, the Devil Duke. Well, hell, that wasn’t altogether correct, either. There was the matter of the Theodosia sword. She gave a pleased nod. Yes, that was it.

  “Why are you shaking your head in that manner?” Richard, morose and cradling a snifter in his hand, spoke the first words she’d heard since eavesdropping outside the door.

  “Er…”

  “Nor is that jest at all amusing, Theodosia,” her mother chided. She gave a pointed look in Richard’s direction.

  Theo smoothed her palms along her skirts. “It was not my intention to be humorous.” Which of course left the truth of her actions.

  Her portly father set aside his newspaper and attended the situation now with a frown. Likely her poor sire recognized years of madcap schemes in his only daughter and knew Theo even now had worked through another of her plans. “Theo?” he spoke in that tone, that no-nonsense tone, that had terrified her as a child.

  If she smiled any more, she feared her cheeks would crack. “I’m go
ing to Lord Charles Renshaw’s betrothal ball to Miss Roberts.” Attempting another hasty retreat, she dipped a curtsy and then turned to leave.

  “Stop.” Her parents spoke in unison.

  Battling down a sigh, Theo wheeled back around. “Yes?” Perhaps nonchalance was the best manner in which to proceed.

  Aidan sprung to his feet and his cheeks turned a mottled red. “Yes, you say?” he barked. Over the years, she’d neatly filed her brothers into respective categories: Lucas, her honorable, protector, lost to war brother, and then Richard, the romantic, hopeful gentleman now bitter and broken since he’d suffered his broken heart, and Aidan, the impulsive, passionate, and irrational one, and still the same as he’d been since she’d been a babe.

  Heir to the earldom, Richard tossed back the remaining contents of his glass and sat in morose silence.

  Their oft-uneasy mother wrung her hands together and looked to her husband with troubled eyes. And in a sign of how serious he took his daughter’s plans for the evening, he picked up his copy of The Times and resumed reading. “Winston,” Mama cried out.

  In the tone she used with the skittish cat in the kitchen who’d taken to sneaking to her rooms and hiding under her bed, Theo said with a stoic calm, “It is not how it appears.”

  “Oh, and how does it appear?” Aidan thundered.

  She winced as his booming voice bounced off the walls. “Well…” Theo allowed her words to trail off, as Damian in all his gruff, masculinity filtered through her thoughts. It was not as though she sought an opportunity to again see the austere duke or again know his kiss and the feel of his hands upon her person.

  “Why are you blushing in that way?” Aidan asked. Not allowing her to respond, which was fortunate, as she had no suitable response just then, he looked to their mother. “Why is she blushing?”

  Mama continued wringing her hands. “I do not know.”

  “Oh, do hush, Aidan,” Theo said with an exaggerated roll to her eyes. “It is not as though I wish to see the Devil.” Guilt tugged at her for referring to Damian that way. The man who could have seen her destroyed and humiliated, who’d instead given Theo her first kiss. She drew in a breath. “I am attempting to retrieve the Theodosia.”

  Silence met her pronouncement.

  “What?”

  It spoke volumes that even the, of late, laconic Richard was the one to speak, incredulity lacing that terse utterance. She held up her gloved palms. “Surely you see the situation with Richard and his Miss Roberts.” Her throat worked painfully and she forced the words out. “And Lucas…we require that sword.”

  Papa slowly lowered his paper and stared at her over the top of the sheet, his expression curiously blank. Long a believer in the legend, he’d touted the wonders of the sword and spoken to his children of the greatness to come to the rightful owner, of which, their family was. In her fanciful beliefs and dreams, she’d inherited her father’s spirit.

  Mama looked back and forth between them, but it was Aidan who spoke. “Surely you’ll not agree to this madness,” he bit out. He pressed ahead, not permitting anyone else to speak. “Furthermore, you intend to just saunter into the Devil Duke’s lair, on the evening of his brother’s betrothal ball, as bold as you please, and intrude upon their festivities, not believing that he’ll have you thrown out onto your Rayne arse.”

  Their mother’s scandalized gasp slashed into Aidan’s vulgar words.

  Theodosia slowly smiled. “Why, yes.” That is precisely what she believed.

  “Then you’re a bloody fool,” Richard said, in deadened tones, interrupting his brother’s impending diatribe. He swept the decanter from the table and poured himself several fingers of liquor and then thought better of it, filling the snifter to the rim. “You fail to realize the Renshaw’s do not give a jot for any member of the Rayne line. He’ll see you destroyed, just as his brother destroyed me.”

  With those ominous words echoing in the quiet, Theo turned around, not allowing any further objections to be voiced, and left.

  A gentleman who kissed with the heated intensity she’d known in Damian’s arms could likely destroy her, if she allowed it. And she had no intention of allowing him any greater hold than she’d already allowed with that kiss that had left a mark upon her soul.

  Chapter Six

  Over the rim of his champagne glass, Damian eyed the crowded ballroom with detached interest. He deliberately skimmed his cold stare past the eager mamas with their even more eager daughters, hoping the rumors of an impending betrothal between Lady Minerva and himself were nothing more than rumors inspired by the two families’ close ties.

  “You would believe with one wedding to plan, we’d be free of her matchmaking,” his brother groused at his side.

  He peered out the corner of his eye at Gregory who also scanned the ballroom, as though plotting a well-coordinated escape. Envy pulled at Damian at the knowledge that Gregory, could by the very order of his birth, manage to disappear and shift attention from himself if he so desired. Whereas from the moment of his birth as heir to a dukedom, Damian had been fawned over and sought after for no reason other than that proverbial order. Though, there had been one woman who’d not responded with the fawning and simpering Damian had come to expect. The memory of Lady Theodosia in all her spitting fury and fiery passion flashed to mind. A grin pulled at his lips. No, that lady had not given a jot that he’d been a duke. In fact, she’d like to have sent him to the devil with his familial title as his only company, if afforded that opportunity. Except for that kiss—that kiss had told an altogether different tale of the lady’s interest.

  “Who is she?”

  Damian glanced about. What was his brother on about? “I beg your pardon?” he asked searching for the person in question.

  Gregory rescued a glass of champagne from a passing servant. “I daresay if it is not the Lady Minerva who has you grinning like a lackwit these past days, you’ll have a none-too-pleased mama that we’ll be forced to deal with. It would, however, prove a diversion from Mother’s unnecessary matchmaking between me and Miss Carol Cresswall.”

  “Shove off,” Damian snapped, unnerved by how unerringly accurate his brother’s words were. Damian knew better than to make a fool of himself over a Rayne. And by the long-standing feud between them, there really was no reason to give the lady another thought. The likelihood of them meeting was as great as the Thames freezing. “There is no lady,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, well knowing that one too loud whisper would mean scandal.

  “I—” His brother’s words ended abruptly and he widened his eyes. “By God, what in the hell is she doing here?” His shocked question was met with a flurry of whispers that filtered through the ballroom, as all eyes turned to the front of the hall.

  Damian followed the stares and his breath stuck in his chest. He should be outraged at the lady’s insolence. He should have her tossed out on her ear for said insolence in showing her face at a Renshaw betrothal ball. Yet, an odd lightness filled his chest as he took in the sight of her. Gone were the lady’s armor and breastplate and helmet. And yet, for her boldness in the face of Society’s focus, she was as brave as that legendary warrior herself. But for the faintest quiver to those full-lips he’d dreamt of for the past two nights, Lady Theodosia gave no indication that she noted the ton’s cruel focus, the pointing fingers, the sneering faces.

  After all, the esteemed guests who’d received an illustrious invite to the event would never dare insult the host with niceties for the family’s enemy.

  How could one with her spirit and passion be an enemy? The lady walked side by side a woman with vague familiarity. “It is Mother’s Miss Carol Cresswall.” Mother’s Miss Carol, which was a rather clear statement on Gregory’s opinion of taking the woman to wife. His brother gave his head a wry shake. “Though I imagine after this showing by Miss Cresswall and that Rayne woman, our matchmaking mama will not be so very eager to wed me off to the family bold enough to bring the plump enemy within our fold
.”

  At those deliberately cruel words, Damian squeezed the stem of his flute so tightly, the thin crystal snapped. A servant rushed forward to clean the remnants of shattered crystal left. An unholy rage blackened his vision and he blinked it back, and when he still wanted to bury his fist in his brother’s face for that insult, he curled his hands into tight balls at his side.

  “Contain your fury,” Gregory admonished, misinterpreting the reason for Damian’s rage.

  “She’s hardly plump.” She was rounded perfection, soft in all the places a woman should be soft, curved in all the places a wise man longed for his woman to be curved.

  Gregory opened and closed his mouth several times. Before his damned irritating and oft too astute brother established there had been a connection between Damian and Theodosia, he looked about for sight of their mother who, even now, was likely aware of the interloper to their family’s affair.

  Theodosia made her way down the staircase, head held high, her gaze fixed just above the heads of the gaping lords and ladies. Then, as though she felt his stare upon her, the lady scanned the crowd. Their gazes collided and, even with the length of the ballroom between them, he detected the spark in her eyes. Was it desire? Passion? Fury? Then, a pink blush stained her cheeks and a primal masculine satisfaction unfurled within his chest.

  Desire.

  “Toss her out.”

  He stiffened as Gregory’s words jerked his attention away from Theodosia. With an easy grin and possessed of a charm since he’d been coaxing sweet pies from Cook in the kitchen, Gregory had long been the affable member of the Renshaw lot. This unrelenting, ruthlessness fixed on Theodosia was not one Damian recognized nor cared for.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said stiffly, and then without allowing his brother another word, he started through the crowd. The probing stares of the milling lords and ladies trained on him, Damian directed his attention forward to a single person, more than a foot shorter than himself, and yet how effortlessly his eyes found the top of her midnight tresses.