The woman at her side, a slender Miss Carol Cresswall, with her golden tresses and pale white skin, may as well have been any other English lady present. The viscount’s sister troubled the flesh of her lower lip, her waxen skin speaking to a greater unease than the brave Theodosia. Only the young lady’s flighty mother, with her cheeks wreathed in a forever smile, seemed hopelessly oblivious to the thick tension radiating about the ballroom.
The crowd parted, allowing him access to Lady Theodosia Rayne, the merciless lot no doubt cutting their teeth on the prospect of the young woman being publicly shamed. His brother’s urging, coupled with the expectation of his mother and the entire guests assembled warred with this inexplicable desire to see Lady Theodosia once more. Damian stopped before the young woman who’d exercised a spot within his mind for the past few days. Theodosia and the three members of the Cresswall family stared at him with varying reactions. He cared about just one of those reactions.
Viscountess Fennimore beamed. “Your Grace,” she dropped a deep curtsy. “Thank you ever so much for the gracious invitation. May I present my daughter,” Miss Cresswall dipped a curtsy. “And as you well-know my Herbie.” Damian shifted his attention reluctantly away from Theodosia who’d schooled her features with an ability that would have impressed players at any faro table, to the portly viscount. Damian narrowed his eyes. This was the man Herbie, of whom Theodosia had referred. “Ah, yes, I believe you were so good as to coordinate an introduction between myself and one of our now mutual acquaintances.”
The viscount yanked at his cravat and darted his gaze about. “U-uh yes. I b-believe that is correct. It is a pleasure, Y-your Grace.” The viscount’s cheeks turned red. Damian shifted his attention to Theodosia and waited.
A faint, becoming blush bloomed on her cheeks. Ah, for the lady’s unrepentant boldness there was some hesitancy, and yet she should tilt her chin up at that prideful angle.
“And may I introduce Lady Theodosia Rayne.” The viscountess scratched at her brow. “I do believe your families are acquainted?”
Not unlike her other child, the lady’s daughter moved a panicked stare about.
“We are, indeed, Lady Fennimore. Quite well. Lady Theodosia,” he murmured.
“Your Grace.” The lady hesitated and then sank into a deep curtsy. By the lady’s expression and the collective breath held throughout the ballroom, Theodosia expected him to turn her out, and for her insolence and disregard for the long-standing feud between their respective families, he should very well do just that. Instead, he held forth his elbow. “Will you join me in this next set, my lady?”
Chapter Seven
As Theodosia placed her fingertips upon Damian’s sleeve, she didn’t know precisely what she’d expected in appearing, sans invite, at the Duke of Devlin’s home once more, this time sans costume. The collective gazes of the leading lords and ladies of Polite Society stared on with an almost gleeful anticipation of her being unceremoniously tossed upon her derriere. Regret replaced that excitement as Damian led her onto the dance floor and positioned them at the center of the ballroom. She swallowed hard. If he’d intended to expose her to Society’s shame, he could not pick a more central place in which to do so.
Theodosia jumped as the orchestra plucked the opening strands of the waltz. The ghost of an ice hard smile played about Damian’s lips. “I am disappointed, Theodosia.”
She swallowed back the protestation that sprung to her lips at his familiarity of address. “Your Grace?”
“A Rayne who steals into my home,” he lowered his lips close to her ear, and Theodosia’s breath caught as she recalled his hard, sure touch and the taste of him. “With such brazenness and courage will not now direct your attention to my cravat?”
Yes, yes she would.
“Tsk, tsk,” he said when she remained stonily silent. “I daresay you’ve made another misstep, Theodosia.” And a large one at that. Perhaps if she met his deliberate baiting with silence, he’d let the matter rest. “You suspected you might arrive at my brother’s betrothal ball, while I’m otherwise occupied, and find your way to my office. I’d expected more ingenuity, say,” he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “donning a disguise in the midst of a masquerade and fashioning yourself as a modern Joan of Arc—”
“Oh, do hush,” she chided. She’d not be toyed with the way a cat might paw a poor mouse. Theodosia glanced about at the dance partners twirling past them in a whirl of skirts. “I would have attracted far too much notice arriving in costume than as myself.” Though considering the guests’ reaction to a Raynes presence, that might not prove altogether correct.
“I was jesting, Theodosia.”
She blinked. “Oh.” In all the darkest tales told of the Devil Duke none had spoken of a man who teased.
“I don’t.”
Theodosia cocked her head.
“Jest.” A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye.
Unease stirred within her. This, a man she’d been conditioned to believe was the enemy, possessed an innate ability to know her unspoken thoughts. “You prefer to be thought of as the Devil Duke, do you?” Her gaze unwittingly went to the jagged, white, puckered flesh that marred an otherwise flawless face and she wondered at who’d done this to him. She’d long heard the tales of his scarred face at the knee of her father. Now, pain sluiced through her heart at how shamefully insensitive her family had been to the pain of another. Even if he was a Renshaw.
“Have you looked your fill?” he growled. And by the sneer upon his lips, it occurred to her that he wanted to inspire fear, and this was merely a protective attempt to prevent himself from being hurt. What a very sad way to go through life.
“What happened?” It was not morbid curiosity that gave birth to that shamefully improper question, but a genuine desire to know.
He said nothing for a long while and she believed he intended to ignore that question. Then the harsh planes of his face settled into an indecipherable mask. “Come, Theodosia, surely you’ve heard tales.”
She caught the inner flesh of her cheek between her teeth, shamed once more by her family’s stories of Damian. They’d spoken of him as though he was a monster and yet he was a wounded gentleman who’d protect himself from hurts. “I don’t want the tales, Damian,” she said and his eyes narrowed at her use of his Christian name. “I’d ask for the truth.”
“The truth? I was born disfigured, my lady. There is no mythical story of the devil marking me as his own or a disappointed mother who set fire to half of my face.” She winced at that telling her brother Aidan had favored. “I was simply born the devil your family likely spoke of.”
When she’d made her Come Out three Seasons earlier, she’d been mocked by the sea of Incomparables; flawless English beauties with their golden perfection and trim figures. They’d been everything that plump, round-cheeked Theodosia never had been. How odd to have believed herself so very different than the Duke of Devlin only to find, in many ways, they were more alike. “The mark upon your face does not define you, Damian. It is the person you are inside.” And for all the reports she’d read of him and his family, she’d also read the reports that spoke of his devotion to his family and unfailing commitment to their happiness. Unlike Theodosia, who, but for her lost and very likely dead brother Lucas, had siblings so wholly focused on their own happiness.
The muscles of his forearm tensed under her grip, tautening the fabric of his midnight black evening coat. “So you’ve come to steal my sword,” he murmured, in which she believed was a bid to shift the conversation to matters he felt more comfortable with. Or perhaps, more in control of.
She shook her head. “No.” Theodosia winked at him. “I’ve come to retrieve my family’s broadsword.”
“What can be so very important that you’d risk your neck and reputation by attending my brother’s betrothal ball with no invite, all for that scrap of metal?”
Had he not felt the weight of that ancient weapon? The Theodosia broadsword was n
o more a scrap than the Queen’s Crown was a pasty bauble.
“If you have to ask, Damian, then you are undeserving of its ownership.”
The waltz drew to a close and she tamped down her disappointment, which was an almost physical force. He sketched a stiff bow. “Theodosia.”
“Your Grace,” she responded, and sketched a curtsy.
Damian settled his gaze on a point beyond her shoulder and she followed his hard, cold stare to the cluster of Renshaws, who stood side by side by side by side, all three of them and Richard’s Miss Roberts. Her skin pricked with heated embarrassment at the varying degrees of vitriol dripping from their gazes.
“I am not going to acquire the weapon tonight.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact she was just bringing herself around to.
“No, you are not,” Damian said. He held an arm out and she allowed him to lead her from the dance floor.
All of a sudden, she became aware of the continued stares and whispers circulating about the ballroom. No doubt, about the brazen, plump Lady Theodosia, who had about as much hope of sneaking into any ballroom as one of the Cook’s livestock beating a path through the very space. Guilt and shame pricked her conscience in an unexpected blend, as she became aware of her scandalous presence and how very wrong it had been to ruin Lord Charles Renshaw’s betrothal ball—even if he was the miserable blighter who’d stolen her own brother’s true love.
“You are quiet.” Damian made that observation as he guided her back to Herbie and Carol, who, with each step taken by the duke, turned a shade paler.
Yes, well, it wasn’t every day that she was so humbled by her singular focus on her own family’s happiness, so very much that she’d sacrifice another family’s.
“Are you even now plotting your theft?” There was a faint trace of amusement that belied all the rumors she’d believed true about this man.
“I am plotting my escape,” she said under her breath, feigning nonchalance. Only, with each half-smile and teasing word he shattered the previous misconceptions she’d carried of him as the merciless, ruthless beast with a face marred by the devil’s flame. And she didn’t like it. For if she’d been so very wrong about Damian thus far, what else had she been wrong about?
They drew to a stop before Carol and Herbie. Poor Herbie, always hopelessly fearful when presented with the towering, menacing form of the Duke of Devlin, backed up a step.
Damian sketched a deep bow. As he made to take his leave, panic set her heart pounding. “Your Grace.” Her thoughts should be upon her escape this night. For if she left without the relic now, all hope would be lost for the Theodosia Sword until next year’s masquerade. And yet, he was all she could think of. For after these two stolen moments, she’d never again see the duke. Why did her heart tug with regret?
He gave her a long, lingering look.
She was a Rayne and he, well, he would forever be a Renshaw. “I am sorry for having caused a disruption this night.”
At the very least, he should be so gentlemanly as to contradict her words. Alas, he inclined his head and beat a hasty retreat. “Herbie,” she said quietly to the trembling viscount. “Will you permit me the use of your carriage so I can return home?” Without the ancient weapon and without again knowing the pleasure of being in Damian’s arms. Herbie inclined his head. “O-of course.” Did he have to sound so very relieved that she would be taking her leave? Did no one desire her company? She stared after him as he lumbered off, letting out a startled gasp as someone gripped her wrist.
“What did he say to you?” Carol whispered. “Did he order you from his property?”
“No. He…” Was perfectly gentlemanly and teasing and more, he’d shared that very intimate piece about himself and only left her aching to know some of the other pieces about the purported dark lord.
“He, what?” Carol prodded.
“He…” She slid her gaze out onto the ballroom floor, unable to expose her tumultuous emotions before the still staring guests, even if it was to her only friend in the world. Then she found him with her stare.
“What is it?” she dimly registered Carol’s concerned question.
Unable to formulate a proper response, Theodosia instead blatantly stared at Damian comfortably ensconced within the fold of his perfectly happy, not at all broken family, alongside the gloriously golden Lady Minerva. The Incomparable, purported to be the future Duchess of Devlin, shot a stare over her shoulder. The trim and not at all embarrassingly curved young woman peered down the length of her regal nose at Theodosia and then turned back and said something to Damian. He stiffened and then as one, he and his Incomparable stared back at Theodosia and there was just so much blasted staring, by Damian, his future betrothed, the guests, Carol, that a suffocating panic began to overwhelm Theodosia’s senses. “It is nothing.” She managed to squeeze out a smile for her friend’s benefit.
Nor could there or would there ever be anything.
Herbie returned, his florid cheeks glistened with perspiration from his exertions. And he yanked forth a stark, white kerchief and dabbed at his sweating brow.
With that practical realization, Theodosia fled for Herbie’s carriage. It would do to remember the only reasons she’d entered this bloody lair in the first place.
Chapter Eight
She’d intended to leave. After all, she’d sent Herbie to call for the carriage.
“Absolutely not,” he moaned, the words coming out more an entreaty than a command to Theodosia’s stated intentions of staying.
“Oh, do hush,” his sister said from the side of her mouth as they made their way back to the duke’s townhouse.
Somewhere between the cold and calculated Renshaw gathering at the edge of the ballroom and the long trek to the carriage, Theodosia had recognized the sheer madness in abandoning her plans for the ancient weapon still hanging in Damian’s office. She tightened her mouth. She may now see him as Damian and not the Devil Duke, and she may know the origins of that mark upon his face, and she may very well know (and forever remember) the feel of his lips on hers, but by God she’d not forsake her family’s happiness for any of those reasons.
“I will not tarry,” she pledged. There was still the matter of the huge task of wresting that item from its place upon Damian’s office wall, but now she’d be prepared for the sheer weight of the item. “I know where I am off to, this time.” And though she could not verify the safety of his floor this evening, she could, at the very least, clear off his sideboard in anticipation of the mishap two evenings prior. “Please, Herbie.”
The beleaguered viscount swiped a hand over his face. She beamed at him and then gave her friend a look.
On cue, Carol took her brother by the arm. “Come along, Herbie” she said and steered him down the corridor, toward the boisterous din of the ballroom. Theodosia waited a moment and then, heart pounding wildly, raced along the darkened halls. A single, lit sconce cast shadows upon the white, plaster walls, darkly ominous, rousing tales of the dark legend around the very item she now fought to reclaim. Theodosia turned left at the end of the corridor and easily found her way to Damian’s office. With one fluid movement, she pressed the handle and slipped inside the darkened room belonging to the Duke of Devlin.
She pulled the door closed behind her and this time turned the lock.
The man who’d kissed her.
The man who’d occupied every corner of her thoughts since their first meeting.
The man who—
“Theodosia Rayne. We meet once more.”
She shrieked and peered into the darkened shadows and struggled to bring the black clad figure in the corner of the room into focus. Theodosia swallowed hard. The man who was here. Now. Damian stood in the corner, the broadsword held effortlessly within his hands and with his command of the weapon, he may as well have been one of their legendary ancestors plucked from time and cast into this moment. Blinkblinkblink.
Well, of all the rotted luck.
He’d known the
lady but a handful of days and yet had become so attuned to those subtle nuances of her body’s movement. Even with the shroud of darkness, he detected the rapid one-two-three blink of her hopelessly wide eyes.
Weapon in hand, Damian strode forward. Theodosia’s gaze lingered on the sword and he paused. There was such a desperate hungering within those soulful, blue irises. She eyed the metal relic the way she might a favored lover and, bloody hell, if he did not envy the damned, cold piece of metal just then. She held almost reverent fingers out and then drew them back. “I did not truly have time to appreciate it the last time I…”
“The last time you stole into my home and attempted to steal it?”
She either failed to hear or note the wry humor in his words. Instead, she remained fixed on the Theodosia sword. All these years, the ancient war weapon had hung upon his father’s office wall and with that duke’s passing, Damian’s. Never before had he truly noted the weapon or reflected on the history of the artifact. Rather, it had represented a piece the Rayne line had for centuries scrabbled for. Now, taking in the awe etched in the heart-shaped planes of Theodosia’s face, he viewed the sword with new eyes.
“Here,” he said gruffly.
“What—?”
Damian positioned himself behind her, drawing her close to his chest. The audible inhalation of her breath exploded into the quiet of the room. Or was that his own? He positioned the weapon within her fingers and placed his over hers and together with their fingers interlocked upon the piece that had come to represent a lifetime of loathing between their families, he guided their hands up.
“You would romanticize a weapon that has killed?”
“I will see in it the wonder it has brought to those fortunate to possess it.”
Damian drew their arms in slow, arcing strokes and, while they together played out the feudal dance practiced with this very weapon, he reflected on this woman who’d stolen into his home.
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 6
