Had her life been so full of strife that she should hang her very hopes upon this ancient metal? His stomach tightened and just then, it mattered naught that she was a Rayne or he a Renshaw. He wanted her to know happiness. Which was nonsensical. Damian had long put the interests and happiness of his own family before all else, and yet this woman who’d boldly asked questions as to his marred face, who’d not stared on him with horror while feigning interest for the title he possessed, her happiness mattered.
“They say the rightful owner of the Theodosia will know great fortune,” she said, her voice faintly breathless from their exertions.
“What fortunes do you crave?” he whispered against her ear, bringing their arms back in another slashing stroke. “Wealth, great power—”
She angled her head back around. “Happiness.”
His chest rose and fell with his efforts. With this maddening desire he held for this woman? Damian pulled the sword free of her grasp and tossed it to the floor where it clattered, the metal striking hard wood deafening in the quiet. She eyed the forgotten sword a moment and then looked to him with his own passion reflected in her eyes.
Damian cupped his hand about her neck and drew her close. “You didn’t come here for the sword this evening,” he whispered against her lips. “Did you?”
Her silence stood as confirmation to his suspicions. The moment he’d seen her fleeing the ballroom, he’d known as much. “And I didn’t come here to stop your attempts at theft, Theodosia.”
“Then why—?”
“I came for you.” She opened her mouth and before she could ask questions for which he did not have answers to, he took her lips under his, their mouths melded in a fiery explosion of two persons, sworn enemies by nothing more than birthright alone. He ran his hands down the curves of her body, caressing her flared hips and rounded waist, and moving higher to mold his hand to the generous flesh of her breast. As glorious as she’d been in her metal armor, the feel of her with just the slip of satin between them was the type of temptation a man would trade his soul for.
Theodosia dropped her head back on a panting moan and he continued to plunder her mouth, meeting her passion for passion. He drew back and she cried out, as though agonized at that parting, but he shifted his attentions lower, trailing his lips down her cheek, and pausing at the delicate shell of her ear. Damian drew the flesh between his teeth and sucked until soft, gasping sighs escaped her lips.
“Damian,” she whispered, stroking her fingers along his jaw.
He stiffened as she caressed the heinous mark of his birth and then she leaned up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against the scarring. His eyes slid closed of their own volition as her gentle worshiping tossed his well-ordered world into tumult.
“Damian?” His mother’s quiet question cut into the quiet.
The door handle jiggled.
The haze of passion lifted and he silently cursed, looking to the door and then down at Theodosia’s wide, blinking eyes as she tried to sort through the sudden interruption. “Dam—” He covered her mouth with his once more, effectively silencing her.
The door handle rattled once more. “Damian, are you in there?”
“Yes, I am attending to matters of business,” which was not altogether untrue. It had been very pleasant and quite enjoyable business with the lady in his arms. The now waxen, horrified lady in his arms. He searched the room, recalling back to his youth. The lessons of propriety and cool rigidity had been drilled into him so long that he only faintly recalled games of hiding and seeking.
Fortunately, Theodosia appeared to have retained more of a youthful spirit, or had become adept at subterfuge, for she sprinted over to his desk and sank to the floor. The rustle of skirts as she crawled on hands and knees both deafening and damning.
“Damian?” his mother called once more, impatience underscoring that one word question.
He feigned a loud cough to disguise Theodosia’s gown as she disappeared under the protective sanctuary. Yanking on the lapels of his coat, he strode across the room, turned the lock, and then opened the door just as his mother raised her hand to rap once more.
“Mother,” he greeted, motioning her inside.
She eyed him with a dubious stare and then entered with a regal bearing to rival the Queen. His mother paused and passed an astute, assessing stare over the room. “Where did you disappear to?”
He closed the door and as he didn’t believe “my office” would be met with a favorable response, he merely perpetrated the earlier lie he’d called out. “I had business to attend.”
“Now,” she said, incredulity dripped from her tone. “During your brother’s betrothal ball.” Her gaze lingered upon the sword.
He followed her stare. “Ducal responsibilities do not stop because of balls and soirees.” It was the safe, proper response meant to deter his mother from any further questioning.
She folded her arms across her chest. “How very interesting it is to hear you speak of ducal responsibilities, Damian, when there is still the matter of your unwed state—”
“Ah, yes but Charles will be wed.”
His mother arched an eyebrow. “But he is not the duke.” In a whir of skirts, she marched over to the broadsword and toed the ancient piece with the tip of her slipper.
He cast a glance over at his desk, grateful for the wood barrier that prevented Theodosia from witnessing this affront. If she could see that disrespect at his mother’s gesture, she’d likely fly across the room and do battle with said sword.
“And you, Damian,” He snapped his attention back to his mother. “Were dancing with a Rayne.”
Oh, bloody hell. This was certainly not a conversation to be had with a Rayne hidden from sight, within these very walls. And so there was no question there, he remained stoically silent.
“Which begs the question, why were you dancing with that woman?” She began to pace and launched into a diatribe, effectively saving Damian from responding. “The audacity of that shameful creature, entering this home with no invitation. Though it is no wonder, with her family’s reprehensible lineage.” While also significantly complicating the matter.
A sound, a cross between a growl and hiss came from somewhere in the vicinity of his desk. He coughed into his hand. “There was no harm in her attending—”
“No harm!” His mother froze mid-step and jabbed a finger in his direction. “I expected you to have her escorted from the room and unceremoniously tossed out.”
“I would never do that.”
“Yes,” his mother nodded. “Yes, you would. You’ve proven yourself to be ruthless and commanding,” she spoke those words as though she approved of a son who was reviled and feared by all.
There was merit to her charge. He’d long welcomed the distance he’d placed between himself and other members of Society. He’d accustomed himself to the subservient fear. Until Theodosia. She’d forced him to confront the reality that there really was nothing honorable or admirable in a coolly aloof person who prevented himself from feelings and emotions. It was safer. But it was also a good deal lonelier. “What benefit would there have been in publicly shaming the lady and having her removed?” Other than removing the one happiness he’d found this night. Any night, since their first meeting two nights past.
His mother planted her arms akimbo. “Society noted your interest. Whispering to her. Staring at her so. Why, if I didn’t know you detested her for her connection to the Rayne line, I’d believe you were enamored of the young woman.”
Oh, Christ. He resisted the urge to tug at his cravat as a dull flush climbed up his neck.
A rustle of skirts met his mother’s pronouncement.
“What was that?” his mother asked whipping her head about.
“What was what?”
“I thought I heard,” she gave a flounce of her curls. “No matter. I am here to remind you of your obligations to Lady Minerva. Did you at all consider how your betrothed should feel about your stalking off and p
artnering that Rayne chit?”
A loud knock punctuated her words. The sound of flesh meeting wood and he’d wager what remained of his sanity that Theodosia had hit her head in the hiding space she’d made for herself. His mother’s erroneous words regarding Lady Minerva cast aspersions upon every kiss and exchange to have occurred with Theodosia and he abhorred the idea that she should believe he’d merely dallied with her while being pledged to another.
He folded his arms across his chest. “There is no betrothal,” he said coolly, the words for Theodosia.
“Of course there is nothing official,” his mother said with a frown. “But—”
“There is no betrothal,” he cut in, freezing whatever words she’d utter with a stare. He’d considered his obligations to every other member of his family, before his own, and not once did he regret those sacrifices. Then there had been no person who’d opened his eyes to the possibility of more. “Now, I have matters of business to attend before I return to the ballroom.”
She opened and closed her mouth several times as though she wished to protest, but then said, “Very well.” With that she spun on her heel, strode to the door and then pulled open the wood panel. “Damian?” she asked, turning back once more.
By God. Would she not leave? “Yes,” he said, keeping his tone deliberately flat.
“Why is the sword on the floor?”
“Broadsword.”
She furrowed her brow.
“It is the Theodosia broadsword.”
When it became apparent he intended to say nothing else on the matter, a frown marred her lips. With that, she left.
Chapter Nine
The door had closed several moments ago. Several very long moments ago. The lock had turned, indicating privacy once more from Damian’s horrid mother with her unkind words and cruel expectations for her son. Yet, Theodosia remained frozen.
He was betrothed. From her spot, crouched under Damian’s desk, she rubbed the top of her head, a poor, wounded head she’d quite solidly thwacked upon hearing those shocking words voiced by his mother. Oh, she’d heard mention that the powerful, evil Renshaw line inevitably bound their members to other powerful, evil families. But that was before she’d known Damian and now, knowing there was another… She touched the knot on her head and winced. It mattered not. Not at all. Well, the knot on her head did but who Damian wed and when he wed or why he wed was as insignificant as what food she’d break her fast with.
Liar.
Two gleaming black boots appeared in her line of vision and she jumped, knocking her head once more. “Bloody hell,” she complained. Must he be so blasted silent? With his impressive size and power, he should, at the very least, be noisy with his footsteps.
Damian fell to a knee beside the desk. He peered into the darkened space, a faint smile on his lips. She was very glad that at least one of them found the entire circumstance amusing. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she bit out, sitting back on her heels. “You are free to attend whatever important business you have to see to.” As he’d pointed out several times to his mama.
“You are my business.”
Her lips parted with surprise.
He held a hand out and she eyed his fingers a moment and then reluctantly placed her fingertips in his. Damian drew her out and up, and they stood there beside his desk, their bodies a hairsbreadth apart. “You are betrothed.” She winced as the almost accusatory charge tumbled from her lips. “Not that you are not entitled to be betrothed.” Be betrothed? Surely there was some rule about two be starting words being paired? Silence your mouth, Theodosia. “But you really shouldn’t go about kissing ladies while you are betrothed to another.” Especially another who was trim and blonde and all things lovely where Theodosia was not. “It isn’t done,” she finished lamely when he still said nothing.
He brushed his knuckles along her jaw and forced her gaze up to his. “I am not betrothed.”
“But you will be.” His mother had been very clear on that particular point.
“Yes, I daresay one day I shall be betrothed. But it will not be to the Lady Minerva.”
“It won’t?” She hated the almost hopeful note to her question.
“It won’t. My mother certainly expects as much, but it will not be her.”
The fact that it was not Lady Minerva and was, in fact, another did little to ease the agonized tightening in her chest, sentiments that felt a good deal like jealousy. She groaned. She’d come to care for Damian, enemy to her family, feared Duke of Devlin.
“Are you all right?” he questioned, ceasing mid-stroke.
“It is my head,” she lied. “I hit it twice.” A lie that she’d add a bit of plausibility to. “What—”
“Shh,” he whispered, drawing her against him. With his long, powerful fingers, he withdrew the jewel-encrusted combs woven in her hair. Her breath caught at the intimacy of the act. No one but nursemaids and lady’s maids had dared touch her hair, and never in this manner. He loosened the gold combs and pulled them free one at a time. She detected his intent focus upon the amethyst. “They are thistles,” she said softly. “The legend holds that Eryx uncovered the sword at the mile marker between England and Scotland.” He turned the combs over in his hands. “To woo his love he came to her bearing the sword and a bouquet of thistles. And…” Her words trailed off as he gently set the combs down upon his desk and drew her close once more. With deft fingers, he probed for that knot. Her lids fluttered wildly as he gently massaged her scalp in a soothing rhythm.
“What became of your Eryx and his love?”
There was a cynical twist to his question that contradicted the tenderness of his touch.
“They were happy and in love. I cannot imagine a better end to any story than that.”
“And you would wed for love?”
She leaned into his touch. Wed for love? After two Seasons, and a rapidly concluding third, she’d rather despaired of wedding at all. There had been little interest shown her, nor would she have a gentleman court her for reasons that had to do with wealth and status and familial connections.
Which only served to remind her of the chasm between them.
And the status and familial connections that would inevitably bind Damian to his Lady Minerva.
“I haven’t given much thought to the person I’ll wed,” she gave him that truth.
That it were you… Theodosia stiffened as that traitorous thought slid into her consciousness. She stepped backwards and her buttocks bumped the surface of his mahogany desk, but she ignored the pain that radiated up along her spine, as panic set her heart into a too fast rhythm. “I must leave,” she managed to squeeze those words past dry lips. “It would be ruinous for us to be discovered.” He’d be forced into a union with her and she didn’t doubt the honorable, respectable duke would do that which was honorable.
Or that she’d want him to. Oh, God.
“Yes, it would.” Yet, he made no move to leave.
Knowing with each passing moment she spent in his company that he slowly and surely overrode her defenses and robbed her of reason, Theodosia spun about and sprinted to the door.
Perhaps it was a sign that Damian recognized the folly in these stolen interludes with a Rayne, for he allowed her to flee.
Damian stared at the open door Theodosia had stolen through and with this flight there was an air of finality. Just as there had been no reason for their meetings to this point, now there was even less so—and more, an impossibility of any such meetings. There would be no more masquerades and no more betrothal balls until, at the very earliest, next Season, and so he and Theodosia would continue moving along their own separate paths, belonging to different parts of the same world.
Pressure squeezed hard about his chest and, with a curse, he stomped over and retrieved the item that had brought Theodosia into his life rattling his defenses. A bitter laugh escaped him as he fixed his gaze on the hard to make out etchings upon the sword. How very ironic that the
object to bring them together shared the name of the lady herself.
Faint footsteps sounded in the hall and he glanced up. “Theo—”
His youngest brother, James, stood framed in the entrance. At nineteen, he was just out of university and still bore traces of a young man who delighted in causing havoc for their mother which invariably meant havoc for Damian.
“James,” he greeted. At the suspicious glint in his brother’s eyes, a guilty flush burned his neck.
“Were you expecting another?”
Hoping for. “What do you want?”
“I saw a certain woman fleeing down the corridors.”
Bloody hell. “Oh?” Sword in hand, he carried it to the sideboard and rested it upon the all but barren surface. He reached for one of the decanters not destroyed by Theodosia’s efforts two nights earlier and poured himself a snifter. “Was there?”
As tenacious as a bur stuck in a heel, James closed the door behind him. “Yes, there was. But for her hair tumbling down her back,” Christ. “She bore a striking resemblance to the Rayne chit who interrupted Charles’ betrothal ball.”
“As I did not see this woman, I could not comment either way,” he said in clipped tones. He downed half the contents of his glass in one, slow swallow. His lips pulled back in a grimace at the burn of the liquid. At his brother’s droll grin, he took another sip.
James motioned to his desk. “Oh? Perhaps those hair combs belong to an altogether different woman than the er…woman who looks a good deal like the Rayne chit who is, in fact, a different woman.”
Damian choked on his swallow, following his brother’s hand to the damning amethyst pieces Theodosia had left behind in her wake. “That is likely the case,” he managed to say with even features.
“Of course. I was merely sent by Mother to see that you return for the toasting portion of the evening’s business.”
Finishing his brandy, Damian set the glass down. He took a step forward when James spoke. “I understand that the mystery woman fleeing through the corridors was not, in fact, a Rayne, but if she were a Rayne, and she did make you happy, then I daresay braving Mother’s disappointment and all the nonsense history between the families would indeed be worth it.” His grin widened. “That is, if it were, in fact, a Rayne who made you happy. Which it isn’t? Correct?”
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 7
