“That is correct.” His voice emerged garbled to his own ears.
Then, his young brother, who’d seen nothing of the world, gave a knowing wink.
As he fell into step beside James and made his return to the ballroom, Damian thought to those hair combs, even now out upon his desk.
By Theodosia’s love of lore and legend, those delicate pieces that had adorned her midnight tresses meant a good deal to the lady. She’d require those pieces back.
Yes, he needed to see her. For no other reason than to return the lady’s rightful possessions to her person. It had nothing to do with a desire to see her.
Nothing at all.
Chapter Ten
She’d forgotten her thistle hair combs. At Theodosia’s birth, the precious gold and amethyst pieces had been commissioned by her father, a gift to a newborn daughter to symbolize the importance of their story and the power of that legend—and she’d gone and left the two and twenty year old pieces in the Duke of Devlin’s office.
Seated in the corner of the carriage, Theodosia tried to make herself as small as possible. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice. Her mama and papa were not the most astute of parents. Her brothers were self-absorbed, of which self-absorbed siblings, only one accompanied them this evening. Why, there was no need at all for anyone to note the substituted combs tucked in her dark hair.
“Where are your thistles?”
She jumped and shifted her attention to her father who stared at her head as perplexed as though she’d sprouted a second one.
“My thistles?” At the very least she should have had a suitable reply other than “my thistles”.
Mama leaned forward in her seat and peered closely at Theodosia. “Yes. Where are your hair combs?”
They are with Damian. As in the Duke of Devlin. How would they respond to that admission? “I believed the butterfly combs were appropriate.” She held her breath praying no further explanation was required on just how they were appropriate or why or any other question for which she had no answer. Theodosia sent a prayer skyward when the carriage rocked to a halt before their destination.
A servant pulled open the carriage door and reached a hand inside. She accepted the offer, bypassing her mother and father and drew in a deep breath of the spring air.
“Lost them did you?”
She jumped and turned to face her brother. “You startled me.”
Aidan grinned. “And you didn’t answer my question.” Would he still be smiling if he knew where those precious, gold pieces had been left? Likely not. He’d long been the hotheaded Rayne with an explosive temper.
“Yes, I lost them,” she conceded for that admission was far safer than any further prevarication. Yet Aidan could never learn the whole truth. Their father had always said all the Raynes believed in the legend and lore behind the Theodosia sword, but only Aidan lived, breathed, and bled the legend and had since he’d been a bloodthirsty boy playing with his toy soldiers in fabled fields of battle. He held out his arm and she slipped her fingers onto his sleeve.
They followed along behind their parents. “Did you find it?”
“If I had them, I would be wearing them,” she muttered.
“The Theodosia.” He shot her a sideways glance.
Blinkblinkblink. Of course. She’d quite boldly and honestly admitted her plans for last evening. No one had inquired and she’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of Damian and his kiss and the imagined battle they’d been locked in while they handled the sword. “I did,” she finally said.
He sucked in a gasping breath and stopped, until she was forced to either stop as well or be dragged down. “You saw it.”
His was an awed proclamation and yet she nodded anyway. “What does it look like?”
“It is…heavy.” But not when you’re wrapped in the arms of another and together you wield that massive weapon. Her body still burned with the feel of his skin flush against her.
She gasped as Aidan took her by the shoulders. “You held it.” Awe laced those three words.
“Twice,” she confessed. She’d not mention the bit about the masquerade. By his volatile reaction yesterday evening following her announced plans to attend Lord Renshaw’s betrothal ball, he’d be less than pleased to know she’d been a guest at the sought after event of the Season—the Duke of Devlin’s masquerade.
Their parents tossed a questioning look back at them, which propelled brother and sister into motion. “Is it as magnificent to behold as is purported?” he asked with the same enthusiasm he’d demonstrated as boy asking that very question at their father’s knee.
She chewed her lip contemplatively. Odd, for the desperation that had driven her to brave the Duke of Devlin’s home, not once but twice all for the legendary sword, she’d not given thought to anything more than Damian. The gentleman with a hauntingly beautiful face, who she’d been taught to fear.
“Theo?”
“Magnificent.” For the mark upon the left side of his face added depth and resilience to the man.
Further questions ended as they stepped inside the townhouse and were ushered to the ballroom. They took their place in the receiving line and Theodosia sighed. Of all aspects of soirees and balls, the receiving line was by far the most painfully awkward moment of the evening. After all, a wallflower could seek out her place alongside the wall and escape notice…but not before said wallflower was presented on display and whispered about and laughed at for being so very different than the graceful, beautiful Lady Minervas of the world.
The crush of guests present cast unnatural warmth upon the crowded ballroom.
She stared over the tops of the heads of the lords and ladies milling and dancing. A whisper went up. A whisper not at all like the “there-is-plump-Theodosia-and-her-sad-family”, and more like the whispers of some great, juicy morsel of gossip that had captured their attention. Her shoulders sagged as she gave thanks for whatever diversion now occupied—
“Bloody hell, what is he doing here,” Aidan hissed.
And Theodosia knew. Knew in the way her skin pricked with awareness and the warmth spiraling out from her belly that he was there. She found him instantly, across the ballroom. Blinkblinkblink. He stood alongside one of the towering, white columns, wholly elegant and unaffected by the whispers. Theodosia swallowed.
“Theo!” Her brother’s sharp tone snapped her from her reverie.
“Hmm? Oh, er, yes.” Her cheeks warmed as she stepped forward to be presented.
Which, of course, only resulted in the staring business from the bored members of Polite Society. Yet this time, the stares were not reserved for her alone. Now they involved the Duke of Devlin, present at a ball attended by the Rayne family. When all members of the peerage knew the longstanding rivals pointedly avoided accepting invites to the same functions. Until now.
“Whatever is he doing here?” her mother whispered, wringing her hands together as their family made their way to the opposite corner of the ballroom—far, far away from Damian.
Not for the first time in her life, Theodosia damned her height that prevented her from seeing, she went up on tiptoes…well, anything.
“Stop gaping,” her brother ordered.
“I’m not gaping.” She’d need to be able to actually see the man to gape. If he were visible, however, she’d certainly be gaping. After having known his kiss and the power of his arms and the smile on his lips, it really was quite impossible to not gape at the commanding duke.
Apparently her mother lamented her own height as well. “Dear, I asked you what he is doing?” she said once more to her husband.
Bushy grey brows knitted into a single line and then her father’s eyes widened slowly until those bushy grey eyebrows met his hairline. “By God, the Devil is coming this way.”
Theodosia’s heart leapt. Oh, dear.
Damian accepted the invite to Lady McNamara’s ball simply for the reason to coordinate a meeting with the Rayne lady and see her amethyst thistle combs restored to
the lady’s care.
Except, the woman who’d long been nothing more than a Rayne lady had shifted and morphed into this new, captivating, and spirited woman—Theodosia. A woman who didn’t glance away from his marred face or gawk in fascinated horror. So as the crowd parted, in eager anticipation of this public exchange, he acknowledged her thistle combs had not brought him here.
It had been her.
He came to a stop before them. His gaze fixed on Theodosia. The heightened color on her cheeks and the smile hovering on her lips did not foretell a young woman who wished him to the devil. He slid his stare over to the lady’s stunned, silent kin.
The Earl of Lavery opened and closed his mouth, like a trout tossed ashore. “What—”
“I’ve come to request the next set, my lady.” Damian directed his request to Theodosia.
Her lips parted on a moue of surprise.
“What in hell are you thinking?” the gentleman with dark hair and brown eyes who bore the faintest resemblance to Theodosia, asked. By his total lack of control, he ventured this was, in fact, the youngest Rayne son. “You dare present yourself…”
Theodosia placed a hand on her brother’s forearm and murmured something. He merely shrugged free of her touch. “With the devil’s mark stamped upon your—oomph.” He glowered at Theodosia who’d effectively ended those words with a sharp jab of her elbow.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. Forgive him.”
That apology made on behalf of her brother brought shocked gasps from the trio of Raynes.
No one had ever defended Damian before. Largely because, as the heir and then holder of a dukedom, he really needn’t require defending. Some strange, indefinable emotion squeezed at his chest that this slip of a young woman should brave her family’s wrath to protect him.
“You can go to the devil,” the earl barked, bringing shocked gasps from nearby lords and ladies.
Damian ignored the mottled, portly gentleman and instead fixed his gaze upon Theodosia, as he became painfully aware of his hand held out to the lady, while Polite Society looked on. The stretched moment of indecision, punctuated by the strums of the orchestra’s waltz. Then, with a small smile, she slipped her hand in his and the tension eased from his chest.
Ignoring the black curse spat by Theodosia’s brother, Damian guided her onto the dance floor and positioned his hand about her waist.
“You are here,” she blurted, as they launched into the one-two-three step of the haunting waltz.
“Do you believe I’m merely an apparition sent from the bowels of hell, my lady?” he asked in clipped tones.
She pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Do not be silly, Damian.” Had the lady just called him silly? No one in the course of his nine and twenty years had dared disparage him. “Do you take me as one who is afraid of you?” No, when most quaked in his presence or reviled him in the manner her family did, she smiled and boldly challenged him. “Because I’m not,” she confirmed. “For the rule long followed by our families—”
“The rule?”
“Come, Damian,” she scoffed. “A Rayne does not attend the same event as a Renshaw. We know that and the lesson was likely ingrained into you since you were a mere boy being schooled as future duke.”
Yes, the lady was unerringly correct in her supposition. He trained his gaze on the crown of her dark tresses. Butterfly combs adorned her hair, the sapphire and ruby gems glittered under the glow of the chandelier, beautiful and yet, incomplete. Lavender thistle. The reason he’d come. Or was it….?
“Damian?” she prodded, pulling him to the moment.
“In the wake of your,” flight, “departure, my lady, you left behind your hair combs.” Hair combs he’d gently disentangled from her hair. His fingers twitched in remembrance of the luxuriant silkiness of her curled tresses.
Some of the light dimmed in her eyes. “Oh.” His stomach tightened at the disappointment reflected on the precious planes of her face. Oh God, he could not lie to her. He tightened his grip about her waist, angling her body closer to his, ignoring that her family, Society, honed in on each subtle move they made. “And I wanted to see you.”
Her lips parted. Blinkblinkblink. His heart tugged at the endearing little shocked gesture that was only hers. “Why?”
That question proved far more dangerous. Or, at the very least, the possible answers did. The truth was because she’d captivated him. Inspired him with her resolve and strength, and more, the romance of her spirit that saw an old weapon and saw old tales of legend and love.
Instead of responding, he turned his own question on her. “Why do you not fear me?”
“You’re just a man, Damian.”
For the entire nine and twenty years of his life, his identity and name had been nothing more than a title to his parents, siblings, servants, and Polite Society. Until now. There was something gripping, potent and powerful in being seen as simply a man.
A commotion sounded in the hall and he glanced over her shoulder through the figure cutting an angry path through the assembled dancers. Whirling couples strove to circle away from Aidan Rayne. Damian bit back a curse and applied a gentle pressure to her waist, bringing her gaze up. “Will you meet me at Hyde Park, just on the edge of Kensington Gardens, before the sun rises? I will return your hair combs.”
She nodded once, just as Aidan settled a hand upon his shoulder.
A collective gasp went up and the dancing lords and ladies strained to see the impending confrontation. Damian stiffened but remained with his hold upon Theodosia.
“Aidan,” she whispered, an unexpected steel underlined the admonition.
“Release my sister,” he bit out, ignoring his sister.
An urge to knock the insolent gentleman upon his arse filled Damian, all the while knowing that was the very reaction the man likely sought. With a deliberate slowness, Damian hesitated, appreciating the curve of her waist. Then his gaze connected with Theodosia’s. The anxiety that bled through the blue irises of her eyes ended any effort to bait her brother. He relinquished her. “My lady,” he said and dropped a bow.
The waltz drew to a close. There was none of the polite applause. Instead, Society stared on, blatant in their rudeness.
“Your Grace,” she said softly.
Without a backward glance for her brother, Damian marched through the crowd that parted for him like that fabled sea. He tightened his jaw. Nothing more than returning the lady’s hair combs had brought him here this night. Nothing, at all.
He paused at the top of the staircase and looked back at Theodosia once more. She stared boldly at him. Damian turned and left, knowing he lied to himself.
Chapter Eleven
After a night of braving her family’s fury, which had entailed a blend of Aidan’s furious shouts and Richard’s glares and her father’s chiding words and her mama’s disappointed shakes of the head, sleep had proven elusive. Apparently, her family found attempting theft of Damian’s sword one matter, dancing with the enemy an altogether different one.
As she strode through the quiet, empty grounds of Hyde Park, a lone kestrel in flight called an eerie morning song overhead. Theodosia stopped and peered up at the russet bird with his black spotted breast. The bird long a symbol of power and vitality not unlike the gentleman she now planned to meet.
Merely to obtain the cherished items she’d left behind.
She turned back to her maid who trailed along at a slower pace. The young woman yawned into her fingers. “Susan, I just plan to walk along the walking trail,” to the copse of trees just outside Kensington Gardens. “No harm is likely to befall me on a mere walk.” The lone bird circling overhead called out a protest and a chill stole through her. She thrust aside the nonsensical fears and adopted a nonchalant smile.
“Are you certain, my lady? Your parents would never forgive me if I were to abandon you.”
She scoffed. “You are hardly abandoning me. You are allowing me,” and Damian, “a moment of solitude.”
The maid eyed the bench alongside the Serpentine and then exhaustion must have won out over her responsibilities as lady’s maid, for she walked over to the bench at the foot of the river. Before Susan thought through the years of scrapes she’d witnessed her mistress falling into, Theodosia spun around and then hurried off, back toward the copse of trees.
Another eerie cry shattered the quiet and she glared up at the noisy bird. “I’ll not allow you to frighten me,” she mumbled. For the lies and stories told about Damian and his family through the years, she knew in the gentleness of their meetings that he’d not harm her. She slipped past the meticulously tended boxwoods, expertly pruned, and stopped at the entrance, hands upon her hips, as she scanned the area. “If he wanted to harm me, he’d have tossed me into Newgate.”
“Have there been other crimes you’ve been committing that merit you being tossed into Newgate?” a deep, mellifluous baritone drawled from within the gardens and she gasped.
“Y-you startled me.” Her heart thudded wildly as Damian strode forward, attired in his familiar black garments. With his midnight black hair and ice blue eyes, he had the look of darkness and, having come to know him these days, she knew it was an affected effort on the gentleman’s part. And there was something heady in knowing that this man so feared by all, she knew in this special, intimate way.
He continued to study her in that silent, inscrutable manner of his.
She cleared her throat. “I assure you, however, that I do not make it a habit of committing acts of crime.”
Damian lifted a single black eyebrow. “Beyond the theft of the Theodosia?”
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 8
