“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 going 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 a
s 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.
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 plump, round-cheeked Theodosia had never 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.
Only For His Lady (The Theodosia Sword Book 1) Page 5
