Page 172 of Dukes for Dessert

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 no 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.

8

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