Page 174 of Dukes for Dessert

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.”

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