Page 177 of Dukes for Dessert

“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?”

“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.

10

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.

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