Page 17 of A Rescue by the Rakish Duke
The words hung between them, their playful edge giving way to something heavier. Damian’s pulse quickened as her eyes locked onto his, and for the first time, he felt bare before her. He could see that she felt the same.
They were standing too close now. They hadn’t moved. It seemed they hadn’t taken a breath either.
“I should let you return to your chambers,” he said finally, his voice rough.
“Yes,” she whispered.
But neither of them moved.
For one reckless moment, Damian considered closing the distance between them. He could almost feel her skin and taste her lips. Madness, of course.
But then she stepped back.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.
“Goodnight, Duchess,” he replied, the words catching in his throat.
And then she was gone.
Damian stood there for a long time, staring after her, the weight of her absence pressing down on him like a physical force.
Whatever this was between them—this fragile, unspoken thing—it was dangerous. And yet, as he finally turned back toward his chambers, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was already too late to stop it.
Another day. Another day of Gwendoline haunting Greyvale.
When Damian walked through the great hall, he heard a maid crying and stuttering nervously. Whenever that happened, he would let Mrs. Albright do her job, and he would move on to his next task for the day.
However, this time, he heard his wife’s soft voice.
“It’s all right, dear. It’s just tea. I can have another prepared for me,” Gwendoline soothed the girl, who couldn’t be that much younger than her. “You know that.”
“B-But, Your Grace,” the young maid stammered. “T-The table…”
Damian’s curiosity was piqued. He moved closer to take a peek through the doorway. His wife stood gracefully over a fussing and crying maid, who looked like she was ready to scrub the whole place to please her.
“It is also just a table,” Gwendoline reassured her, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “It is far less important than your well-being. Stop fretting.”
Not only was she smiling as she soothed the maid, but she was also helping clean up the spilled tea.
“Thank you. Thank you, Your Grace.”
Damian couldn’t ignore the warmth blooming inside him. This was the woman he had married. She certainly did not belongwith Montrose, and she certainly didn’t belong to any of those leering and pawing men.
And yet there were moments when he’d catch her looking melancholy.
As soon as the maid left the dining room, Gwendoline stood there for a few moments, staring off into the distance.
It would have been better if she had burst into tears or hysterics. It would have eased his conscience if she had thrown a glass at the wall and yelled for a servant to pick up the pieces. Somehow, this resignation, the lost look in her eyes… It was far worse.
Damian quietly left the area so that she wouldn’t catch him spying.
On the surface, Gwendoline Landon was not fighting back. However, her actions showed that she was trying to regain some semblance of control. It was exhausting, though.
The new duchess did not wear adornments on her hair, limbs, and face. She was bare-faced, and it was easier to see the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her lips.
Damian shook himself from his stupor. He had to stop following her around. There were more pressing matters to attend to. Time was running out. Though what he did at Montrose House seemed chivalric, he wondered if it was unwise.
“I am no hero,” he muttered bitterly.
