Page 39 of A Rescue by the Rakish Duke
“There we go. I’d like us to get back to how we were before—driven by this mission.”
Evan held up his hands in mock surrender. “As you wish, Your Grace. However, you know me well enough to know that this conversation is not over.”
Damian ignored him.
Evan Drake was the only man who could talk to him that way and get away with it. His father didn’t like that he was friends with the servants’ son when they were children. But he didn’t really care. He knew from experience that he was a good judge of character, and he had not been mistaken with Evan.
Silence fell over them. This time, Evan respected it. He lingered for a moment, perhaps waiting for more instructions before leaving. He opened the door and looked like he was about to close it, but then he pushed it open again.
“I’m off now, Your Grace,” he said, pausing at the threshold. “Do not brood too much. It’s bad for your health.”
Damian shook his head and merely chuckled at his friend’s advice. He didn’t even have to say, “You’re not my physician,” because they had gone through the same routine so many times before. Evan always looked out for him.
As the door closed behind Evan, Damian was again lost in his thoughts. He realized that it was a dangerous thing as of late. He considered what his man had said.
People were now noticing how he behaved in front of Gwendoline. Then again, Evan was an observant man who knew him well. Still, Damian couldn’t afford more distractions.
But wasn’t that what he wanted? He wanted people to believe in his marriage. What he didn’t want was to start believing in it. He didn’t want Montrose to find him vulnerable in any way. Gwendoline had her way of making him just that—vulnerable. A danger to himself and possibly to her.
Sighing heavily, Damian tore his gaze away from the fire. He needed to prepare physically and mentally for the dangerous road ahead. Revenge on Montrose would demand everything from him, and he couldn’t allow his growing feelings for his wife to cloud his judgment.
Not now.
Damian wondered if that also meant not ever.
Chapter Eleven
Gwendoline was pleasantly surprised one day when Damian asked her to accompany him to a ball. Managing the servants in Greyvale had kept her occupied, but she also craved different company. Safe company.
Lord and Lady Somerset’s ballroom was the perfect balance between elegance and excess, Gwendoline noted. Greyvale was beautiful, but she couldn’t help but wish it was less gloomy.
Chandeliers glittered overhead like captured stars. They cast a golden glow over glittering gowns and tailored coats. Gwendoline couldn’t help but gape at everything. Most people believed she was mature for her nineteen years, but tonight she felt like a child again.
Damian’s hand rested firmly on hers, a welcome gesture of support and solidarity. Of course, they were also supposed to be madly in love.
They descended the grand staircase with such grace—the epitome of propriety.
Deep inside, Gwendoline felt a deep, simmering tension. Who could blame her for noticing how dashing Damian was? He was tall and handsome, with sharp features and broad shoulders. His body might be hidden by his suit, but she knew what he looked like underneath. It made her blush.
Fortunately, the reddening of her cheeks could be misconstrued as a trick of the light.
Their arrival had caused quite a stir, at least from what she observed. She swore that the murmurs had increased when they arrived. Whispered words like “Duke” and “Duchess” reached her ears. She detected intrigue and envy and wasn’t sure if she was fortunate or quite the opposite. She didn’t like being stared at. It reminded her of what had happened before Damian barged in and rescued her.
Damian did not seem to notice the attention, or perhaps he was used to it. He towered over most of the guests, with an arrogant look on his face. On the other hand, Gwendoline tried her best not to cower. She had never had a good relationship with the ton, who had always thought her less or more or not enough. She was less graceful than her peers. Curvier.
“You’re fat, Gwendoline. Fat. Let’s face it.”
Timothy’s voice echoed in her mind.
She wore an expensive gown, made to fit her well by London’s most famous seamstress. Yet, at that moment, it felt tight, like the cheap wedding dress that Timothy had bought her. Her hand instinctively clutched at her throat.
“Breathe, Gwendoline,” Damian whispered gently as he leaned closer to her. His voice was low, for her ears only. “No matter who you are and what you do, the ton will talk. It is their hobby—a bad one at that. They’re the ones who ought to be ashamed.”
“Easier said than done, Your Grace,” she choked out, though a ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.
Damian replied by giving her hand a slight squeeze. He didn’t have to say anything this time. She knew that he would be there for her.
Polite conversations and swift introductions seemed easy enough on the surface. However, Damian knew that Gwendoline was struggling beneath her sweet smiles and little nods.
