Page 41 of A Rescue by the Rakish Duke
Suddenly, she felt a familiar presence at her side. Damian extended a hand. There were no smiles. No heat. Nothing. And yet she knew that she would accept his offer.
“Dance with me, Duchess,” he said.
Though his tone was mild, she knew that it was nothing else but a command. It was not something that offended her. Instead, she felt compelled to place her hand in his. She wasn’t that confident about her dancing skills, but she remembered how well he had guided her with a wooden sword in her hand.
She allowed him to guide her to the dance floor at the center of the ballroom, and soon they started dancing to the first notes of the waltz. They moved as though they were one with them.
Damian’s hand rested on her waist, its heat searing her soul. His other hand cradled hers, rough but gentle at the same time.
“You’ve handled tonight with such grace,” he murmured, his lips so close to her temple that she could feel his warm breath.
If he were any other man, she would have recoiled. But with him—not only because he was her husband—she leaned in closer. For support. For comfort. For just being close.
“I’ve had some practice,” she replied shyly. She knew that he would catch her self-deprecating tone. “And I-I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”
He pulled her as close as was proper. His tight embrace made her feel safe, not suffocated.
He lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered passionately, “Never disparage yourself again, Duchess. You often do that.”
It might be self-preservation because his words made her heart flutter, but she asked him, “And you? Will you ever let me see the man beneath the mask, Your Grace?”
“Perhaps,” he replied with a faint smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “When the time is right.”
His answer made her feel giddy. However, she tried to regain her composure, reminding herself that Damian couldn’t possibly be willing to tell her anything. It was only the music. The people. The excitement. When he was back home in Greyvale, he might feel differently.
That reminder made her heart sink.
She somewhat managed to brush off some of the negativity and focus on the dance. His nearness. How he made her heart dance and her cheeks pinken.
Because of that, the dance ended too soon for Gwendoline. Both of them were breathless at the end, though they were unable to ignore the crackling tension between them.
Chapter Twelve
The carriage ride back to Greyvale was quiet but charged with tension, which was becoming a constant between them. Gwendoline sat across from Damian, her gloved hands resting primly on her lap. Her fingers were intertwined tightly, and Damian didn’t miss that.
His gaze flicked to her occasionally, his expression unreadable in the dimly lit exterior. He gazed in wonder at the way the shadows danced across her features. They softened the edges of her jaw and turned her eyes into pools of dark mystery.
She was still a mystery that he wanted to solve but couldn’t. Perhaps he wouldn’t?
He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on mundane details like the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves or the way the coachman liked to click his tongue and cough.
The ton would likely label the ball a success, but Montrose’s lies and Lady Edith’s sharp tongue had left a sour taste in Damian’s mouth. He had been prepared for whispers and innuendos, which were inevitable when you were part of the ton, but hearing Montrose’s twisted lies unleashed a greater fury within him.
He felt helpless in the carriage. His hands were clenched into fists on his thighs, and he wished he could use them to pummel his sworn enemy. He should have done it, but he had always believed that justice would be better served by the proper authorities.
He reconsidered the wisdom of that.
When the carriage finally arrived at Greyvale, Damian stepped out of the carriage first and then extended his hand to help Gwendoline down. She hesitated briefly before accepting his hand.
Her gloved fingers felt cool against his palm. However, there was still a heat between them. They didn’t speak as they entered the mansion. It was almost as if the magic they felt in the ballroom had made way for reality—that whatever they had could not go on.
Sensing the couple’s strange mood, the servants discreetly hurried back to their posts after assisting them upon their arrival.
In the drawing-room, Damian shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He stood near the fireplace—which wascold and unlit as if expressing his current state of mind. His tall figure radiated unease.
Gwendoline hesitated by the door before slowly walking inside.
“This cannot continue,” Damian said, breaking the silence with those three quick words. He knew it must sound like a crack of a whip to his wife. “Montrose’s lies will threaten your name more than they will mine.”
