Page 72 of A Rescue by the Rakish Duke
There were no more lighthearted jests this time. She wanted to know the answer even if it hurt her.
“When Timothy falls and you—we—get our revenge and it’s all over, what will happen? What will happen to me?”
Damian looked up from the papers on his desk, his expression frustratingly unreadable. He was like that—all clean lines andserenity on the outside and a ticking bomb on the inside. Gwendoline had learned to live with it because she’d seen him whenever the bomb exploded into unimaginable passion.
But now she worried about a different kind of explosion. Of anger. Of destruction.
“Then we rebuild together, Duchess,” he said in the even tone he’d used when she first met him.
She didn’t like it. His words were what she wanted to hear, but they were delivered through waves of false placidity.
She smiled, but she knew she couldn’t hide the sadness she felt. “Promise me something, Damian.”
“Anything.”
She thought that his answer was too quick. She did notice that he straightened his back and leaned toward her.
Hope. There it was. She didn’t want to entertain it, but it liked to peek and tease her.
“No more ghosts,” she said softly. “Just us.”
“That’s a promise I can keep,” he agreed earnestly, pulling her toward him.
Gwendoline wanted to scream and push him away. She wanted him to stop reaching out to her and for her to see if he would still want her if there were physical barriers between them.
But she was weak.
Whenever he pulled, she gave in. What fool could resist the kisses of a handsome duke? She had pondered on it for so many nights and realized she could be that fool. She could say no to a handsome duke but couldn’t say no to Damian.
Kisses always led to more. Every worry seemed to fade away whenever they fell together in his bed. She pushed them away, even though they’d be there again tomorrow when she woke up.
The war wasn’t over yet because the battle had not even begun. But neither were they. They were just beginning.
Or at least, that was what she wanted to believe.
Chapter Twenty
Gwendoline knew Abigail’s soiree was going to be a grand affair. At least, she’d like to think it was her friend’s event, even when it was hosted by her father, the Marquess of Soulden.
The family’s stately townhouse was made more elegant by the sophisticated decorations. One might think that the marquess had solicited the help of someone skilled in décor, but it was his daughter who made all the plans. Gwendoline knew this about her friend, and she was proud of her.
Laughter and pleasant chatter echoed through the ballroom. Gwendoline couldn’t help but appreciate how a mood could depend on the host or hostess. With a well-meaning hostess like Abigail, the festivities proceeded peacefully, as expected.
Gwendoline stood near the edge of the ballroom, close to the walls, just like she used to do when she was younger and more afraid. Tonight was less about shrinking away and more aboutwatching everyone. She held a crystal champagne flute in her hand and took sips so that she didn’t look too still or suspicious.
This gathering was certainly different from the many others she had attended. She wasn’t merely a spectator or a guest, but also someone better. No, she was definitely not a pawn this time.
Gwendoline Redmond was a duchess. She was no longer Timothy’s impoverished cousin or an orphan. Even though her marriage to Damian had increased her confidence, it wasn’t what made her secure. She somehow no longer felt the need to cower. She was no longer ashamed of being on the side, looking like a wallflower. She knew what she was. She was aware of what she was not.
The air was filled with various scents—all pleasant for now. Comforting beeswax candles. Expensive perfumes. Usually, Gwendoline couldn’t take them all in. Tonight, though, she reveled in them. And she would show the ton just how much she did.
She made her move, mingling with the guests. She said her hellos and smiled politely even though her husband was not at her side. She wanted them to see her as an individual, not just a part of a pair.
“Isn’t that the Duchess of Greyvale?” she heard a lady whisper.
“Yes. That’s the one who eloped with the rake,” her friend replied.
“But how long had they been married? Wasn’t she with child?”
