Page 8 of A Rescue by the Rakish Duke
She cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice steady. “I still have my doubts, Your Grace. I do not know you.”
The duke’s expression remained inscrutable, but his sharp eyes had somehow softened.
“It was the only option, Lady Gwendoline. We both know it,” he said, confident that she would understand that completely.
What would it be like to have that self-assurance, she wondered.
She shook her head. In that regard, he seemed like Timothy. They were certain about what was good for her. She couldn’t help but let out a bitter chuckle.
“I never jest about these things, Lady Gwendoline,” the duke reassured her. “I could not leave you in that house after what I had seen.”
Comforting words. No, Gwendoline was not used to them. She could still hear Timothy’s voice echoing in her ears. His cruel, insulting words. The way he implied that she was nothing but a pair of breasts and a womb. It almost made her want to find a blanket to cover her body.
Her fingers curled into the folds of her dress—her wedding dress. She scoffed at how ridiculous she looked, tightly bound in cheap white cloth.
Her curiosity and fear came to the fore, and she couldn’t help but ask, “So what happens now, Your Grace?”
“We are headed for my townhouse. It’s secure—you will be safe there. I will talk with my servants so that they will know what to expect. Meanwhile, I will make the necessary arrangements for our marriage, after which we will head for Greyvale.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “How on earth can you be certain of anything? That you’ll obtain a marriage license so quickly? That you’re not making a massive mistake?”
“I have my ways, my lady.” Damian smiled, but this time, all the humor was gone.
Gwendoline could only guess that there was something dark behind that statement. She also wished that he wasn’t too damn handsome even when he frowned.
Wait. She shouldn’t be thinking that at all.
“That’s all you’re going to say?” she pressed, frustrated at being left in the dark. “You barge into the parlor, disrupt everything, and now you are telling me that obtaining a marriage license is as simple as having your servant serve you tea?”
“Yes, I can obtain a marriage license easily. I have enough power and influence to grant me those privileges. It is as simple as that,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “And I would rather have my servant serve me brandy, not tea.”
His nonchalance maddened her. His inscrutable face was also just as maddening. Still, she found him fascinating.
She tilted her head to the side, studying the man who saved her from a forced marriage, only to offer himself as her husband.
The Duke of Greyvale was a puzzle. An infuriating one. Usually, Gwendoline prided herself on reading other people’s thoughts and feelings, but she drew a blank with him. It didn’t sit well with her, and she suspected she would be restless the whole time she was with him.
“So, you really weren’t bluffing?” she asked, her eyebrows knitting.
“I do not bluff,” he said calmly. But as his smile widened, a sliver of the man behind the title peeked through.
After that commanding declaration, silence fell over them again.
Gwendoline didn’t know where to look. Staring at the duke might give away her fascination with him. But it couldn’t be helped, right? He knew she wanted to peel back his layers, to find out why he did what he’d done. Looking away, on the otherhand, would seem like she was shying away from him, even though she was afraid of him.
After a few moments, he broke the silence.
“I know what kind of man Timothy Landon is,” he said, before heaving a sigh. “I have seen what men like him could do to women. And inheriting your father’s title has not helped.”
Her breath hitched at his words. How could this stranger affect her so much? Perhaps it was because he had saved her, and he understood what women like her had to endure. Yet, there was something else that she couldn’t quite place—something hovering in the recesses of her mind.
Gwendoline wanted to know more, but something on his face and his voice warned her not to pry.
“What Lord Montrose did to me was cruel and degrading,” she began haltingly. “But marrying me…”
“Marrying you?” the duke echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“I want to know if you’re doing it because you pity me.”
