There was merit to her charge. He’d long welcomed the distance he’d placed between himself and other members of Society. He’d accustomed himself to the subservient fear. Until Theodosia. She’d forced him to confront the reality that there really was nothing honorable or admirable in a coolly aloof person who prevented himself from feelings and emotions. It was safer. But it was also a good deal lonelier. “What benefit would there have been in publicly shaming the lady and having her removed?” Other than removing the one happiness he’d found this night. Any night, since their first meeting two nights past.
His mother planted her arms akimbo. “Society noted your interest. Whispering to her. Staring at her so. Why, if I didn’t know you detested her for her connection to the Rayne line, I’d believe you were enamored of the young woman.”
Oh, Christ. He resisted the urge to tug at his cravat as a dull flush climbed up his neck.
A rustle of skirts met his mother’s pronouncement.
“What was that?” his mother asked whipping her head about.
“What was what?”
“I thought I heard,” she gave a flounce of her curls. “No matter. I am here to remind you of your obligations to Lady Minerva. Did you at all consider how your betrothed should feel about your stalking off and partnering that Rayne chit?”
A loud knock punctuated her words. The sound of flesh meeting wood and he’d wager what remained of his sanity that Theodosia had hit her head in the hiding space she’d made for herself. His mother’s erroneous words regarding Lady Minerva cast aspersions upon every kiss and exchange to have occurred with Theodosia and he abhorred the idea that she should believe he’d merely dallied with her while being pledged to another.
He folded his arms across his chest. “There is no betrothal,” he said coolly, the words for Theodosia.
“Of course there is nothing official,” his mother said with a frown. “But—”
“There is no betrothal,” he cut in, freezing whatever words she’d utter with a stare. He’d considered his obligations to every other member of his family, before his own, and not once did he regret those sacrifices. Then there had been no person who’d opened his eyes to the possibility of more. “Now, I have matters of business to attend before I return to the ballroom.”
She opened and closed her mouth several times as though she wished to protest, but then said, “Very well.” With that she spun on her heel, strode to the door and then pulled open the wood panel. “Damian?” she asked, turning back once more.
By God. Would she not leave? “Yes,” he said, keeping his tone deliberately flat.
“Why is the sword on the floor?”
“Broadsword.”
She furrowed her brow.
“It is the Theodosia broadsword.”
When it became apparent he intended to say nothing else on the matter, a frown marred her lips. With that, she left.
Chapter Nine
The door had closed several moments ago. Several very long moments ago. The lock had turned, indicating privacy once more from Damian’s horrid mother with her unkind words and cruel expectations for her son. Yet, Theodosia remained frozen.
He was betrothed. From her spot, crouched under Damian’s desk, she rubbed the top of her head, a poor, wounded head she’d quite solidly thwacked upon hearing those shocking words voiced by his mother. Oh, she’d heard mention that the powerful, evil Renshaw line inevitably bound their members to other powerful, evil families. But that was before she’d known Damian and now, knowing there was another… She touched the knot on her head and winced. It mattered not. Not at all. Well, the knot on her head did but who Damian wed and when he wed or why he wed was as insignificant as what food she’d break her fast with.
Liar.
Two gleaming black boots appeared in her line of vision and she jumped, knocking her head once more. “Bloody hell,” she complained. Must he be so blasted silent? With his impressive size and power, he should, at the very least, be noisy with his footsteps.
Damian fell to a knee beside the desk. He peered into the darkened space, a faint smile on his lips. She was very glad that at least one of them found the entire circumstance amusing. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she bit out, sitting back on her heels. “You are free to attend whatever important business you have to see to.” As he’d pointed out several times to his mama.
“You are my business.”
Her lips parted with surprise.
He held a hand out and she eyed his fingers a moment and then reluctantly placed her fingertips in his. Damian drew her out and up, and they stood there beside his desk, their bodies a hairsbreadth apart. “You are betrothed.” She winced as the almost accusatory charge tumbled from her lips. “Not that you are not entitled to be betrothed.” Be betrothed? Surely there was some rule about two be starting words being paired? Silence your mouth, Theodosia. “But you really shouldn’t go about kissing ladies while you are betrothed to another.” Especially another who was trim and blonde and all things lovely where Theodosia was not. “It isn’t done,” she finished lamely when he still said nothing.
He brushed his knuckles along her jaw and forced her gaze up to his. “I am not betrothed.”
“But you will be.” His mother had been very clear on that particular point.
“Yes, I daresay one day I shall be betrothed. But it will not be to the Lady Minerva.”
“It won’t?” She hated the almost hopeful note to her question.
“It won’t. My mother certainly expects as much, but it will not be her.”
The fact that it was not Lady Minerva and was, in fact, another did little to ease the agonized tightening in her chest, sentiments that felt a good deal like jealousy. She groaned. She’d come to care for Damian, enemy to her family, feared Duke of Devlin.
“Are you all right?” he questioned, ceasing mid-stroke.
“It is my head,” she lied. “I hit it twice.” A lie that she’d add a bit of plausibility to. “What—”
“Shh,” he whispered, drawing her against him. With his long, powerful fingers, he withdrew the jewel-encrusted combs woven in her hair. Her breath caught at the intimacy of the act. No one but nursemaids and lady’s maids had dared touch her hair, and never in this manner. He loosened the gold combs and pulled them free one at a time. She detected his intent focus upon the amethyst. “They are thistles,” she said softly. “The legend holds that Eryx uncovered the sword at the mile marker between England and Scotland.” He turned the combs over in his hands. “To woo his love he came to her bearing the sword and a bouquet of thistles. And…” Her words trailed off as he gently set the combs down upon his desk and drew her close once more. With deft fingers, he probed for that knot. Her lids fluttered wildly as he gently massaged her scalp in a soothing rhythm.
“What became of your Eryx and his love?”
There was a cynical twist to his question that contradicted the tenderness of his touch.
“They were happy and in love. I cannot imagine a better end to any story than that.”
“And you would wed for love?”
She leaned into his touch. Wed for love? After two Seasons, and a rapidly concluding third, she’d rather despaired of wedding at all. There had been little interest shown her, nor would she have a gentleman court her for reasons that had to do with wealth and status and familial connections.
Which only served to remind her of the chasm between them.
And the status and familial connections that would inevitably bind Damian to his Lady Minerva.
“I haven’t given much thought to the person I’ll wed,” she gave him that truth.
That it were you… Theodosia stiffened as that traitorous thought slid into her consciousness. She stepped backwards and her buttocks bumped the surface of his mahogany desk, but she ignored the pain that radiated up along her spine, as panic set her heart into a too fast rhythm. “I must leave,” she managed to squeeze those words past dry lips. “It would
be ruinous for us to be discovered.” He’d be forced into a union with her and she didn’t doubt the honorable, respectable duke would do that which was honorable.
Or that she’d want him to. Oh, God.
“Yes, it would.” Yet, he made no move to leave.
Knowing with each passing moment she spent in his company that he slowly and surely overrode her defenses and robbed her of reason, Theodosia spun about and sprinted to the door.
Perhaps it was a sign that Damian recognized the folly in these stolen interludes with a Rayne, for he allowed her to flee.
*
Damian stared at the open door Theodosia had stolen through and with this flight there was an air of finality. Just as there had been no reason for their meetings to this point, now there was even less so—and more, an impossibility of any such meetings. There would be no more masquerades and no more betrothal balls until, at the very earliest, next Season, and so he and Theodosia would continue moving along their own separate paths, belonging to different parts of the same world.
Pressure squeezed hard about his chest and, with a curse, he stomped over and retrieved the item that had brought Theodosia into his life rattling his defenses. A bitter laugh escaped him as he fixed his gaze on the hard to make out etchings upon the sword. How very ironic that the object to bring them together shared the name of the lady herself.
Faint footsteps sounded in the hall and he glanced up. “Theo—”
His youngest brother, James, stood framed in the entrance. At nineteen, he was just out of university and still bore traces of a young man who delighted in causing havoc for their mother which invariably meant havoc for Damian.
“James,” he greeted. At the suspicious glint in his brother’s eyes, a guilty flush burned his neck.
“Were you expecting another?”
Hoping for. “What do you want?”
“I saw a certain woman fleeing down the corridors.”
Bloody hell. “Oh?” Sword in hand, he carried it to the sideboard and rested it upon the all but barren surface. He reached for one of the decanters not destroyed by Theodosia’s efforts two nights earlier and poured himself a snifter. “Was there?”
As tenacious as a bur stuck in a heel, James closed the door behind him. “Yes, there was. But for her hair tumbling down her back,” Christ. “She bore a striking resemblance to the Rayne chit who interrupted Charles’ betrothal ball.”
“As I did not see this woman, I could not comment either way,” he said in clipped tones. He downed half the contents of his glass in one, slow swallow. His lips pulled back in a grimace at the burn of the liquid. At his brother’s droll grin, he took another sip.
James motioned to his desk. “Oh? Perhaps those hair combs belong to an altogether different woman than the er…woman who looks a good deal like the Rayne chit who is, in fact, a different woman.”
Damian choked on his swallow, following his brother’s hand to the damning amethyst pieces Theodosia had left behind in her wake. “That is likely the case,” he managed to say with even features.
“Of course. I was merely sent by Mother to see that you return for the toasting portion of the evening’s business.”
Finishing his brandy, Damian set the glass down. He took a step forward when James spoke. “I understand that the mystery woman fleeing through the corridors was not, in fact, a Rayne, but if she were a Rayne, and she did make you happy, then I daresay braving Mother’s disappointment and all the nonsense history between the families would indeed be worth it.” His grin widened. “That is, if it were, in fact, a Rayne who made you happy. Which it isn’t? Correct?”
“That is correct.” His voice emerged garbled to his own ears.
Then, his young brother, who’d seen nothing of the world, gave a knowing wink.
As he fell into step beside James and made his return to the ballroom, Damian thought to those hair combs, even now out upon his desk.
By Theodosia’s love of lore and legend, those delicate pieces that had adorned her midnight tresses meant a good deal to the lady. She’d require those pieces back.
Yes, he needed to see her. For no other reason than to return the lady’s rightful possessions to her person. It had nothing to do with a desire to see her.
Nothing at all.
Chapter Ten
She’d forgotten her thistle hair combs. At Theodosia’s birth, the precious gold and amethyst pieces had been commissioned by her father, a gift to a newborn daughter to symbolize the importance of their story and the power of that legend—and she’d gone and left the two and twenty year old pieces in the Duke of Devlin’s office.
Seated in the corner of the carriage, Theodosia tried to make herself as small as possible. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice. Her mama and papa were not the most astute of parents. Her brothers were self-absorbed, of which self-absorbed siblings, only one accompanied them this evening. Why, there was no need at all for anyone to note the substituted combs tucked in her dark hair.
“Where are your thistles?”
She jumped and shifted her attention to her father who stared at her head as perplexed as though she’d sprouted a second one.
“My thistles?” At the very least she should have had a suitable reply other than “my thistles”.
Mama leaned forward in her seat and peered closely at Theodosia. “Yes. Where are your hair combs?”
They are with Damian. As in the Duke of Devlin. How would they respond to that admission? “I believed the butterfly combs were appropriate.” She held her breath praying no further explanation was required on just how they were appropriate or why or any other question for which she had no answer. Theodosia sent a prayer skyward when the carriage rocked to a halt before their destination.
A servant pulled open the carriage door and reached a hand inside. She accepted the offer, bypassing her mother and father and drew in a deep breath of the spring air.
“Lost them did you?”
She jumped and turned to face her brother. “You startled me.”
Aidan grinned. “And you didn’t answer my question.” Would he still be smiling if he knew where those precious, gold pieces had been left? Likely not. He’d long been the hotheaded Rayne with an explosive temper.
“Yes, I lost them,” she conceded for that admission was far safer than any further prevarication. Yet Aidan could never learn the whole truth. Their father had always said all the Raynes believed in the legend and lore behind the Theodosia sword, but only Aidan lived, breathed, and bled the legend and had since he’d been a bloodthirsty boy playing with his toy soldiers in fabled fields of battle. He held out his arm and she slipped her fingers onto his sleeve.
They followed along behind their parents. “Did you find it?”
“If I had them, I would be wearing them,” she muttered.
“The Theodosia.” He shot her a sideways glance.
Blinkblinkblink. Of course. She’d quite boldly and honestly admitted her plans for last evening. No one had inquired and she’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of Damian and his kiss and the imagined battle they’d been locked in while they handled the sword. “I did,” she finally said.
He sucked in a gasping breath and stopped, until she was forced to either stop as well or be dragged down. “You saw it.”
His was an awed proclamation and yet she nodded anyway. “What does it look like?”
“It is…heavy.” But not when you’re wrapped in the arms of another and together you wield that massive weapon. Her body still burned with the feel of his skin flush against her.
She gasped as Aidan took her by the shoulders. “You held it.” Awe laced those three words.
“Twice,” she confessed. She’d not mention the bit about the masquerade. By his volatile reaction yesterday evening following her announced plans to attend Lord Renshaw’s betrothal ball, he’d be less than pleased to know she’d been a guest at the sought after event of the Season—the Duke of Devlin’s masquerade.
Their parents
tossed a questioning look back at them, which propelled brother and sister into motion. “Is it as magnificent to behold as is purported?” he asked with the same enthusiasm he’d demonstrated as boy asking that very question at their father’s knee.
She chewed her lip contemplatively. Odd, for the desperation that had driven her to brave the Duke of Devlin’s home, not once but twice all for the legendary sword, she’d not given thought to anything more than Damian. The gentleman with a hauntingly beautiful face, who she’d been taught to fear.
“Theo?”
“Magnificent.” For the mark upon the left side of his face added depth and resilience to the man.
Further questions ended as they stepped inside the townhouse and were ushered to the ballroom. They took their place in the receiving line and Theodosia sighed. Of all aspects of soirees and balls, the receiving line was by far the most painfully awkward moment of the evening. After all, a wallflower could seek out her place alongside the wall and escape notice…but not before said wallflower was presented on display and whispered about and laughed at for being so very different than the graceful, beautiful Lady Minervas of the world.
The crush of guests present cast unnatural warmth upon the crowded ballroom.
She stared over the tops of the heads of the lords and ladies milling and dancing. A whisper went up. A whisper not at all like the “there-is-plump-Theodosia-and-her-sad-family”, and more like the whispers of some great, juicy morsel of gossip that had captured their attention. Her shoulders sagged as she gave thanks for whatever diversion now occupied—
“Bloody hell, what is he doing here,” Aidan hissed.
And Theodosia knew. Knew in the way her skin pricked with awareness and the warmth spiraling out from her belly that he was there. She found him instantly, across the ballroom. Blinkblinkblink. He stood alongside one of the towering, white columns, wholly elegant and unaffected by the whispers. Theodosia swallowed.
“Theo!” Her brother’s sharp tone snapped her from her reverie.
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