Only For His Lady (The Theodosia Sword Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  The gentleman shot a hand about her wrist, firmly encircling her flesh in a determined grip that was both oddly hard and gentle all at one. Her heart pounded harder as his eyes fell to her lips and for one maddening moment, she wanted this nameless, but no longer faceless, stranger who’d risked discovery to aid her, to place his mouth upon hers. He leaned down, shrinking the space between them and she fluttered her lids wildly as she turned her lips up to receive his kiss. “You misunderstand, Lady Theodosia.” A lethal steel underscored those whispered words, causing her to jerk her eyes open. The coolly mocking smile adorning his lips chilled her. “I am not disguised as the Duke of Devlin.” The first warning bells blared in her ears. “I am the Devil Duke.”

  Blinkblinkblink.

  Oh, dear.

  This was a problem, indeed.

  Chapter Four

  Damian took in the rapid and powerful range of emotions to cross the lady’s face; denial, a dawning truth, horror, and then ultimately, by the pale white of her skin and the rapid rise and fall of her chest, terror. Through it all, he continued to hold her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip. Then, her terror gave way to a flash of annoyance.

  Lady Theodosia yanked her hand free of his grip and then with all the bold indignation that legendary Joan of Arc herself had been famed for, planted her arms akimbo and glared. “That was rude of you. Rude and duplicitous and dishonorable.”

  He blinked and then searched about for the recipient of those rather vitriolic charges. Then he snapped his gaze to hers. By God, the lady spoke of him. In spite of himself, a rusty chuckle shook his chest.

  If looks could kill, he’d have been consigned to a blazing death by the fire in the lady’s eyes. When all others feared him, she took a step closer. “Are you laughing at me?” She jabbed him in the chest with her finger and he stared down at the long digit planted upon his chest.

  Damian claimed her wrist once more and Lady Theodosia’s lips parted on a moue of surprise. Fear immediately sparked to life in her eyes and the lady blinked several times in rapid succession. “Do you have something in your eye?” he snapped.

  “No.” She widened her eyes, as though to prevent that rapid one-two-three blink of her lids, and then she quickly schooled her features. For her family’s lineage and her treachery this night, the lady rose in his estimation. “I do not laugh, madam.” And yet this night, he’d been brought to more rusty grins than any time he recalled. He turned her wrist over and ran his thumb over the spot where her pulse pounded a wild rhythm. “I merely find it the height of irony that you should speak of honor and duplicity when you’ve stolen into a man’s home,” Her lips compressed into a single line. “And wrought havoc upon a room, all to commit the theft of another person’s property.”

  Her lips quivered and she alternated her stare between the spot he caressed with his finger and his gaze. Was her response one of desire? A flare of masculine approval roared to life, which was, of course, madness. The lady was a Rayne. “It is not yours.”

  He stilled and sought to make sense of her words through his body’s awareness of her.

  “The Theodosia sword belongs to my family. We are the rightful holders and I’ve come to reclaim it on behalf of the Rayne family.”

  Annoyance sparked at the lax mother and father and, worse, useless brothers who’d allow the lady to sacrifice her reputation, safety, and more her demmed neck to steal back something they’d erroneously considered themselves entitled to. “The sword is in the hands of the rightful owner.” He released her and gestured to the door. “Now, I advise you to take your leave, madam, and I will be generous enough to forget what transpired this evening.” In knowing when she turned on her heel and stole back to her family’s side, they’d never again meet, something akin to disappointment filled him—which was, of course, absurd. He did not know the little thief at all, nor by her family’s connection, would he ever.

  By the spirit the lady had demonstrated thus far, he should have reasoned she would not go easily. Lady Theodosia stood rooted to the floor, amidst shards of broken crystal. “I will not.”

  By the mutinous set to her mouth, he wagered he’d have to physically carry the lady from his office. He narrowed his eyes. People did not defy him; not lords, ladies, or servants. His position as the Devil Duke inspired fear and brooked obedience. As such, he knew not what to do with a small slip of a lady who so blatantly denied his command.

  “I need that sword.” As though there were another in question, she jerked her chin at the Theodosia sword. She paused. Did he imagine the sheen of tears that popped up behind her lids? He scoffed at that feminine wile employed by women of all stations to sway a man. Alas, tears held little effect over him. Then, the lady blinked several times as though shamed by those crystalline tokens of weakness and dropped her gaze to the floor. “My family needs that sword.”

  How interesting. He’d anticipated waterworks and pretty pleas. Once more his enemy’s daughter proved herself unlike any of the other women of his acquaintance. “Oh?” he drawled.

  She snapped her gaze up, fury in its blue depths. “Your family stole that weapon from mine and as such, you’ve stolen my family’s right to happiness, and instead we’ve been riddled with misfortune after misfortune.”

  He’d been labeled cold, unfeeling, and given the moniker the Devil Duke for such reasons, and yet the oddest shift occurred in his chest in thinking of this bold, spirited lady without happiness. Damian angled his head closer, expecting her to draw back. She remained fixed to her spot and merely tossed her head back to stare up at him. Her courage was a heady aphrodisiac and he took in her full, bow-shaped lips. Perhaps it was the madness of the night, but he wanted to lay claim to that mouth.

  “What misfortunes do you speak of?”

  With her nearness, the fragrant hint of lavender wafted about and filtered into his senses, and he drew deep. Madness. And yet he inhaled the feminine floral scent of her once more.

  “My brother,” she spoke in matter-of-fact tones that indicated she had no idea the effect she now had upon him.

  “Your brother?” he repeated.

  A dark curl slipped over her eye and he captured that lock.

  She slapped at his fingers. “Do pay attention. He is gone missing.” Ah yes, he’d read the papers reporting the spare to the heir with his military commission had gone to fight Boney’s forces. The gentleman, rumored to be lost in battle had never been accounted for and never returned. In spite of himself, pity stirred in his chest.

  “Do not look at me like that,” she said sharply. “He is alive.”

  He’d never been one to give false words and so he said nothing. The young man was dead and no hope in a fabled sword would ever bring him back. Unfortunately the lady was grounded in hopes and dreams and did not see the world in the cool, practical blacks and whites, which were. Fact: one was born scarred, he was ugly and feared. Fact: one was born to power and was respected for a title alone. There were no fairytale ends for men or women of any station. “And what other misfortunes has your—”

  “Your brother stole my brother, Richard’s love.” Ahh, yes. Of course. His brother, Charles, recently betrothed to Miss Candace Roberts, once courted by Lady Theodosia’s brother. “She loved him, as he loved her—”

  “If she loved him she’d even now be wed to him.”

  His bluntly spoken words brought her lips downward in a frown. “It is—”

  “Do not tell me, the broadsword?”

  “The Theodosia sword,” she bit out. “At the very least you can respect the weapon.”

  “I respect people deserving of my respect,” he said, giving her a pointed look. “I do not respect inanimate objects.”

  For a moment she balled her hands into tight fists and he’d have wagered the very sword they now fought over that the lady intended to plant him a facer, but then she uncurled her hands. “Your disdain of the legend is the very reason you are undeserving of the Theodosia sword. You take for granted your family’s joy
s and successes, not knowing what it is like to be the victim of—”

  “Your own circumstances, my lady. We make our own circumstances.” Just as the lady had tried to do this evening by sneaking in uninvited and stealing off with the weapon that had long adorned his walls. “Tales of legend and magic have little bearing on that which is real.”

  “If you believe that so, then give me the Theodosia.” The lady was nothing, if not determined.

  “I won’t.”

  She let out a huff of annoyance. “Very well.”

  Damian really shouldn’t ask, particularly when she gave him that I-really-want-you-to-ask look. “What?” he gritted out, hating this total lack of control where his enemy’s daughter was concerned.

  “I shall have to simply take it back at some other time.” She gave a flounce of her head and spun about.

  His booming laugh ended her dignified retreat. She teetered sideways and tossed her arms out to keep from falling. With a curse that would have blistered most gentlemen’s ears, the lady spun about. “I do not appreciate being laughed at.”

  “Oh, you mistake me,” he replied, drawn to her like one of those fool moths desiring death by flame. He continued advancing, and this time the lady was wise enough to retreat, until her back thumped against the door. Damian framed her within the wall of his arms. “I am not laughing at you.”

  “Y-you’re not?” The breathless inquiry carried up to his ears. “B-because it sounded as though you are.” She paused. “W-were.”

  “Not at all,” he whispered and, with his gaze, he reveled in her midnight black tresses once more. Yes, the shade leant the perfect element of intrigue to a lady who went about committing dangerous acts of theft. “I am laughing at your boldness, Theodosia.” He’d long been the practical brother. Not the roguish, charming younger Renshaw brothers. Rather, Damian had long been the reasonable, logical duke who did not turn himself over to emotion. His affairs were cool, emotionless matters, mere slaking of physical lusts to keep his mind clear for the responsibilities he had as duke.

  The muscles of Theodosia’s throat moved up and down with the force of her swallow. “I didn’t give you leave to refer to me by my Christian name.” And yet for the heat pouring from the lady’s frame, and the breathlessness of that charge, she remained resolute and he hated that she continued to defy his expectations of her and the cloying ladies before her.

  Damian rubbed his thumb over her lip. “I believe we’ve moved past formalities when you destroyed my sideboard and ruined my floor.” After this night, they would, by sheer circumstances of their families’ loathing for one another, and their dark history, never again meet. They’d long taken care of avoiding the same social functions. If he didn’t at least once know her mouth, he would always wonder as to the taste of her. He lowered his lips to hers.

  “What are you doing?” The breathless whisper froze him, their mouths so close, their breath mingled as one.

  “I am kissing you,” he said hoarsely. Praying she shoved him away and restored logic to the moment.

  “Why?”

  And because he had no plausible answer for the lady, he claimed her lips, gently at first. Honey and mint. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again until her lips parted on a small moan, permitting him entry. Damian swept his tongue inside and she met his in a bold thrust and parry, a rhythm to match that sword long fought over by their families. With a groan, he folded her in his arms and he, who’d long maintained control, searched the curves of her body. The cold armor was a mocking deterrent to the efforts. A shield, real and imagined, that cemented the truth that nothing more than a forbidden exchange could or ever would exist between them.

  The intrepid lady leaned up on tiptoe and twined her fingers in his hair, angling his head, availing herself to his offering. The suddenness of the movement sent the metal of her breastplate rattling and the glaring reminder cut across the momentary spell she’d cast upon him. With a curse, he backed away from her, heart beating loudly in his ears.

  Theodosia swayed on her feet. Her eyes glazed with passion and her lips were swollen from the imprint left by Damian’s kiss. She touched trembling fingertips to her mouth.

  “I suggest you leave, Theodosia,” he said with a gruffness that seemed to douse the lady’s ardor. She blinked several times and then horror filled her vision.

  For a brief, infinitesimal moment, he wanted her to boldly contradict his highhanded order. With a jerky nod, the lady fiddled with the lock and then yanked the door open. She fled, leaving nothing but silence and the raggedness of his own breath in her wake. Damian rubbed a hand over his face. What spell had the lady cast upon him?

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and his hand fell swiftly to his side.

  Theodosia swept into the room, as boldly as though she were the owner. “I forgot my helmet.”

  His lips twitched and he longed for the exchange to carry on, but the lady with her fiery eyes was clearly of a differing mind frame. She jammed the helmet upon her head and then gave him a pointed look. “And I assure you, this will not be the last time you see me, Damian.” With that, she took her final leave.

  And as Damian stood staring after her, a slow grin pulled his lips upwards at the challenge she’d tossed, suddenly very eager to confront the remainder of the Season.

  Chapter Five

  Two nights later, Theo stood outside the parlor her family was now assembled in. Their words and the periodic chuckles of her older brothers lost to her. She chewed at her lower lip and considered her meeting with the Devil Duke from two nights prior. Never had there been a moniker more apt for a man than his. With the ink black of his thick, slightly curled hair to the sharpness of his features and the jagged scar upon his face, he could very well be the devil himself. And yet, she leaned against the plaster walls and closed her eyes. It would be so very much easier if he were the devil she’d taken him for. The coldhearted duke the papers had purported him to be would have had her pay for the crime of entering his home and destroying his property, and with the long-standing feud between their families, would have reveled in exposing her, and shaming all the Raynes with Theo’s actions. Instead, he’d knelt beside her and cleaned the mess she’d made of his office and then there had been the kiss. God help her. There had been the kiss.

  She pressed a hand to her chest. Her first kiss. No gentleman had ever dared to kiss her. None had even expressed so much as a fledgling of interest in her, the too rounded, plump Rayne daughter. Short where other ladies were tall and trim, carrying themselves in a manner befitting a regal queen. Theo had long been the bumbling sort. The one say, who miscalculated the size of a certain broadsword and then with that same weapon destroyed a floor, and shattered a collection of brandy and various other spirits. A rather expensive collection, she’d wager.

  “…to marry his Miss Roberts.”

  From within the room, Mother’s words cut into Theodosia’s musings. Her ears pricked up. They all knew of Richard’s love and subsequent broken heart for his Miss Roberts who’d gone and chosen a Renshaw. It was not, however, a matter they spoke of.

  “She’d choose a vile beast,” her brother Aidan spat, loyal as the rest of the Raynes.

  Ah, they would, however, mention Richard’s sadness if it were a means to disparage the Duke of Devlin’s family. As her family proceeded to attack with their words the enemy family, an unwitting frown formed on Theo’s lips. How many years had her family sat about discussing the Renshaw family, reviling them with their words and tones and telling? Since as long as Theo could remember, being a girl of four, seated at her father’s knee, listening to the story of the Theodosia sword, her namesake, and that villainous Captain Ormond who’d commandeered the weapon and so destroyed her ancestor’s right to happiness. All for a handful of coins. Granted, a rumored small fortune from the Renshaw family.

  Now, hovering in the doorway, a coward too afraid to announce herself and her plans for the evening, she acknowledged that her family had become a bitter,
angry lot. Or had they always been so?

  There was a pause in her family’s discourse and Theo took advantage of that silence. She stepped into the doorway. “Hullo.”

  “Hullo, Theo,” her mother greeted, glancing up from her needlepoint.

  Her father lowered his paper and took in her formal ball gown. “Where are you off to?”

  Tonight was the betrothal ball of Miss Roberts to Lord Charles Renshaw. As the most distinguished, anticipated event of the Season, her family had wisely decided some time ago to not present themselves at any other inferior event. Not on the night of the ball for their enemy’s offspring.

  “No words from you?” her brother Aidan teased. “This is usually a sign of—”

  “I’ll be attending the betrothal ball with Carol and Herbert.” Framed in the doorway, attired in her lavender, satin skirts, Theo forced a smile and met the baffled, befuddled and annoyed glances of the Rayne family. Silence met her pronouncement. With a jaunty wave, she turned to leave.

  Her brother’s sharp bark of laughter froze her mid-movement. “By God, Theo, you’re not usually humorous.”

  She turned around on a frown. “I am humorous.” Though, she supposed if one had to say as much, they weren’t truly as amusing as one hoped. She shook her head. Nor was this a matter of amusement. This was a matter of seeing Damian. With a silent curse she gave her head another shake. Nay, not Damian, the Devil Duke. Well, hell, that wasn’t altogether correct, either. There was the matter of the Theodosia sword. She gave a pleased nod. Yes, that was it.