With Dreams Only of You

by Kathryn Le Veque, Suzan Tisdale, Eliza Knight, Cynthia Wright, Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon

  His brother snorted. “Do not allow Mother or your Lady Minerva to hear you say as much.”

  “Yes, that much is true,” he admitted. His mother would dissolve into a fit of vapors if he hinted at not offering for the Lady Minerva Quigley. Stunning, blonde, and with a sultry set of blue eyes for one just on her second Season, he supposed there could be any number of worse candidates for his future duchess than the daughter of his late father’s closest friend, a fellow duke. He thought of the creeper. “Though there is no formal arrangement,” he felt inclined to point out. For himself?

  Another snort escaped Gregory. “And most assuredly do not let Mother hear you say that.”

  The dancers parted, allowing him an unfiltered view of the lady warrior creeping along his wall like a growing vine of ivy. From across the room, their eyes locked. Where everyone was a Greek goddess or ruffled shepherdess, she, even in her bid to not stand out—stood out. Through the lady’s visor, he detected the rapid one-two-three blink of her eyes, and then she jerked her attention away…and continued her creeping. What was the lady doing in his ballroom, attempting to blend her form to the plaster of his walls?

  Gregory cursed, jerking Damian’s attention away from the mysterious young woman. He followed his brother’s stare.

  “Mother,” they said in unison.

  Even with the first spare to the heir, Charles, very nearly wed, their Mother would not be happy until her two remaining children were properly wed. More precisely—Damian. She bore down on them with an intentness in her hard, ice blue stare.

  Gregory groaned. “She has the look.”

  “Yes, yes she does.” They all knew the one. The look that said, even with the costumed ball, she planned on matchmaking, and as she’d already settled on Lady Minerva for Damian, this matchmaking likely involved the youngest Renshaw brother.

  “Go.”

  Gregory’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “You’re being magnanimous? You’re never magnanimous.”

  Mother was nearly upon them. “Unless, you’d care to meet the young woman she’s selected…”

  His brother spun on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Wherever did Gregory take himself off to?”

  Damian glanced from the corner of his eye. “Mother.” Unbidden, he looked for the lady plastering herself against his wall. He scanned the ballroom for the glint of metal, but it was as though she’d at last managed to merge herself with the wall and disappear from sight. Gone. Damian set aside the fleeting intrigue. With the exception of the members of his family, he didn’t make it his business to wonder after anyone or worry about them, and a lady likely meeting a lover certainly held little appeal.

  “Blast, I was trying to coordinate an introduction between him and Miss Carol Cresswall, the Viscount Fennimore’s sister.” She jerked her chin toward a shepherdess. “Regardless,” she said on a wave. “Minerva has arrived.”

  “Has she?” he asked in clipped tones. He found this annual masquerade quite tedious. In fact, he found balls, soirees, trips to the theatre, all of it tedious.

  “Must you act as though you find your own ball tedious?”

  “It’s hardly my ball,” he drawled. In truth, none of it interested him. Nothing, really interested him. There were the responsibilities to see to: his two brothers, one particularly trouble-seeking and an oft-displeased mama. The armor-clad warrior, however had interested him.

  He turned to go.

  “Are you leaving?” she squawked.

  Damian paused. “I’ve put in my requisite appearance, Mother.” He tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “Good evening.” He spun on his heel and left the indignant duchess gape-mouthed.

  He marched through the crowd, glad to put the boisterous cheer behind him and enjoy the quiet calm of his office.

  * * *

  Theo stole down the corridor. Her thin-soled, booted feet were noiseless against the blood red carpet. Perfect shade for the Devil Duke. She wrinkled her nose. After all, it was likely red because he’d used her family’s ancient weapon and slayed his foes, of which he had many. He must. Granted he was a duke, but by the reports, he was a scarred, foul-tempered beast. She paused at the end of the hall and looked left and right. With the corridors empty of servants and couples stealing away from the festivities, Theodosia then darted across the intersecting hall and came to an abrupt stop.

  Then tiptoeing past, one, two, three, and four doors indicated by Herbie, she paused. Before her courage deserted her, she shoved the door open and slipped inside. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the dimly lit space. Theo closed the door quietly behind her with a quiet click that sounded like a shot in the silence.

  Her heart hammered, the steady beat of her pulse deafening in her ears. So this was the devil’s lair. She scanned the massive space, wrinkling her nose. Or was it the devil’s den?

  Den. Lair. He probably had both. As did the Duke of Devlin.

  She gave her head a clearing shake. “Focus, Theodosia,” she muttered to herself and did a slow circle about, searching for the broadsword. Nay, her family’s broadsword.

  She took in the broad, immaculate, mahogany desk. “Likely because he doesn’t actually see to any real work,” she whispered to herself. A man whose family stole from others and built their successes off those same people he’d trampled upon would likely turn his responsibilities over to hardworking stewards and barristers.

  A gold framed painting hung over the fireplace mantel caught her notice. Drawn to the glimmer in the dark, she wandered close. Tilting her head back she stared at the tragic image captured upon the canvas. A chill coursed along her spine. There was nothing romantic or beautiful in the image. A warrior in full armor with his head bowed while a massive weapon was brought down, forever frozen with the edge of steel one sliver away from the end.

  What an awful way to be memorialized in time. In spite of herself, she hugged her arms to herself, and her own armor clanged noisily. The shiver of apprehension spread out, filling every corner of her being at the similarity between her and this unknown figure forever a brush-stroke away from death. The implications of her being here at last fully registering. Even as her family knew their rightful ownership of the weapon, the Devil Duke, and the rest of the world, would not see it that way.

  Her family wielded little power and influence where Devlin and his kin were concerned.

  “The sword, the sword,” she reminded herself, giving her head a shake as she returned to her purpose in stealing into the duke’s home. She scanned his office for a hint of metal.

  What if Herbie had been incorrect? What if—

  Her breath caught.

  The Theodosia sword. With her heart suspended in her breast, she stood transfixed. She’d only heard the legend, but had never before glimpsed the legendary weapon possessed by the great Rayne ancestors many years before. Her namesake. Drawn to it, her feet, of their own volition, carried her across the hardwood floor. Theodosia set down her sword quietly and then removed her helmet. She placed the headpiece beside the fake weapon and paused at the foot of the sideboard. With her heart thumping wildly, she stared up at the massive weapon.

  Even in the darkened room, there was an almost mystical quality to the weapon. The night shadows reflected off the shimmering, hard steel and glinted in the night.

  This was the weapon.

  The loss of this is was what had brought great strife to her family. The recent history had the weapon stolen and sold by Captain Tobias Ormond, a great shipping rival to her great ancestors. As the rightful owners, when the sword had been in her family’s possession, it had brought great happiness. Since being stolen and sold by Ormond to the Duke of Devlin’s devilish ancestors, her family’s fortune had deteriorated. Eagerness replaced all earlier reservations. It built steadily in her chest and threatened to spill past her lips on a giddy giggle.

  But she didn’t giggle.

  She was a blinker and a talker. But she’d never been one of those gig
gling ladies.

  A giggle fought past her lips. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the damning sound and stared up at the Theodosia sword once again. Then her mirth faded. She stitched her eyebrows into a single line. However was she to wrestle that massive weapon from its position upon the duke’s wall. She looked about for the time somewhere in this sweeping office and found it under the grim, massacre painting.

  Herbie would be here soon. He’d pledged to meet her in the corridor in twenty-three minutes after their arrival, with a loyal friend who owed him a debt. The specific time chosen by Theo, that was no mere coincidence. Twenty-three…the number of words etched upon that legendary weapon.

  Still, she’d little time to waste this evening.

  Theo eyed the sword a moment and then captured her chin between thumb and forefinger studying it. Nearly eight feet up on the wall, she couldn’t simply reach it with her fingers. Certainly not with her mere five feet and barely one inch of height. She searched around for…She widened her eyes and before her courage deserted her, hoisted herself up onto the duke’s sideboard, grunting as she struggled up with her heavy costume.

  Her heart thundered and a haze of fear momentarily clouded her vision. “Do not be silly, Theodosia Tonie Phillipa,” she demanded under her breath, pressing her palms to the wall, as the dizzying spell nearly overtook her. Since she’d been a small girl who’d tumbled from an oak tree, she’d had no business climbing. She’d had a deuced, awful fear of heights. Which defied logic. She forced her eyes open and stole a downward glance at the…“Bloody hell,” she gritted out past her teeth, as the room swayed once more.

  It really made little sense. She was not even four feet from the floor and yet…she may as well have been forty feet up. “Focus, Theodosia Tonie Phillipa.” Taking one more deep breath, she inched to the right. Her foot knocked into a crystal decanter and the bottle teetered left, right. Her breath caught as it rocked and then tipped onto its side. It hovered at the edge of the sideboard.

  She braced for it to roll off the edge and shatter, but the decanter lay upon its side frozen. Splendid! She’d long ago learned to look for the messages contained within the stars of life. Theo continued tiptoeing along the massive, mahogany sideboard. She stepped over the bottle. This was one of those messages that assured her that what she did was right, and would be all r…

  The heel of her slipper caught the edge of the bottle. Her breath caught as it rolled, rolled sideways along the mahogany piece and then, as if in slow motion, tumbled over the edge where it exploded into a thousand shards of crystal. Amber droplets sprayed the floor, splattered her breeches. She blanched and looked to the door bracing for some servants to charge through the door, jab their fingers, and yell “Thief”, calling for the constable.

  When no discoverers appeared, she breathed again. She continued moving inch by agonizing inch right, onward toward the symbol that had come to represent the reason of her family’s great misfortune, and her hopes for happiness. Theo stilled under the powerful weapon and, for a moment, even the crushing fear of heights to have dogged her all these years slipped away.

  Breath suspended, she reached up on the tip of her toes and brushed her finger along the metal hilt. She didn’t know what she expected. A flash of shining light illuminated by the heavens raining down upon the sword? The ancient whispers of the secrets contained within its metal contours breathed into existence.

  Not this…this…coldness. She cocked her head, studying it. Then, what had she expected of an ancient Roman Gladius? Well, it mattered not what it elicited upon touch, it mattered what it elicited by its presence in her life.

  With that, she reached her fingers for the hilt and then closed around the piece. She pulled.

  Nothing.

  She pulled again and merely served to dislodge a black curl sending it tumbling over her eye. Had the Devil Duke anchored the dratted thing to this spot since his family had purchased it from Ormond and committed that great theft, sixty-two years ago?

  Theo yanked once more and then it loosed free from its spot with such alacrity, she staggered under the enormous weight of the weapon and the suddenness of the movement. She shrieked, her heart dropping into her stomach and released her hold upon the powerful sword. I’m going to die here, in the Devil’s lair. Theo flung her arms open to keep from toppling to the floor.

  Her efforts proved futile. Theo grunted as she sailed over the edge of the sideboard. In her ignoble fall, she took with her a number of decanters and tumblers and landed hard upon the floor, amidst a sea of shattering glass and liquid. She rolled out of the way just as the Theodosia sword came down where her right foot had been. Pain radiated up her hip and sent agony racing up her spine and down her legs.

  This is not worth dying for.

  Stiff with pain, she shoved herself to her feet, shattered crystal cracking under her slippers. “I am not going to die.” Be thrown into Newgate as a thief, yes. Die. No. She leaned over the weapon, eyeing it a moment.

  All the pain and the horrifying terror that she’d be discovered were replaced by the growing sense of victory. She had done it. She, the most unsuspecting of all the Rayne siblings. One brother who’d been lost in battle. Literally, lost. No one had any idea where he’d gone. One brother who spent the better part of his days and nights mourning the loss of a woman, betrothed to one of their enemies. And then, she prone to trouble and mishaps had managed…this!

  With a grin, she bent to retrieve the Theodosia sword. Her smile withered and she winced from the soreness of her recent fall. Hilt in hand she straightened and staggered backwards, dragging the Gladius with her. “Oomph.” She scraped the giant blade along the immaculate hardwood floor.

  Or the once immaculate hardwood floor. Theo paused, halting her retreat. By God, the sword was bloody heavy. What did you expect? A child’s toy? “Certainly not this,” she mumbled.

  She took a moment to study the mess she’d made. The damning evidence shattered about the room. The entire collection of spirits upon the Devil’s sideboard. Another black curl tumbled over her brow. With her free hand, she brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear.

  Herbie was to meet her in the corridor, and even if she somehow managed to drag it from this room undetected, she’d wager the sword and her family’s safe, happy future that the young viscount wouldn’t be able to hoist the weapon.

  The door opened.

  She stared at the plaster wall where the Gladius had once hung. The door opened? Blinkblinkblink.

  “May I help you?” the cool baritone drawled from the doorway.

  The sword slipped from her fingers and she spun around to face the dark, towering, muscle-hewn gentleman who’d caught her notice in the hall. The gentleman who’d been watching her. Ah, yes, it all made sense. Herbie had likely realized they’d require help handling the weapon and he’d sent this stranger—which explained why the man had studied her in the ballroom a short while ago.

  She smiled. “Herbie sent you.” Theodosia motioned to the sword. “Which is splendid. I desperately require assistance.”

  Chapter Three

  Damian took in the empty space above the sideboard, the shattered glass throughout the room, the broadsword lying upon the floor. And then slowly, back to the diminutive, yet well-rounded, armor wearing miss who’d caught his attention in the ballroom.

  “I do not have much time.” Her voice clear like bells recalled his attention. “If you’d be so good as to pick that up,” she pointed to the sword. “I would be tremendously appreciative. I imagine Herbie realized it was entirely too cumbersome for the both of us.”

  Herbie?

  “And he surely realized one of your…” Her creamy, heart-shaped cheeks blazed red. “Er…he surely realized you could handle it with a good deal more ease than myself.” Or him, he swore she muttered.

  The lady was no warrior. Why, she was a thief. The lady was stealing. Nay, correction. The lady was not just stealing. She was stealing from him, the Duke of Devlin.
People were subservient and simpering around him, and they most certainly did not filch his personal belongings.

  “Hullo?” She waved her hand.

  “Yes?” he asked, closing the door behind him and turning the lock.

  She cocked her head. Apprehension settled on the delicate planes of her face, and then her eyes brightened. “Oh, splendid idea. It is far safer to close the door in case someone happens to come upon us.” The lady lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “Especially the Duke of Devlin. They say he is a horrid, odious beast.”

  They would be right.

  Damian strode over. He should be focused on the fact that some stranger had stolen into his home, invaded his office, and made a proper mess of his sideboard, and…He glanced down at the jagged marks upon his floor.

  The lady’s wide, cornflower blue eyes followed his stare. “Oh, that.”

  Instead of proper outrage, he stood transfixed by the riot of midnight black curls piled atop her head. He didn’t bother to point out that he’d, in fact, not issued any questions or statements.

  “I’m afraid the sword is responsible for that.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you suppose the duke will note the damage to his floor?”

  “I daresay he will,” he drawled.

  The young lady bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, yes I fear you’re right.” She jabbed her finger to the remnants that used to be his collection of brandy and whiskey. “We’d be wise to at least put the space to rights.” She scanned his office and then her eyes lit once more. “I have it!” She bounded across the room, her metal breastplate clanging noisily as she skidded to a stop beside a large urn. The thief held it aloft, as though she’d unearthed James Cook’s treasure and then grunted, staggering back under the weight of it. “Will you carry this for me, sir?”