With Dreams Only of You

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

  Damian stalked over and wordlessly accepted his urn. She raced back to the pile of broken decanters and glasses. “Well, come over. We don’t have much time.”

  He lowered his brows. By God, the chit was ordering him about. Color bloomed on her cheeks as she added, “Please.”

  Damian closed the distance between them. In the course of his nine and twenty years, no one had dared order him about. Not his tutors, his nursemaids. Not his instructors at university. Even his own Mother was wise enough to not issue orders to him.

  The clink of crystal hitting the metal of the urn echoed. “Are you always this quiet?” she asked, pausing to look up from her efforts.

  “Yes.”

  Her lips twitched.

  He narrowed his eyes, and her smile withered. “Oh, I thought you were making light of me.” She returned to her clean up.

  “I do not make light of people.” And people didn’t make light of him.

  She wrinkled her nose. “What an odd friendship,” Nor did he have friends. “You and Herbie are an unlikely pairing.”

  Who in hell was this Herbie fellow? He ran the name through his mind, the partner to this thief who’d wrestled the great family relic from his wall.

  She paused once again. “Do you intend to help?”

  “Help?” He sent an eyebrow arching up.

  Her color deepened. “I understand you didn’t come to clean the Devil’s den.” Despite himself, his lips twitched. “And of course know it was my fault, however, I’d be grateful if you helped me tidy this, please.” The armor-clad thief expected him to clean?

  Silently, he went to a knee beside her and began picking up shards of glass, setting them into the urn. If a single member of his staff, family, or acquaintance saw him, they’d have him committed to Bedlam. In silence, he and the bold miss picked up shard after shard, in a tight, yet companionable silence. He stole a glance at her as she diligently cleaned his floor, dropping the larger shards into the urn. Feeling his gaze, she stopped and looked up.

  “What?” She was a fearless, unrepentant thing.

  He jerked his chin at her costume. “And what are you supposed to be?”

  “A shepherdess.”

  He passed a dubious stare over the lady.

  She grinned. “I’m merely teasing.” She waved a particularly jagged piece about and he leaned away from the lethal shard, not entirely sure the lady thief didn’t also intend murder that night. “I’m Joan of Arc.”

  Of course she was. Except, unlike that honorable, gallant defender, this one was, well, dishonorable. “You have me intrigued,” he said on an icy whisper.

  She stilled and picked her head up, with but a handbreadth of space between them. “I do?” And close as they were, he detected the trace of rosemary and sage that clung to her, as though she’d danced through a garden before infiltrating his home.

  Damian paused and captured a black curl that had tumbled over her brow. He tucked it behind her ear and the lady’s breath caught. “I gather you’re stealing the sword.”

  “Broadsword.”

  He looked at her askance.

  “I’m stealing the broadsword.” She frowned. “Well, I am not stealing it.”

  He’d learned long ago to live life in absolutes. Either she was or she wasn’t. There was no shade of in between. “Aren’t you?” What would the lady call her sneaking into a man’s office and filching a family artifact from his wall?

  She bristled with indignation. “I suspect Herbie didn’t take time to explain the situation to you, which is very like him. He was not at all comfortable with this rescue.”

  Rescue?

  She glanced about, searching for interlopers, seeming to forget he’d turned the lock. “The Devil Duke stole it.” Her soft whisper floated up to his ears.

  “I beg your pardon?” he barked. Damian didn’t give a jot about the legend and lore around the sword. He did, on the other hand, care a good deal about her casting aspersions on his family’s actions.

  The lady was either too cracked in the head to detect outrage, or was something of a lackwit, for she failed to show any hint of nervousness. Then, any person who’d steal into his home, all to abscond with his personal property was likely a combination of the two. She nodded emphatically. “Precisely. Stole it. Nicked it.” Purchased it for a significant sum. “Made off with it.” Had it turned over to his care by that Ormond fellow? She paused. “Or his vile ancestors did, anyway.” She looked to the sword, her expression serious, and then raised her eyes to his once more and firmed her jaw. “It is my family’s sword.”

  By God. It could not be. One of them wouldn’t have the audacity to dare enter his home and yet the lady’s knowledge of the history and interest in that weapon made sense. “What is your name?” he demanded. Because only one other family had maintained a claim, an erroneous claim to the revered artifact. And this plump, dark-haired siren was not—

  “Theodosia,” she pointed to the sword. “And that, sir, is the Theodosia sword.”

  Well, Lucifer’s army. It would seem she was.

  A Rayne.

  * * *

  The laconic, not at all smiling, mostly scowling gentleman certainly didn’t seem the type Herbie would keep company with. And certainly not the type of gentleman the shy, always-nervous, young viscount would best in a wager. Oh, she wasn’t judging the viscount unfairly. She’d sat across from Herbie in a game of whist and faro on a number of scores to know his exact abilities. Yet this man exuded a primal vitality not reserved for the mere mortals of the world such as Herbie, and all others she’d known.

  More than a foot taller than she, the powerful stranger’s muscle-hewn frame bespoke power and strength. Even through the black mask obscuring the stranger’s face, Theo appreciated the hard, chiseled planes of his cheeks. She detected the glint of intelligence in the gentleman’s ice blue eyes and was left to wonder as to what the gentleman would look like with the disguise removed.

  “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?” she asked, returning her attention to the much cleaner, still sloppy floor.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever smile?”

  At his silence, Theodosia picked her head up.

  “No,” he said coolly and then returned to picking up the pieces of the Devil’s brandy decanter.

  “Hmm.” It really wasn’t her business whether the stranger sent by Herbie was smiling or serious or seriously smiling. It mattered that she’d secured the sword, made quite the mess in her wake, and now cleaned said mess. That is what mattered, and yet, unbidden, she lifted her gaze to him once more—hopelessly intrigued.

  It was the masquerade and the thrill of excitement from being here, on the cusp of discovery that accounted for this unexpected interest in….Herbie’s friend. Herbie’s friend, who was, as of now, absent a name.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Of course I have a name,” he gritted out.

  Theodosia pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Of course you do—”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  Humph. Well, he was the surly sort-indeed. Then, she eyed him contemplatively. Considering he now braved the Devil’s displeasure and Newgate to help her, a stranger, retrieve her family’s sword spoke volumes of the man. It also occurred to her the anxiety he himself must be feeling. After all, the Theodosia sword was nothing to him, and yet everything to her. “Forgive me, you must fear the Devil, as well.”

  He stilled and gave her a probing stare.

  Theo stole a glance about. “The Devil.” One never knew where demons lurked. One such as the duke likely found little pleasure in inane amusements such as a masquerade and could very well now be seeking out his lair.

  His eyes narrowed and she patted him on the hand. “You needn’t fear. Your secret is safe with me. I’d no sooner confess your part in this retrieval to the Duke of Devlin than I would dance with the devil at midnight.”

  “My secret, you say?” The first hint of droll humor underscored that
question.

  She frowned. “Very well. I do see your point. My secret. I merely referred to your service.” Theo returned her attention to the pile of glass and the tiny slivers that remained. Concern turned in her belly. “It is hopeless, isn’t it?” At his questioning look, she slashed her hand at the mess she’d made of the situation. The entire point of her well-thought out mission had been to retrieve the broadsword, replace it with her own, and leave no hint of anything amiss. “A ruthless, self-absorbed man such as the duke would not have likely deigned to pick up his head to note anything amiss.” He arched a single dark brow. “With the sword,” she explained. Really, for the keenness of his ice blue stare, the fellow did seem to be having difficulty following along. “Perhaps one day, years later he might have noted something amiss, but now with this.” Theo looked at the barren sideboard. “Why, he’ll notice this.”

  “Undoubtedly,” the stranger said dryly.

  She pursed her lips. Theo appreciated his help. She truly did. Yet, he needn’t find such humor in the entire situation. With a resigned sigh, Theo shoved to her feet and dusted her palms together. “We must leave the remainder.” She’d already been gone too long from the festivities. She’d secured the sword and now it was time to make her retreat.

  The dark stranger unfurled to his full, towering height and Theo really should be thinking of escape and the victory of having the weapon in hand, and yet…she swallowed hard. She inched her gaze up, up, ever upwards, from the broad wall of his powerfully muscled chest to the square jaw and the sharp planes of his chiseled cheeks not obscured by that dark mask and then she settled her eyes on his. Hard, unrelenting, and curiously devoid of emotion, his stare penetrated her in a way that quelled all thoughts of flight. With his midnight black attire, black domino, and dark, unfashionably long hair, he cut a terrifying figure and she wondered, not for the first time, at his costume selection. After all, one always feared what they didn’t know. At her stare, the gentleman winged another brow upward. “Who are you?” she blurted. At her own audacity, heat slapped her cheeks, and she gestured to his dark attire. “I am Joan of Arc, and you are—”

  With long, powerful fingers, he freed the mask concealing his identity and tossed the thin fabric aside. “The Devil Duke.”

  Even with only half of his face presented her, her breath caught at the glorious perfection of the man. The chiseled perfection of his aquiline cheeks would have inspired envy in one of those marble masterpieces crafted by Michelangelo. She’d never been one to be stricken silent by a handsome gentleman and so she forced words past dry lips. “I daresay if you’re to arrive as the Devil, you’d be requiring that nasty, wicked scar he’s rumored to possess.”

  The gentleman shifted, presenting the full of his face. Her heart thumped a wildly erratic rhythm. In full, he was even more glorious…and she blinked, and then went on tiptoe peering up at the wicked scar that ran from the corner of his eye, bisecting his cheek, and ending at the slight cleft above his lips. “Why, you have even applied a false scar.” Theodosia frowned. That wasn’t well done of the man. She might herself despise the Duke of Devlin and his entire family but she would never be so cruel as to mock a man’s disfigurement. Then, with a boldness inspired by secret identities and the cover provided by the masquerade, she touched her fingertips to the mark upon his face.

  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—”