Page 161 of Dukes for Dessert

“That one gives me doubts,” Carol whispered hurriedly and then without another word, disappeared into the crowd.

Theo hesitated and surveyed the crowded room. She shifted her armor, wishing Joan of Arc had managed to fight a battle in something at least less sweltering. Then, gossamer or satin or silk provided little protection against an enemy’s blade.

The orchestra concluded a lively country reel and the room erupted into a blaring cheer. An involuntary grin pulled at her lips and, for a moment, she forgot what brought her here. Forgot that her brother Richard had taken to overindulging in spirits after his heart had been broken and forgot that another brother had gone missing after fighting Boney’s forces.

For in this moment, if even for just a bit, it felt nice to simply be any other young lady lost in the merriment of the evening. On the heel of that was the tug of guilt. Even if all her efforts here this evening were for her family…all they would know is that she’d entered the Devil’s lair.

Theo eyed the door. She really should be after the broadsword, now. In fact, she should have begun her search as soon as she’d arrived. And yet…she lingered in the corner of the ballroom, on the fringe, unnoticed by all.

Which was best. It was far safer this way. Yes, it was best if she remained as invisible as possible. Anything else would be calamitous.

2

Chapter Two

He’d noted her the moment she walked in the room.

And Damian, the Duke of Devlin, made it a point to not notice anyone. A duke who noted the appearance of young ladies often found himself inevitably trapped, tricked, or seduced into more with those young ladies.

He peered over the heads of the couples now filing onto the dance floor for a tedious quadrille. At three inches past six feet, his height proved rather advantageous in this moment of studying the young woman.

The young lady alternated her gaze between the dance floor and the door, and even through the silver helmet she’d donned, the damned piece obscuring the color of her eyes, he saw the pull of longing.

Only, he couldn’t determine whether she one, wanted to dance, two, wanted to leave, or three, made eyes at a lover and pointed the nameless gentleman to the exit, an idea he found not at all palatable.

Damian preferred the first. Because in her armor-clad frame and too tight breeches that clung to generously abundant hips and buttocks, it would be quite a shame to see her leave. Not without knowing who the diminutive, if plump, warrior, in fact, was.

Someone took up position at his side. He silently cursed at the sudden and both untimely and unwelcome appearance of his younger brother, Gregory. “You can, at least, try to appear as though you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am not enjoying myself,” Damian said coolly, from the side of his mouth, to his most bothersome sibling.

Gregory grinned widely and Damian forced his stare away from the stranger in her armor. He held out a glass of champagne. “Ah, yes, but now you are in disguise and you shan’t have all those ladies fawning over you if you’re your usual boorish, ugly self.”

“I have little interest in having anyone fawn over me.”

His brother gave a mock shudder. “Egads, have a care what you say, man.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Should Mother hear you so disinterested in your Minerva she’ll have a fit of the vapors.”

Clearly not enjoying the evening’s festivities as he ought, Gregory opted to stay at his side and continue to make a nuisance of himself. “Though, I daresay I can never understand your appeal to the ladies. You’re deuced ugly.” There was the scar. “And you’ve a foul temper.” Which was more a product of devoting more attention to the title duke and the responsibilities that went with it, since he’d inherited the title and tasks charged him at age eighteen. But more importantly he had a dukedom, and that mattered to young ladies. And old ladies. Really, all women it often seemed.

“Shouldn’t you be off doing whatever it is you do at these events?” So he could attend the business of studying the plump warrioress across the hall.

“Dance,” his brother said with a wink. “You dance at these events.”

Damian ignored Gregory’s baiting in favor of studying the plump warrioress who now skirted the edge of his ballroom, with her back pressed against the plastered walls. He narrowed his eyes. Whatever was the chit doing?

“Though I daresay I’ve not seen you dance with anyone but your betrothed.”

The expectation had been there since he’d been a young boy of twelve and she’d been a proper, English girl of five. There’d been the talk with his father about the connection between their two great, ducal lines. However, “She is not my betrothed,” he muttered. She would be, or his father would turn in his grave.

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.