Page 167 of Dukes for Dessert

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.”