Page 168 of Dukes for Dessert

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 joys 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 is 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 like 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 him, suddenly very eager to confront the remainder of the Season.

5

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.”