Page 170 of Dukes for Dessert

“What?”

It spoke volumes that even the, of late, laconic Richard was the one to speak, incredulity lacing that terse utterance. She held up her gloved palms. “Surely you see the situation with Richard and his Miss Roberts.” Her throat worked painfully and she forced the words out. “And Lucas…we require that sword.”

Papa slowly lowered his paper and stared at her over the top of the sheet, his expression curiously blank. Long a believer in the legend, he’d touted the wonders of the sword and spoken to his children of the greatness to come to the rightful owner, of which, their family was. In her fanciful beliefs and dreams, she’d inherited her father’s spirit.

Mama looked back and forth between them, but it was Aidan who spoke. “Surely you’ll not agree to this madness,” he bit out. He pressed ahead, not permitting anyone else to speak. “Furthermore, you intend to just saunter into the Devil Duke’s lair, on the evening of his brother’s betrothal ball, as bold as you please, and intrude upon their festivities, not believing that he’ll have you thrown out onto your Rayne arse.”

Their mother’s scandalized gasp slashed into Aidan’s vulgar words.

Theodosia slowly smiled. “Why, yes.” That is precisely what she believed.

“Then you’re a bloody fool,” Richard said, in deadened tones, interrupting his brother’s impending diatribe. He swept the decanter from the table and poured himself several fingers of liquor and then thought better of it, filling the snifter to the rim. “You fail to realize the Renshaw’s do not give a jot for any member of the Rayne line. He’ll see you destroyed, just as his brother destroyed me.”

With those ominous words echoing in the quiet, Theo turned around, not allowing any further objections to be voiced, and left.

A gentleman who kissed with the heated intensity she’d known in Damian’s arms could likely destroy her, if she allowed it. And she had no intention of allowing him any greater hold than she’d already allowed with that kiss that had left a mark upon her soul.

6

Chapter Six

Over the rim of his champagne glass, Damian eyed the crowded ballroom with detached interest. He deliberately skimmed his cold stare past the eager mamas with their even more eager daughters, hoping the rumors of an impending betrothal between Lady Minerva and himself were nothing more than rumors inspired by the two families’ close ties.

“You would believe with one wedding to plan, we’d be free of her matchmaking,” his brother groused at his side.

He peered out the corner of his eye at Gregory who also scanned the ballroom, as though plotting a well-coordinated escape. Envy pulled at Damian at the knowledge that Gregory, could by the very order of his birth, manage to disappear and shift attention from himself if he so desired. Whereas from the moment of his birth as heir to a dukedom, Damian had been fawned over and sought after for no reason other than that proverbial order. Though, there had been one woman who’d not responded with the fawning and simpering Damian had come to expect. The memory of Lady Theodosia in all her spitting fury and fiery passion flashed to mind. A grin pulled at his lips. No, that lady had not given a jot that he’d been a duke. In fact, she’d like to have sent him to the devil with his familial title as his only company, if afforded that opportunity. Except for that kiss—that kiss had told an altogether different tale of the lady’s interest.

“Who is she?”

Damian glanced about. What was his brother on about? “I beg your pardon?” he asked searching for the person in question.

Gregory rescued a glass of champagne from a passing servant. “I daresay if it is not the Lady Minerva who has you grinning like a lackwit these past days, you’ll have a none-too-pleased mama that we’ll be forced to deal with. It would, however, prove a diversion from Mother’s unnecessary matchmaking between me and Miss Carol Cresswall.”

“Shove off,” Damian snapped, unnerved by how unerringly accurate his brother’s words were. Damian knew better than to make a fool of himself over a Rayne. And by the long-standing feud between them, there really was no reason to give the lady another thought. The likelihood of them meeting was as great as the Thames freezing. “There is no lady,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, well knowing that one too loud whisper would mean scandal.

“I—” His brother’s words ended abruptly and he widened his eyes. “By God, what in the hell is she doing here?” His shocked question was met with a flurry of whispers that filtered through the ballroom, as all eyes turned to the front of the hall.

Damian followed the stares and his breath stuck in his chest. He should be outraged at the lady’s insolence. He should have her tossed out on her ear for said insolence in showing her face at a Renshaw betrothal ball. Yet, an odd lightness filled his chest as he took in the sight of her. Gone were the lady’s armor and breastplate and helmet. And yet, for her boldness in the face of Society’s focus, she was as brave as that legendary warrior herself. But for the faintest quiver to those full-lips he’d dreamt of for the past two nights, Lady Theodosia gave no indication that she noted the ton’s cruel focus, the pointing fingers, the sneering faces.

After all, the esteemed guests who’d received an illustrious invite to the event would never dare insult the host with niceties for the family’s enemy.

How could one with her spirit and passion be an enemy? The lady walked side by side a woman with vague familiarity. “It is Mother’s Miss Carol Cresswall.” Mother’s Miss Carol, which was a rather clear statement on Gregory’s opinion of taking the woman to wife. His brother gave his head a wry shake. “Though I imagine after this showing by Miss Cresswall and that Rayne woman, our matchmaking mama will not be so very eager to wed me off to the family bold enough to bring the plump enemy within our fold.”

At those deliberately cruel words, Damian squeezed the stem of his flute so tightly, the thin crystal snapped. A servant rushed forward to clean the remnants of shattered crystal left. An unholy rage blackened his vision and he blinked it back, and when he still wanted to bury his fist in his brother’s face for that insult, he curled his hands into tight balls at his side.

“Contain your fury,” Gregory admonished, misinterpreting the reason for Damian’s rage.

“She’s hardly plump.” She was rounded perfection, soft in all the places a woman should be soft, curved in all the places a wise man longed for his woman to be curved.

Gregory opened and closed his mouth several times. Before his damned irritating and oft too astute brother established there had been a connection between Damian and Theodosia, he looked about for sight of their mother who, even now, was likely aware of the interloper to their family’s affair.

Theodosia made her way down the staircase, head held high, her gaze fixed just above the heads of the gaping lords and ladies. Then, as though she felt his stare upon her, the lady scanned the crowd. Their gazes collided and, even with the length of the ballroom between them, he detected the spark in her eyes. Was it desire? Passion? Fury? Then, a pink blush stained her cheeks and a primal masculine satisfaction unfurled within his chest.

Desire.

“Toss her out.”

He stiffened as Gregory’s words jerked his attention away from Theodosia. With an easy grin and possessed of a charm since he’d been coaxing sweet pies from Cook in the kitchen, Gregory had long been the affable member of the Renshaw lot. This unrelenting, ruthlessness fixed on Theodosia was not one Damian recognized nor cared for.