A Rescue by the Rakish Duke (A Game of Rakes #5)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

“ Y ou will take the duchess’s chambers, as expected,” Damian declared, leading his wife up the grand staircase.

He didn’t normally look back when walking, but he did now to see if she was following.

Gwendoline was not born poor. With a titled father and a modest home in the eyes of the ton, she had experienced comfort.

Still, Greyvale seemed to overwhelm her, judging by her open mouth and wide eyes.

Here in Greyvale, the staff lined up in neat rows to greet the duke and his new wife. Damian returned the bows and curtsies with a perfunctory nod. He was more focused on ushering Gwendoline inside.

He noticed the way her eyes darted around. She looked like a child taking in everything—the intricate and opulent interiors, the high ceiling, and the coordinated way his servants moved, from receiving them to returning to their tasks.

The hand he kept on her lower back dropped as if scalded. It seemed that she didn’t notice anything when he took a few steps back.

What was he thinking? Why did he make such a brash decision?

Damian was always a picture of control. He blamed Montrose for the changes in him. The cad ignited a fury that he didn’t know he was capable of harboring.

Gwendoline would need to adjust to everything, but he had little intention of helping her do so. His mind would be elsewhere, occupied by hatred.

She seemed captivated by Greyvale. Perhaps she would be too preoccupied with the estate that she wouldn’t ask questions again.

“They adjoin my room, should you need anything,” he added.

Somehow—though he had met her only a few days ago—he already knew that she would have a retort for that. What she said, however, was not what he had been expecting. He thought that she would protest the proximity and question his motivations.

She stopped her perusal of the mansion to focus on him. “And will you be available, should I need anything?”

Doubt hung heavy in those words.

A doubt of a different kind.

Although he had an answer for her every question and complaint, Damian understood her. Not enough to comply with her requests, but enough to know that he was not dealing with a complete nitwit.

He did stop walking and looked her in the eye. She deserved that much.

“I trust you will find the servants quite capable. It is why Greyvale has a number of them at our beck and call. For everything else, Duchess, I know you can manage on your own.”

He watched her lips press into a thin line, but she remained quiet. For once. Perhaps she was beginning to accept the situation without any more questions.

He left her there, suddenly craving the solitude of his study.

The next few days passed in a blur of routine. Damian did what he was good at—keeping the estate running smoothly. Yet, no matter how deeply he buried himself in his responsibilities, he could not escape Gwendoline completely. His new wife haunted the halls of Greyvale.

He would see glimpses of her in the countless galleries of the grand mansion, like an indignant ghost. Her steps would be hesitant but purposeful—perhaps a way to find some kind of reason for her new life.

He couldn’t help but notice some details. The forced smiles. The quiet, barely imperceptible steps. The wide eyes.

It unsettled him.

He knew that he thought himself a hero during the heat of the moment, but he had begun questioning the wisdom of his decision. He could have just brought her home and kept her safe. What was the business of marrying her?

He could still see the horror and disdain on Montrose’s face.

God, he had done everything to spite the man.

But now…

Montrose didn’t give a damn about Gwendoline. He was more interested in the money and deals she could bring in.

Damian had always prided himself on the restraint and control he had in every aspect of his life. Society thought they knew him, labeled him a rake, but he had always kept the world at arm’s length.

However, there was something about Gwendoline. Her eyes were often probing. She was so curious about everything, asking him questions other people had never dared to ask. Her candor was disarming, but damn him if he had to admit that to her.

Somehow, his new wife had been trying her best to respect their agreement. No romantic ties. No friendship. They were just two people who were tied by a legally binding document, living in one house. Nothing else.

Why should he bother with her at all?

Gwendoline adjusting quickly to her new role as Duchess of Greyvale should be one last thing to worry about. She had managed to convincingly carve a place for herself in his sprawling estate.

It was fascinating that she showed how angry and confused she was, fighting for her right to freedom and independence. Then, when she was married and deposited in Greyvale, she quieted down.

Damian’s chest tightened at the thought, that perhaps he had snuffed out the fight in her.

He discovered that she had solicited the help of the steward, Mr. Seaton, in understanding the day-to-day running of the estate.

The poor man was at first hesitant to explain the operations, but she was persistent. It was probably a mix of genuine interest and boredom on her part.

Was she trying to prove something?

“What are the crops we will be using this season? How about the next?” she asked, sounding sincere.

The small study Damian assigned to her seemed to be in good use. The door remained open as appropriate, and he tried to be as stealthy with his eavesdropping.

He shouldn’t be there. He should be away from this woman, who had somehow taken over his home. But something held him back.

“Were there any tenant disputes so far? Or over the past few years?” Her voice had become more confident after each afternoon she had Seaton tutoring her.

Seaton’s responses were always too soft for Damian to hear from the outside. He liked to mumble. However, she seemed to be content with their meetings. She would make the rounds, talking to servants and finding out how things went.

Damian was an observant man. He saw how his servants’ gazes would follow his new duchess. They talked about her—in a positive manner, apparently. Some smiled openly at her, while they barely offered him—their master—a twitch of the lips.

“Y-You’re Andrew, aren’t you? And you, you’re Martha,” Gwendoline said triumphantly.

She had been learning their names by heart, almost like a child getting ready to be tested at school.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the servants would say, each giving her a beaming smile and a bow.

“Mrs. Albright, you certainly did a wonderful job maintaining this grand property.”

She was not afraid to gush, just like any guest would when they had first visited Greyvale.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Albright responded with a smug smile and a chin tilted to the skies. “A grand place such as Greyvale deserves all the love it can get.”

“What would be needed to maintain an old property like Greyvale?” Gwendoline asked, making Damian’s ears perk up.

Old? Was that what she thought when she saw Greyvale?

He was so focused on her voice that he didn’t hear the response that she received, and somehow, he didn’t care. All he wanted to hear was her melodic voice, kind and calm when he wasn’t involved. He chuckled at that thought.

“Thank you, Osmond,” she said cheerfully after listening to whatever response was given to her.

If Gwendoline knew that her husband had eyes and ears everywhere, she did not show any sign of it. Sometimes she lingered in the kitchens, not caring that everyone stared at her because duchesses were not expected to linger in places where the servants congregated.

Cook would redden and smile at her compliments, not expecting the praise of the lady of the house.

At first, the servants were skeptical of her. They thought that the new duchess was simply trying to endear herself to them. Even Damian wondered if it was all a ploy and if she was more like Montrose than he had initially thought. However, the new lady of the house remained as she was from the start.

Friendly. Inquisitive. Willing to learn.

She gave him a headache.

Gwendoline had relegated him to the shadows in the corners of his own home. The wide-eyed girl who tiptoed from one room to another now walked with her back straight. It didn’t matter that her clothes had loose threads or that she didn’t have any piece of jewelry. There was a different kind of confidence in her, one that didn’t involve any artifice.

Surely, she had her own jewelry? Perhaps Montrose had sold it all or kept it for himself for when he finally married.

The ton had speculated that neither of them would ever find a wife. They thought Damian would never marry because of his rakish ways, and Timothy should not marry because of how he treated women.

On his walks, Damian would also see a different side of his wife. Whenever she thought nobody was watching her, she would pause by the windows and look out. Her gaze would become distant, and her hand would reach out for the glass sometimes as if it had the answers to her questions.

Then, after moments of introspection, she would take a deep breath and roam Greyvale’s halls and galleries. It looked like she had tasked herself with saving his domain, like a helpful ghost.

It was a wonder to see her drawn face break into a friendly smile as she conferred with yet another member of his household.

She talked to the head gardener about the greenhouse, the flowers, and even the garden as a whole. She recommended a planting schedule that she believed would ensure the blooms lasted longer. The gardener seemed happy with her suggestion.

“That’s a practical and insightful recommendation, Your Grace,” he agreed, not even offended that a duchess was giving him some recommendations on how to do his job.

Moments like this made Damian smile, though faintly and fleetingly. Had he managed to marry a clever woman? His only intent was to marry her as part of his long-term plans. He didn’t care about her skills and capabilities.

At every turn, she seemed to haunt him.

And sometimes, he had to meet her ghost head-on.

Damian had not intended to follow Gwendoline tonight. His feet had moved down the dimly lit hallway of their own accord. Candlelight flickered from the sconces on the stone walls, casting shifting shadows on the paintings.

The thought that he’d see her came to his mind. After all, she was known to check on the staff even in the evening. She liked to ensure that not only was everything in order but also everyone was well.

It was peculiar for a duchess who grew up as the daughter of an earl, but Damian found himself inexplicably fascinated by it.

The chance encounter started innocently enough. She was a distant figure at the end of a corridor, her hair catching the faint glow of a servant’s lamp. Her voice was soft as she exchanged words with a maid.

“Oh, Hannah, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you finishing up for the night? It’s late, and you’ve been working so hard. Please don’t feel you need to stay up on my account. I know you are not well. Have you taken the tea I made you for your courses?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Hannah replied meekly, looking at Gwendoline as if she were some saint or savior.

Damian could not blame the maid.

Usually, he would find a way to retreat without being noticed. However, he had enough. Her voice lingered in his dreams. It was a mix of the sweet, cajoling voice she reserved for the servants and the bitter, accusatory one she reserved for him.

And perhaps for Montrose.

Damian winced at the thought of being compared with the scoundrel. While he needed clarity and space, it seemed that he also needed to talk to Gwendoline.

At least, his feet believed so.

Ha!

They took his blameless self out of his chambers and to hers. They knew that she was still walking her usual path before she retired for the night.

His restless feet came to an abrupt halt as a soft glow from an approaching candle illuminated the woman a few feet away from him.

Gwendoline.

She froze as her gaze met his, her grip tightening on her candlestick’s brass holder. She wore a pale blue nightgown under a thick robe, but her robe had opened to reveal the thinner fabric of her nightgown. It was enough to hint at her silhouette, which caused his breeches to tighten.

Damian cursed inwardly. One, he was mad at himself. He shouldn’t think about his wife in that way. Two, he was mad at anyone who could have seen her in that nightgown and thought the same.

Though they were married, he had relinquished all rights to her mind and body. All he had was a legal document and a smoldering resentment.

Neither spoke for a long moment, at least not with words. The hallway seemed to shrink, the space between them filled with a tension that neither had sought but neither could escape.

“Your Grace.” She finally broke the silence.

Her voice was quieter than usual. It was a murmur, barely above a whisper, and it sent more heat through his body.

That voice. It was the kind of voice that one would like to hear in bed, after a night of passion.

His hands clenched into fists, the one holding his candle only faintly feeling a twinge of pain.

“Duchess,” he replied, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil.

Control. He was all about control. He thrived on it. And yet there was something about her lips parting in surprise and the loose tendrils framing her face that threatened to unravel him. All of him.

“Do you need to talk to me about something?” she asked, her tone polite. But he couldn’t help but hear the suspicion. “At this hour?”

Somehow, the high walls she still had around her, and that blatant suspicion, made his chest tighten. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did. He hesitated before answering—something that rarely happened with him.

To admit to Gwendoline that he had been wandering, too lost in thought to realize that he had lingered outside her chamber door, felt too revealing. It didn’t matter that her chambers were next to his. It was understood that he would immediately fling himself into his own without delay. He shouldn’t be standing in his nightclothes, a simple linen shirt undone at the collar over his loose trousers, which still felt tight with need just with one look at her.

He felt exposed, physically and emotionally.

“I might ask you the same,” he said, choosing safer words than the ones bubbling up his throat.

To his surprise, Gwendoline’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it was so close. He stifled a groan.

“You might, though I highly doubt you’d find my answer interesting. I was checking on the servants, especially Hannah, who has not been well.”

Damian already knew this, but he didn’t want to reveal too much of what he had been up to the past few weeks. He nodded, although he doubted that she was still paying attention. Her gaze was fixed on her lit candle, as if it held the secrets of the universe.

“And you?” she asked, her lashes revealing expressive eyes that were boring into him.

How could she, with just a single glance, convey so much emotion?

She had made herself vulnerable to him.

“I… was walking,” he admitted finally. “Thinking.”

“About what?”

The question was innocent enough, but there was something else there. Vulnerability, perhaps?

“Many things,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly, her candle casting flickering light on her features. “You always overthink, Your Grace. I’m not surprised you cannot sleep.”

Damian’s lips twitched despite himself. “And you don’t think enough?”

“Perhaps not,” she admitted, a hint of playfulness in her tone. “But here we are. Here I am, in the corridors, in the middle of the night, with my husband.”

The words hung between them, their playful edge giving way to something heavier. Damian’s pulse quickened as her eyes locked onto his, and for the first time, he felt bare before her. He could see that she felt the same.

They were standing too close now. They hadn’t moved. It seemed they hadn’t taken a breath either.

“I should let you return to your chambers,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“Yes,” she whispered.

But neither of them moved.

For one reckless moment, Damian considered closing the distance between them. He could almost feel her skin and taste her lips. Madness, of course.

But then she stepped back.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.

“Goodnight, Duchess,” he replied, the words catching in his throat.

And then she was gone.

Damian stood there for a long time, staring after her, the weight of her absence pressing down on him like a physical force.

Whatever this was between them—this fragile, unspoken thing—it was dangerous. And yet, as he finally turned back toward his chambers, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was already too late to stop it.

Another day. Another day of Gwendoline haunting Greyvale.

When Damian walked through the great hall, he heard a maid crying and stuttering nervously. Whenever that happened, he would let Mrs. Albright do her job, and he would move on to his next task for the day.

However, this time, he heard his wife’s soft voice.

“It’s all right, dear. It’s just tea. I can have another prepared for me,” Gwendoline soothed the girl, who couldn’t be that much younger than her. “You know that.”

“B-But, Your Grace,” the young maid stammered. “T-The table…”

Damian’s curiosity was piqued. He moved closer to take a peek through the doorway. His wife stood gracefully over a fussing and crying maid, who looked like she was ready to scrub the whole place to please her.

“It is also just a table,” Gwendoline reassured her, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “It is far less important than your well-being. Stop fretting.”

Not only was she smiling as she soothed the maid, but she was also helping clean up the spilled tea.

“Thank you. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Damian couldn’t ignore the warmth blooming inside him. This was the woman he had married. She certainly did not belong with Montrose, and she certainly didn’t belong to any of those leering and pawing men.

And yet there were moments when he’d catch her looking melancholy.

As soon as the maid left the dining room, Gwendoline stood there for a few moments, staring off into the distance.

It would have been better if she had burst into tears or hysterics. It would have eased his conscience if she had thrown a glass at the wall and yelled for a servant to pick up the pieces. Somehow, this resignation, the lost look in her eyes… It was far worse.

Damian quietly left the area so that she wouldn’t catch him spying.

On the surface, Gwendoline Landon was not fighting back. However, her actions showed that she was trying to regain some semblance of control. It was exhausting, though.

The new duchess did not wear adornments on her hair, limbs, and face. She was bare-faced, and it was easier to see the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her lips.

Damian shook himself from his stupor. He had to stop following her around. There were more pressing matters to attend to. Time was running out. Though what he did at Montrose House seemed chivalric, he wondered if it was unwise.

“I am no hero,” he muttered bitterly.

He had to make sure that Montrose would not escape justice. He had been planning his moves with patience and precision. He had made himself a promise that he wouldn’t stop until he had made the man pay for everything that he had done.

Timothy Landon would pay for everything that he had done.

To Mary.

To Levi.

And to Gwendoline.