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

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“ Y our Grace,” Gwendoline said as she pushed the door open.

It was time to forget her pride. Armed with a tray of oysters and Turkish Delights, she had paced the length of the corridor outside her husband’s study. Back and forth. Back and forth.

She had been patient long enough.

As she balanced the tray on one hand—a skill she had mastered of late—her other hand hovered over the iron handle. She reminded herself that she might have agreed to a marriage of convenience, but she had the right to confront him. If not to confront him, then she had the right to find out if he was well.

She took a long, deep breath.

There was also the mystery that linked her husband to her cousin. While she had become accustomed to life at Greyvale and had been sleeping better, she could not truly rest without knowing what occurred between the two.

The door opened with barely a creak, but she still stiffened.

The study was dimly lit as always, with only the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the tall windows. They cast shadows over the room and the imposing man behind the large mahogany desk.

Damian’s golden-brown beard seemed to be thicker. He had not been taking care of himself, she noted with dismay.

His right hand gripped a quill while he inspected the papers on his desk.

Instinct told Gwendoline that something else was on his mind. It couldn’t be the ledgers and the estate. She was well aware of how Greyvale was run and knew that it was doing well.

Hearing the same noise that made her flinch, Damian looked up at her.

“Gwendoline,” he said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of quivering, Gwendoline closed the door behind her. She also knew not to find hope in him saying her name. It sounded like he was scolding her. This time, though, she would be the one advancing toward him.

“I would like to talk,” she said, her gaze unwavering as she set down the tray on his desk.

She had caught him off guard.

His eyes flicked to the tray, then narrowed.

“If this is about eating dinner together,” he began as he set the papers down with deliberate care. “I am not in the mood for company. What is this, Duchess?”

“It’s not about dinner, and you will be happy to know that I came bearing gifts,” she said, trying not to snap at him.

“Why are you bringing me these? What are these?” Damian demanded suspiciously.

“I will never poison you if that is what you are worried about,” she said with a smirk. “Here are some oysters and Turkish Delights. Apparently, the latter is your favorite.”

“And the former?” he asked, his eyes darkening with heat.

She shifted from one foot to another, suddenly feeling the unfamiliar but pleasant urge to press her thighs together.

“Oysters,” she breathed, keeping her eyes on his. She would not falter before him.

“You know what they are for?” he asked.

“They are delicious,” she replied coyly as she took the seat in front of his desk.

“Nobody has told you anything about them?” His voice had become husky as his fingers toyed with one of the oysters.

“Well, you can say that I had a brief lesson with Mrs. Albright.”

“She taught you many things?” he prodded.

“Mainly housework,” she said with a grin.

“Ah, of course,” he murmured as he took a bite.

She watched him savor the delicacy in his mouth, feeling warm at the way he took his time to swirl the meat in his mouth before he swallowed.

She was about to protest, but she remembered that she was the instigator in this case.

“I am not here mainly because of food, but now I realize that Mrs. Albright is right,” she remarked, looking at the tray pointedly.

It seemed that Damian had scarfed down half of the oysters in no time.

“Right about what?”

“About you being more tolerant when served these particular delicacies,” she said with what she hoped was a charming smile.

She was tired of being in the dark. She’d befriend Damian and find out what it was that he was scheming. She would love to be part of it.

“Ah,” he sighed as he reached for a Turkish Delight.

His eyes were sparkling with delight, but Gwendoline could not understand the fuss. She loved roses, but not their taste on her tongue.

“I am not here for that, though,” she explained. “I want to know what proof you have against Timothy.”

“That is none of your concern,” he mumbled mid-bite.

He swallowed and downed it with the brandy on his right. Gwendoline noted how quickly he drank it. She also eyed the bottle next to the glass.

“I have said it so many times, Duchess,” he said, his jaw tightening.

It seemed the effects of the dishes were fading away, much to Gwendoline’s disappointment.

“That is none of your concern.”

“None. Of. My. Concern?” She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. “I do not know what has transpired between you both because you would not share it with me. But you know that man ruined my life and almost sold me away. Therefore, I have every right to know. He is the last person I’d want to ally myself with.”

“It’s not about trust, Duchess. It’s about protection.”

“If it’s protection, you have done enough. I am grateful. You’ve taken me away from a terrible situation. What can happen to me here? Isn’t that what you were offering to me? Some kind of fortress. A place where you plan your revenge against Timothy while keeping me away from the warpath.”

“Montrose can be dangerous, Duchess. The less you know about the situation, the better. Let me handle it.”

“Because I am a woman?” she asked, meeting his gaze. “I have been through a lot because of the earl. I am not a fragile doll that you can shelve and forget. I have been belittled and humiliated. People who should have taken care of me betrayed me. So, excuse me for wanting to know if I am in danger of being put in the same situation.”

“You are not,” he reassured her. “Everything I have done these past few months is to ensure that he pays so that he can’t hurt anyone again—including you.”

“Let me help you, then, Damian,” she begged, surprised by the emotion in her voice and her use of his name.

She cursed herself inwardly and vowed to be more careful next time, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He just wanted her to leave him alone.

“This conversation is over. I thought you had decided to stop arguing with me about Montrose,” he said and leaned back in his chair.

“Look at me. Do you find me so unattractive that you can barely look me in the face?”

She wished she could take back her words. She shouldn’t have come here. Her life had been simpler when she contented herself with roaming around and helping the servants with things they could have easily done themselves.

“What?” Damian’s eyes widened in shock.

Trying to salvage the situation, Gwendoline lifted her chin. “You have barely spoken to me since we arrived here. I thought you would grow to be fond of me, even if you claimed you didn’t need a friend. But you, a man known for his… proclivity for the fairer sex, choose to avoid me as much as you can.”

Suddenly, the crackling of the fire in the hearth became too loud. It felt deafening, together with the pounding of her heart.

“You think I find you unappealing?” Damian asked, his eyes frighteningly dark but no less compelling.

He had leaned so close that all she could do was blink at him. Her heart was racing, but she also couldn’t make herself look away.

“Don’t I have a reason to? Men and women would always comment on my—never mind. And you, you flinch away from me like…”

Damian rose from his chair and rounded his desk. In a few quick strides, he was in front of her. He gently pulled her to her feet and turned her around so that her back was against his desk.

“You have no idea what you are talking about, Gwendoline,” he said, his voice rough.

His hand gripped the edge of the desk behind her. The air felt hot despite the chill of his study.

She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Her throat felt tight. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth.

Time slowed down. Nothing else mattered. It all seemed to disappear. Even the crackling fire faded.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mumbled, his breath hot against her lips.

Slight movement. Heart beating furiously.

Then, his mouth was on hers, firm and demanding.

Frustration and longing burst from both of them, leaving her breathless. Without the strong mahogany behind her, she would have already crumbled. Her knees shook.

Gwendoline didn’t know what a kiss would feel like, but she didn’t complain when his warm tongue touched hers. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down to her instead of pushing him away.

She was angry at him.

She was frustrated.

She felt in the dark.

Yet, when she was given a chance to kiss him, she took it. But it ended as quickly as it started.

Damian pulled back, breathing heavily.

Was that regret that she saw in his eyes? Her heart clenched at the thought. There was something else in there—something harder to decipher.

“This… This was a mistake,” he said.

For the second time in their brief marriage, Damian turned on his heel and left her in the study.

She stood there, stunned and trembling.

Her lips felt swollen. Worse, her heart felt bruised.

The door slammed behind him this time.

It was a marvel that she was able to stop herself from bursting into tears.

She pressed her fingers to her lips as her heart continued to race. She wouldn’t be surprised if it burst out of her ribcage, leaving her behind.

Yes, she’d seen a crack in Damian’s facade, and she would not stop until she uncovered the truth about Timothy. However, what was even more surprising—and frankly unnerving—was that she wanted to solve the mystery that was her husband even more than she wanted to bring Timothy to justice.