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

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

T he morning sun bathed the courtyard in a golden glow. It warmed Damian’s body as he thrust and parried with his sword—not that he needed more warming up. Naked from the waist up, his chest gleamed with perspiration.

On the surface, his movements were clean and precise. Controlled and studied. If someone looked close enough, though, they would see the fury fueling the lunges.

Damian had thrown himself into his training at full intensity, intending to clear his head of various thoughts. However, no matter what he did, he could not exorcise the image of Gwendoline from his mind. Never had he encountered someone who was such a perfect blend of defiance and vulnerability.

Gwendoline had ensnared him, and the thought was more terrifying than the idea of losing against Montrose.

He didn’t intend to lose against the bastard.

But against Gwendoline?

He might have already lost, and he wasn’t even sure if there was ever a game to play and how to play it.

Steel clashed against steel. The sounds rang through the courtyard, forming their own rhythm that somehow forced him to focus. His trainer, Thomas, a gray-haired and seasoned swordsman, quietly prompted his every move. No voice disrupted their routine except when Damian barked with impatience.

“Faster.”

The trainer hesitated, concern clear on his face. It was only then that he spoke.

“Your Grace, you have been pushing yourself too hard. Maybe it’s time to—it’s time to stop or take it slowly.”

“Faster,” Damian demanded, bringing down his sword on the older man’s so hard that the latter stumbled backward.

Damian had never behaved like this before, but he seemed to have no patience left. A part of him was ashamed of himself. Thomas had been with his family since he was a boy, but there was an urgency within him that drove him and his trainer to an almost frenzied kind of violence.

He knew it.

He also knew that the force he was putting into his training should be used with Montrose and not with any servant, no matter how skilled they were. Perhaps he needed to find someone else to train him. He had enough energy to spar with Thomas and another person.

Thomas was starting to see it. He realized that trying to stop the speed and passion with which his young master was moving was futile. All he could do right now was feed it.

The sounds of clanging swords blended with grunts of exertion. Both men drove themselves to do their best, matching each other well and confirming Damian’s suspicion that he might need more trainers. Or perhaps he needed more men. An army against Montrose’s gang of criminals.

He usually trained twice a week. These past two weeks, though, Damian had pushed himself to train almost every morning. Then, he would box at night.

Anger.

Hatred might even be more accurate.

Damian had seen what it could do to a person. It made him surge forward, unrelenting and tireless. Peeking through the hatred was something else—and it was more difficult to tame.

From the shadows of the terrace, Gwendoline watched Damian train with Thomas. She never thought herself a patron of any sport that promoted violence. Her frilly pale-yellow gown, ordered by Damian himself from a famous dressmaker—seemed to accentuate her delicateness.

And yet.

Despite her meek outward appearance, the clashing of blades had piqued her curiosity and drawn her outside. If she was being honest with herself, curiosity was not just about wanting to see a swordfight. It was also about seeing the man who had unmercifully occupied her thoughts for the past few nights. She wanted to see him do what he enjoyed doing without having to listen to his cold voice or watch his small smiles.

Gwendoline did not expect to see Damian stripped of his usual composed demeanor. She could clearly see that he was not fighting to maintain his physique—maybe partly, yes—but that he was unburdening himself of emotions that plagued him.

He moved gracefully for a large man, swinging his right hand and hips with dexterity she found equal parts mesmerizing and unsettling. There were also other things about him that she did not know before or had not laid eyes on. After all, he was not only stripped of his usual behavior but also of his shirt.

The sunlight fully illuminated his bronzed skin, his muscles rippling and completely on display.

Gwendoline swallowed hard. Her husband looked handsome in his regular clothes, if not a little too stiff and aristocratic. Without them, he looked like a god, all gleaming muscles honed by physical work and training. Her cheeks flushed when she realized that she had been ogling every flex and movement.

How long had she been staring?

Did someone notice?

Yes, the man was magnificent, which made her belly tighten with longing and what she could only describe as unease. He was a duke, but not all dukes looked like him. He was already out of her league.

No, their marriage was nothing. In the end, she might be a chess piece for him.

A pawn.

Not the queen.

Not even a true duchess.

Her throat tightened at the thought of not having completely relinquished the role Timothy had crowned her with. A crown of thorns.

It didn’t help that Damian looked like he did. Moved as he did. He lunged forward, and the tip of his sword grazed his trainer’s shield. Gwendoline felt the movement graze her walls, threatening to make them crumble.

To her surprise, she found herself on the edge of the courtyard. When had she walked toward him, like a woman possessed? Her slippers merely whispered against the stone, keeping her movement stealthy and muted.

It took her a moment to find the courage to speak.

“Your Grace, do you intend to hone your skills or slash your trainer into submission?” she asked in what she hoped was a jesting tone. “Don’t you want to keep your men alive?”

Both men turned toward her, startled by the sound of her voice. They had also subconsciously backed away from each other, their swords now pointing downwards. Despite her interruption, Gwendoline noticed that Damian had managed to remain guarded, with his shoulders stiff and his lips pressed together.

“Duchess,” he said, his voice softened by a hint of amusement. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

As far as Gwendoline could tell, Thomas’s shoulders sagged with relief. The older man even caught her eye and nodded. She nodded back in acknowledgment.

The sparring had, indeed, become too intense. Evidently, Damian was wrestling with more than just something physical and ended up wearing down his trainer.

Pretending not to have noticed the trainer’s reaction, Gwendoline feigned nonchalance and shrugged. “I was merely curious, Your Grace. Sparring seems interesting, especially for a sheltered woman like me. It’s something that I would want to try for myself,” she said, batting her eyelashes at her husband.

The trainer snorted, sounding and looking dismissive.

For a moment, Gwendoline regretted trying to cover up for him. Thomas certainly didn’t want the duke to know that he was concerned about their training session. When your own trainer showed fear during your spar, perhaps it was time to hire someone better.

“It’s not a skill for ladies, Your Grace. It takes years of strength and discipline. You may be better suited for observation than participation. Certainly, His Grace would want you to be here, by his side.”

Gwendoline’s temper flared. How dare he? After she had strived to divert her husband’s attention from his blatant relief, that was how the trainer chose to repay her?

She narrowed her eyes at him and pressed her lips together. She had become better at controlling her words and actions. Not because she was afraid of her husband, but because she believed in living peacefully. She didn’t know how long she’d have to pretend. Therefore, she’d rather enjoy what she could of it. But it didn’t mean that anyone could simply walk all over her.

Damian seemed to have sensed her barely suppressed wrath. Before she could retort, he shifted his displeased gaze to his trainer.

“She was interested in something that you teach. Be grateful, old man, because it might mean further employment at Greyvale,” he said coolly. “Tell my wife what you believe makes sparring interesting without being rude to her.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched visibly, but he nodded at his master and cast a glance at Gwendoline. He took a long, deep breath.

“It’s about balance, precision, and reading your opponent. Strength alone won’t do it. A good swordsman uses his mind as much as his blade.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” Gwendoline said sweetly. In the back of her mind, though, she was worried about him despite his rudeness. “I’ll keep that in mind, and I hope we can work together in the future. The future can be today.”

However, her husband had other plans.

“You may now leave, Thomas.” Damian dismissed his trainer with a wave of his hand.

Gwendoline frowned at the gesture. The older man merely bowed and retreated, leaving husband and wife alone in the courtyard.

Thomas’s departure brought Gwendoline’s attention back to her husband’s appearance. Her eyes fell to the hard, glistening muscles in his chest. That naked chest moved right in front of her as he gulped in the air. He was either still breathing hard from the sparring or trying not to laugh.

Oh, he was definitely trying not to laugh.

Gwendoline’s nails dug into her palms as she clenched her hands into fists. Must she make a fool of herself?

“And now that he’s gone,” Damian said, smiling slyly at her, “shall I show you a move or two?”

Gwendoline blinked, momentarily taken aback by his offer. “You’d… teach me? A move or two?” she stammered like a child.

Damian shrugged, but there was nothing nonchalant about his offer. His eyes glinted playfully, making her heart skip a beat. “I know you were curious. So, why not? Let’s show Thomas that ladies can spar with the best of them. Or are you afraid? Perhaps you were here because you were curious about something else…” he trailed off suggestively as he continued to hold her gaze.

She refused to look down at her feet, although she could feel her cheeks flushing. Instead, she lifted her chin at the challenge.

“I’m afraid of no such thing.”

Damian’s smile grew wider.

“And I am curious about sparring. Your Grace.”

He looked like he was about to burst into laughter, but she glared at him until he regained his composure. Somehow, she regretted seeing him revert to his brooding self. His smile had a way of disarming even those with the coldest hearts.

Hers had long since melted, but she wouldn’t let him know that. Not now, not ever.

“Good,” he said, clearing his throat and closing the gap between them. “Your dress might be a hindrance, though. You do need to move. Keep your balance.”

He rolled his shoulders back as if to say, “ Look at me right now. That’s why I’m half-naked.”

Gwendoline glanced down at what she was wearing. At that moment, she could feel each inch of the fabric suffocating her. She’d heard of women wearing corseted blouses over breeches or loose dresses with no petticoats. Suddenly, the lace and silk no longer felt like a luxury, but a burden.

Of course, women’s dresses weren’t suited to swordplay. Even Damian had to rid himself of his shirt. She sighed as she felt herself reddening even more at the reminder of her husband’s naked torso.

“Should I take it off, then, dear husband?” she asked insolently, her hands on her hips. The movement pushed her chest forward.

It was Damian’s turn to look embarrassed. He froze, his eyes widening. Gwendoline could swear that a faint flush had spread up his neck.

“That won’t be necessary,” he mumbled, sounding dejected.

Her heart sank. She was merely jesting. She didn’t mean to make him so uncomfortable that he’d refuse to show her how to spar.

She brushed it aside and said, “Show me what to do, Your Grace.”

Damian hesitated. His eyes searching hers as if he could not read her. He was trying to decipher her thoughts, making her wonder if she had a chance at winning at Devil’s Draw—a place she wouldn’t be allowed to be anywhere near in the first place. It was a place for people like Timothy.

Anger bubbled inside her chest.

Damian nodded as if he was encouraging himself. Then, he startled her by walking behind her. His hands were gentle but firm when he adjusted her stance. The guidance and warmth of his touch seeped through her gown. Yet, she also felt a shiver running down her spine while heat pooled between her legs.

Oh, contradictions.

Gwendoline tried her best not to wriggle her body against his. What would it feel like if she pressed her bottom against his hips?

She inhaled sharply, shaking off her increasingly lewd thoughts.

“Feet apart,” he instructed huskily, his warm breath fanning her ear. “You must keep your balance.”

Her balance, indeed.

She could think of a few other things she was about to lose.

Everything felt tilted sideways for Gwendoline. She had undoubtedly developed a different view of the world over the past few years. As Damian’s wife, she felt even more off-kilter.

She adjusted her stance. She tried to forget how close his body was to hers. His large, rough hands moved to her arms, angling them to hold an imaginary sword. She wanted to hold a real one, but she couldn’t be trusted—not like this. Not yet.

It might not be his truth, but for her, every touch felt deliberate. Each felt like a caress that set her body on fire. What would he think if he knew what was on her mind?

Oh, shame. That was one of the things Gwendoline was slowly losing.

“Well done, Duchess,” he murmured, his voice rougher and deeper. “Imagine your opponent in front of you. Focus on how you want to make him pay. There’s no fear left in you. Just revenge.”

Gwendoline wondered then if he was talking to himself more than he was talking to her. Still, the words reverberated through her like a seduction instead of a weapon of destruction.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered, her pulse quickening.

It wasn’t the sword she was afraid of—it wasn’t even the opponent. She was afraid of herself and how she was responding to Damian’s touches. Men were supposed to make her cringe and cower, but he made her want to mold her body to his.

“No, darling? Prove it then,” he challenged, a possible momentary lapse of judgment making him whisper a term of endearment.

Gwendoline turned her neck so that she could watch him. Their eyes met, and the air seemed to crackle between them. Her breath hitched as she felt herself waver under his scrutiny. The world around them seemed to fade, and there were just the two of them.

Husband and wife.

In the courtyard.

With him teaching her how to hold an imaginary sword.

The hilarity caused some tension to burst, but Gwendoline held back her merriment. Why? She liked this. She liked to prolong the moment, although she knew that was impossible. Soon, they would be back to fussy Gwendoline and cold Damian.

Damian let her swing her empty hands for a few moments. He showed her how to parry and thrust. Then, he gave her a wooden sword to practice with. At first, Gwendoline was insulted. She kept silent, though, as she eventually understood the real reason she was given one.

It was for her safety.

She might always be eager to prove what she could do, but she was no fool. She practiced with the wooden sword.

Parry and thrust.

Parry and thrust.

Sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts and down her temples, but she didn’t care. The whole thing was exhilarating. She felt lighter than she had ever felt before.

“You’re like a tree trunk, Lady Gwendoline. You need to lose some weight!” Timothy’s words echoed in her mind. “How can you move with that body? Ladies should glide, not trudge.”

Her anger carried her through the rest of the practice session, her cousin’s face a growing target. The red hue on her cheeks was no longer due to embarrassment. It was pure anger—anger at the person who had made her life a living hell.

Who else could it be?

“You’re a quick study,” Damian remarked softly, his warm palms lingering on her waist. “Perhaps too quick. Are you certain you’ve never wielded a blade before?”

“A blade?” She laughed at her wooden sword. “Only in my dreams.”

Pride, embarrassment, and something else swirled in her chest. She finally turned around to face him.

Damian’s face was red with exertion, but he wore a big grin.

“Then, Duchess, I’d say your dreams have served you well.”

Bells rang in the distance. Gwendoline had gotten used to the routine at Greyvale. Therefore, she knew that it was almost midday. It was time to clean up before lunch. This time, she felt confident that her husband would easily say yes if she asked him to join her.

When Damian stepped back, she felt a strange sense of loss. It made her feel a little shaky. It was as if someone had pulled the ground from under her feet. She straightened up, ensuring that her features were calm or preferably blank. In her chest, her heart thundered.

He appeared to be conflicted as if he was about to tell her something more. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing else came out.

“Your Grace…” A voice cut through the tension between them, followed by the clearing of a throat.

Gwendoline saw the butler standing only a few feet away from them. How didn’t she see him coming?

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, inclining her head. “For the lesson.”

The formal words and tone did not fit the rest of the morning.

Damian’s gaze lingered on her. His expression was unreadable this time, and he still barely glanced at the butler. Gone were the teasing smiles and proud looks.

“It was my pleasure, Duchess. Perhaps next time, you’ll teach me a thing or two.”

She smiled, her confidence bolstered by his words. There was some relief, as well. She didn’t want to go back to how they were—indifferent and cold to each other.

“Perhaps I will.”

As she turned to leave for her chambers, she couldn’t help but glance back over her shoulder. Damian stood where she had left him, his eyes following her retreat. The heat in his gaze sent a thrill through her, igniting something unnamable within.