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

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

T he carriage ride back to Greyvale was quiet but charged with tension, which was becoming a constant between them. Gwendoline sat across from Damian, her gloved hands resting primly on her lap. Her fingers were intertwined tightly, and Damian didn’t miss that.

His gaze flicked to her occasionally, his expression unreadable in the dimly lit exterior. He gazed in wonder at the way the shadows danced across her features. They softened the edges of her jaw and turned her eyes into pools of dark mystery.

She was still a mystery that he wanted to solve but couldn’t. Perhaps he wouldn’t?

He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on mundane details like the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves or the way the coachman liked to click his tongue and cough.

The ton would likely label the ball a success, but Montrose’s lies and Lady Edith’s sharp tongue had left a sour taste in Damian’s mouth. He had been prepared for whispers and innuendos, which were inevitable when you were part of the ton, but hearing Montrose’s twisted lies unleashed a greater fury within him.

He felt helpless in the carriage. His hands were clenched into fists on his thighs, and he wished he could use them to pummel his sworn enemy. He should have done it, but he had always believed that justice would be better served by the proper authorities.

He reconsidered the wisdom of that.

When the carriage finally arrived at Greyvale, Damian stepped out of the carriage first and then extended his hand to help Gwendoline down. She hesitated briefly before accepting his hand.

Her gloved fingers felt cool against his palm. However, there was still a heat between them. They didn’t speak as they entered the mansion. It was almost as if the magic they felt in the ballroom had made way for reality—that whatever they had could not go on.

Sensing the couple’s strange mood, the servants discreetly hurried back to their posts after assisting them upon their arrival.

In the drawing-room, Damian shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He stood near the fireplace—which was cold and unlit as if expressing his current state of mind. His tall figure radiated unease.

Gwendoline hesitated by the door before slowly walking inside.

“This cannot continue,” Damian said, breaking the silence with those three quick words. He knew it must sound like a crack of a whip to his wife. “Montrose’s lies will threaten your name more than they will mine.”

“Do you have plans on how to stop him?” Gwendoline asked in a calm voice that he had become fond and proud of. “Will you challenge him to a duel? Spread stories about him? Do you have a plan that you’re willing to share with me, or are all of them secrets that I will continue to beg for?”

Damian turned to face her. “At this point, you should already know my answer. We keep going around in circles. Tonight’s ball has proven that I must protect you from him.”

“Timothy’s lies are about me! ” she exclaimed, trembling with indignation. “About us! How can you say that it isn’t my concern? That I can’t do anything about it?”

“Let me handle it, Duchess!” Damian snapped, striding closer to her. “There is no need for you to dirty your hands or involve yourself. Not again!”

Gwendoline’s breath hitched at his nearness, but her anger refused to dissipate. She held on to it because she knew it was dangerous for her not to. It wasn’t her body that was in danger. It was something else—something she was working hard to block.

“You think I’m fragile, don’t you? That I can’t handle everything Timothy is capable of? Is that why you’re always keeping me in the dark? I won’t be surprised if he turns out to be the worst criminal in London! There, I said it.”

“I don’t believe you’re fragile,” Damian gritted out. “It’s about protecting you. I’ve said it so many times, Duchess, and you’re not listening.”

“Not listening?” Gwendoline laughed bitterly. “I’ve been listening closely, Your Grace, and I don’t like what I’ve been hearing. You’re the one who never truly listens to me. You act as if you are protecting me, but you are just like the other men in my life—putting me in the dark. Making me a dependent, little bird.”

Her words struck a chord deep within him, and for a moment, Damian faltered.

“Gwendoline,” he began softly.

His hand was raised toward her as if trying to calm her. Could he really? Her face was red with fury, and her eyes were shimmering. She was trembling, and he could tell that she was trying her best not to cry.

“Don’t you dare patronize me,” she hissed, her eyes flashing. “Keep those words to yourself if you will tell me the same things. It’s not me who is going around in circles. It’s you.”

Damian stepped closer to her, his hands clenched in fists and his nails digging into his palms. He married a defiant woman. She was infuriating. But damn it, she was also intoxicating.

“You want honesty, Duchess?” he asked, his voice so low that it was almost a whisper. “Then I will give you honesty. Whenever I hear about Montrose’s lies, I want to destroy him. Not by reporting him to the authorities, but with my bare hands. I want to destroy him completely and utterly. But here you are, questioning me at each turn, not trusting the process.”

Their gazes locked. Damian no longer questioned it. There was always something in the air whenever she got too close. Hell, he felt as if the air could explode if that even made sense.

For a moment, they fell silent. Unbidden, his eyes fell to her lips. He licked his own, feeling something coil in his belly.

There it was again—heat. He had been trying to avoid it, but it was becoming stronger and harder to escape.

She looked back up at him. “You’re impossible,” she whispered.

But he knew she didn’t mean it. Her words lacked conviction, and at this point, her eyes were on his lips, too. Her hands were shaking at her sides, and she bit her lower lip, chewing on it a little. Damian followed the movement, feeling something stir inside him even as he reminded himself that it wasn’t a good idea.

“You’re infuriating,” he shot back.

It was a half-truth—a truth that didn’t quite matter when his fingers itched to touch her, and his body wanted to close the gap between them. He didn’t want any space left.

None.

As if it had a mind of its own, his hand brushed a stray curl from her cheek. The contact was so brief that somebody else could have missed it, but neither could, not when it jolted them both. Gwendoline’s eyes widened, her lips parting. She let out a soft, shuddering breath.

“Damian,” she whispered, biting her lower lip.

His restraint snapped.

“I won’t be able to control myself if you keep doing that, wife,” he growled.

“Keep doing what?” Gwendoline asked, genuinely bewildered.

Closing the little distance between them, he cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was fierce and unrelenting, the innocent press of lips quickly turning into a battle of tongues as they deepened the kiss. Gwendoline’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as she met his passion with her own.

Damian ground his erection against her belly. She moaned softly against his lips as his hand crept under the hem of her dress. She didn’t fight the intrusion. Instead, she spread her legs for him so that he could ease his body between them, but he had other ideas.

His fingers found the heat between her legs, and he groaned when he found her wet.

“You are soaked, Duchess,” he purred as he rubbed her slit over and over.

Her head fell back when he slid a finger inside her.

In and out.

In and out.

Damian felt as if he would burst at any moment, but tonight was about her. He slid another finger inside her, and she gasped into his mouth. He bit her lip as a response, and she moaned his name.

“Do you like that, Duchess?” he panted.

“Yes. It feels so good, Your Grace,” she moaned as he continued stroking her.

His large fingers slid in and out of her tight channel. She was hot and wet and all his.

“Let me pull this down,” he murmured, lifting his other hand to her neckline.

In one swift motion, one round breast spilled out, making his mouth water. He took it in his warm mouth, suckling eagerly. He loved the feel of her stiff nipple against his tongue. He rolled it. Lapped at it. All the while, he didn’t stop pumping his fingers inside her.

Then, she screamed.

A small voice in the back of his head warned him of the line he was crossing and the promises he was breaking. With a groan, he tore himself away from her.

It was torture. It was madness. He couldn’t think straight.

He breathed hard as he rested his forehead against hers.

“I can’t,” he rasped. “Not like this.”

Gwendoline loosened her grip on his shirt, her hands falling limply to her sides. This time, there was no mistaking the tears shimmering in her eyes.

“Why?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Damian stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “Because you deserve better. Because I won’t and can’t take advantage of you in a moment of anger and frustration.”

Her expression hardened. “Am I only that to you? Someone to kiss during such moments of anger and frustration?”

“No,” Damian said quickly. “I feel everything, Gwendoline. That’s the problem.”

Without another word, he left her in the drawing room.

He knew that he had done it to her too many times—leaving her hanging. Leaving her wondering. Leaving her lost.

Right now, he couldn’t be there for her. Not in the way she wanted. Not even in the way he wanted.