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

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

“ W e’re stranded,” Evan cursed under his breath.

“We can’t stay out here,” Gwendoline said, her voice steady despite the storm. “There are rooms in the estate. They’re dusty and cold, but it’s better than this. Anyway, the horses had been secured under a dense tree.”

Damian hesitated, his protective instincts battling against his rational mind. “The structure may not be safe. It’s an old, uninhabited place.”

“It’s been standing for decades. It won’t collapse in a few hours simply because we decided to stay the night,” Gwendoline countered. “Unless you prefer getting drenched?”

Damian sighed, raising his hands in surrender. “Lead the way.”

The interior of the house was as expected—dusty and cold. They lit candles they had managed to find in the kitchen, their flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. The storm had quickly darkened the estate’s interior.

Gwendoline led them through the maze of hallways with an unsettling familiarity that Damian couldn’t help but notice. Her connection to this place had not been diminished by time. A part of her still considered it home, where she grew up with her family before things fell apart.

“Here,” she said, pushing open a door.

The hinges creaked, revealing a master bedchamber that was surprisingly intact compared to the rest of the house.

Damian felt like they were in some kind of dark fairytale. He prepared himself to be enchanted. If he were being honest, he was already enchanted. By her .

A grand four-poster bed dominated the room, its once-rich drapes faded and tattered. A musty smell had taken over, but it was manageable. They could stay here.

A cold hearth stood against one wall, and a single window, cracked but intact, let in the faint glow of lightning.

Evan peered inside and raised an eyebrow. “Cozy. I’ll find another room.”

Before Damian could protest, Evan disappeared down the hallway, leaving him alone with his wife. His pretend wife. The one whose lips he had ravished not too long ago. The same one whose wet heat had clenched around his fingers. He shifted from one foot to another, afraid he would lose control again.

When he looked at her, he found her staring back at him with parted lips. He cleared his throat, trying to focus on the matter at hand.

“We’ll need to make a fire,” he said. “You’ll freeze, otherwise. Damn it, I’m not even going to pretend that I won’t.”

Gwendoline giggled and moved toward the hearth. She knelt, inspecting the remnants of old logs and ash. The whole place was decrepit. “There’s enough here to start one if we can find kindling.”

Damian removed his coat and began searching the room. He found an old chest filled with brittle fabric, seemingly waiting for them. Seemingly waiting to be of use.

“This should work.”

They worked silently, their movements synchronized. Soon, a small fire was crackling in the old grate, radiating much-needed heat into the room.

“Thank you,” Gwendoline whispered with a small smile.

Damian’s chest tightened at the mere sound of her voice. He sank into a chair near the fireplace, watching as she stretched her hands toward the hearth like a pagan worshipping fire.

She ought to be worshipped.

The thought came unbidden to his mind, making him stiffen.

When she rose, she looked like a goddess rising from the fire.

“There’s brandy somewhere here,” she suddenly declared as she walked toward a cabinet and opened it.

Her declaration and actions made laughter bubble up his throat. The whole thing was unexpected.

However, she didn’t laugh, and that gave him pause.

“Uh, I’m sorry. I was merely surprised that you knew where the brandy was. I remembered that this used to be your home.”

“Yes, it’s only been months since my father died, but the place looks like it had been haunted for years—decades even. Memories are all that we have. This used to be my father’s room. I say this because my mother had been dead for the last three years, and he simply wasted away here.”

“Drinking?” Damian asked tentatively.

“Well, his brandy is some of his prized possessions. He is no longer here, so here we are, about to enjoy it,” Gwendoline said, pouring each of them a glass.

Damian eyed the brandy, glasses, and cigars in the cabinet.

“He didn’t lock it,” he observed as he took the glass from her.

“No. Not anymore. He used to. This room was locked after my mother passed. It was a shrine to her and my father’s other, uh, habits. I wasn’t allowed in here. When Timothy took over, it was also made clear that this place wasn’t mine. I had to obey him.”

“Just one drink,” Damian said as he sipped from his glass. “We need to stay alert. We must wake up early before Montrose decides to visit the estate.”

“Of course,” Gwendoline replied solemnly, but her eyes sparkled with mischief as she sipped on her drink.

As they relaxed further, they settled on the thick rug before the fireplace. They sat in silence, nursing their drinks.

“My mother loved this room,” Gwendoline said suddenly, glancing at Damian.

He turned his head slightly, giving her his attention but remaining silent. He was prepared to listen to her all night long. He hadn’t given her this kind of attention, the one she truly deserved.

“She used to bring me here when my father was away. We’d sit by this fireplace, and she’d mostly tell me stories—fairytales.” Her voice softened as she reminisced. “Every fairytale was a lesson. It was her way of teaching me to be strong. I didn’t know she did that because she left me when I was still too young to understand. Yes, I was sixteen, but I was naive and had not yet been properly introduced to Society. I did have Alexandra and Abigail, but nothing more. I had nothing much, even before Father died.”

Damian’s expression didn’t change. He understood what she meant by ‘nothing much.’ It had nothing to do with wealth.

“You are strong, Duchess. Your mother had at least succeeded in that.”

“It is one of the happiest memories I have of her—she telling me stories as I listened even after I could read better and faster,” Gwendoline added. “She always seemed happy here. I can understand Father’s decision to lock up the room—preserve what’s left of her.”

She fell silent for a moment, and Damian could hear her grief. Her loneliness.

“It seems like she was a kind woman,” he said after a few beats.

“She was,” Gwendoline agreed.

Despite her loss, she could not help but smile whenever she thought of the happy moments she had shared with her mother.

“I like to think she’d have liked you.”

Damian let out a mirthless chuckle. “I doubt that.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer, shifting his gaze to the fire. He had done so much that he now regretted—things that had solidified his reputation as a rake. He was never someone people called kind. He was merely a man who was pleasing to the people who were good to him, and he planned to exact revenge. Terrible revenge on Lord Montrose.

No, no mother would want him for her daughter unless they were fortune hunters. Gwendoline was not one. He also doubted that her mother had been one. The void she had left behind when she died was proof enough.

“Y-Your Grace, why are you so hellbent on taking revenge on my cousin? What did Timothy do to you?”

His expression darkened further, the goodwill from earlier quickly dissipating. “It’s not something I wish to revisit,” he mumbled.

Gwendoline frowned, scooting closer to him. “Then tell me about something else. A happy memory. Everyone has one, even though it may not seem like it when it comes to you.”

Damian sighed, his fingers tightening around his nearly empty glass. “My mother,” he began reluctantly. “Your story about your mother reminds me of her.”

“She must be wonderful,” Gwendoline murmured.

“She was. She’s not the sunshine that was your mother. My mother was terribly confused. There were days when she could light up the room, and there were days when she darkened them. Yes, she was wonderful,” Damian said, his voice low. “Until she wasn’t.”

“What happened to her?” Gwendoline asked gently.

Damian knew that his wife could see how his shoulders tensed, but he couldn’t help it. “She took her life.”

“Oh,” Gwendoline gasped softly, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“She was never happy, Duchess. It was bound to happen. Father was ashamed of her supposed antics. When I was ten, she had a breakdown in public. It was frightening to me, but it was embarrassing to Father. Instead of finding a cure, he sent her to a convent. It was there that her condition worsened,” Damian continued, his voice breaking at the end.

He was afraid of his mother, but it did not mean he did not love her. It did not mean that he wanted her to die. Hiding her away in a convent, away from those who loved her, had pushed her over the edge.

The weight of his words finally settled over them.

Gwendoline reached out, her hand resting lightly on his back. It was the first time she had initiated touch. She rubbed his back gently but with enough friction to create more warmth. However, Damian froze, unaccustomed to such tenderness.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“Comforting you.” Her response was simple. Direct and to the point.

“I don’t need your pity,” he groused. “Not your comfort.”

“Pity?” she echoed, drawing back her hand so it hovered over him. He could still feel her heat, and damn it, he wanted it back on him. “Is that what you think this is? It is not pity that I feel for you. I know what kind of man you are. You are strong—even intimidating to most people. You are the man in control of Greyvale. But everyone needs someone, and at this very moment, you need me. I need you, too. You stir things inside me that I have never felt before. Never thought I’d experience. How can I pity you?”

After her little speech, Damian turned to face her. His eyes were no longer dark with anger or sadness. But they held something else, something that could destroy her.

“What do I stir inside you, wife?” he demanded.

Gwendoline didn’t understand why she felt thrilled when he said that word. Wife.

Her heart raced, but she held his gaze. She didn’t want him to see her cower. For the first time, she felt bold enough to lean in and whisper, “Don’t you want to know, Your Grace?”

A low growl rumbled in Damian’s chest as he pushed her onto her back and pinned her hands above her head. The sudden movement took her breath away, but the heat in his eyes held her captive.

She wouldn’t close her eyes. She wanted to experience everything with them wide open.

“You enjoy tormenting me, don’t you, Gwendoline?” he murmured, his voice rough and edged with desire. It made her want to press her thighs together. The way he said her name drove her insane. “Perhaps it’s time I show you how sweet torment can be. What I did to you before would pale in comparison.”

It sounded like a promise—a deliciously dark one. Gwendoline could not wait for him to deliver as she whimpered and writhed beneath him.

He trailed his lips down her neck, raining feather kisses as his free hand slid down her side. She gasped, arching into him. She wanted to feel more of him. More. He had shown her what pleasure could be before, but it wasn’t enough.

Damian’s touch fluttered around her body, teasingly provocative. He knew how to make her want more, but he wouldn’t give it to her. At least, not yet. He let his hand roam but not linger.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Gwendoline,” he whispered huskily in her ear before nipping it. “But I like that you have come out to play. I’ve wanted this. Wanted it so badly.”

Gwendoline could hear the conflict in his voice. He ground his erection against her belly, showing her how much he wanted her. Yet, he continued to torture her and himself.

“And you’re holding back,” she panted, her voice shaking with need.

She had never felt like this before. She had become a wanton, writhing beneath him. Her body was begging for something she could not properly define. It begged for release, for something— anything —to ease the tension coiled tight inside her.

“Why?”

Damian fixed her with his intense gaze, his grip on her wrists tightening as he leaned in. “Because,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “I want to see how far I can push you before you break.”

“Break?” she echoed.

Like her voice? It sounded broken and hoarse, as if she had been screaming when they had not even begun. For some reason, images of her screaming as Damian pleasured her flashed through her mind.

“Yes, break. Fall apart. Let go and climax. I promised you that I would protect you, which includes protecting you from myself, Gwendoline.”

His words sent a jolt through her, a mix of fear and arousal that made her gasp.

Her thighs were nudged apart, ready to welcome him into that wet heat that she had never dared to explore before. Not even on her own. Her hand had hovered there on occasion, wondering what it would feel like, but she was mostly innocent.

But she didn’t look away. She couldn’t.

Gwendoline wanted to commit his face to memory. He would leave a mark on her no matter what, but she was greedy and wanted everything she could get.

His burning eyes. His skin on hers. His hardness pressed urgently against her belly. She wanted to remember everything.

His lips found her neck again, kissing a path down her throat, each press of his mouth sending sparks through her.

How could that be? He had not even touched her there , but the tension in her could cut through steel.

Damian’s free hand wandered lower, skimming the outside of her thigh, teasing her in a way that made her squirm. His fingers would venture further inside but then flutter back to where they were resting.

She wanted more, but he refused to give it to her.

“Damian,” she panted, raising her head a little, her voice breaking on his name.

He chuckled. It was a low, seductive sound.

“Patience, wife,” he almost groaned. “We have all night.”

She responded with her own groan, frustration, and desire battling inside her as his hand slipped between her legs. It brushed against the sensitive flesh hidden there, a part of herself she had only been recently acquainted with. Damian was the one who had introduced it to her when he touched her there over and over again.

Tonight, his touch was fleeting, maddeningly brief, and she cried out in protest. Her hips jerked toward him in a desperate attempt to prolong the contact. He was so strong that she could not free her wrists from his grasp. She sobbed.

But Damian only laughed darkly, withdrawing his hand and leaving her aching, desperate.

“Not yet,” he breathed. “I want to savor this. To watch you fall apart little by little.”

Gwendoline wanted to hate him for this, for the way he was toying with her, for the way he pleasured her without giving her release, driving her mad. But she couldn’t. He set her on fire, and she would gladly give him more matches.

His lips returned to her neck, licking, nibbling, and sucking on the tender flesh until she was sure he would leave marks. Marks she had seen on a woman Timothy brought home once. A loose woman, someone had whispered.

She didn’t care.

At that moment, she only cared about the way her husband’s body felt against hers. Everything else about him—his breath, his voice, his sensual words.

Her marriage had also saved her from vile accusations, she thought smugly.

Please,” she gasped weakly.

She didn’t even know what she was asking for. Not really. Just something. Anything. Something more than the helplessness that had washed over her.

Damian paused, lifting his head to reveal eyes flashing with the same hunger. The same desire.

Slowly and deliberately, he released her wrists. He finally let her arms fall to the rug. She sighed in relief.

Finally.

But before she could move, his hands gripped her hips tightly as he positioned himself between her legs.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice rough, but it almost sounded like he was the one begging this time. Begging her to ask for what she wanted.

“You.”

Gwendoline gasped at how forward she sounded. But it was the truth. Their bodies had already been dancing around it. It must be said. She wanted all of him.

“All of you.”

“Good girl,” he purred.

Gwendoline could swear that she heard relief and another intense emotion in those words. She swallowed hard. There was no turning back now.

Then, he finally took her lips in a searing kiss. His tongue plunged into her mouth, dancing with her own. It was sweet and demanding at once, and she wanted more of it.

With two free hands to roam over her body, he set her on fire with every stroke and caress. Every touch was meant to keep stoking her desire without giving her what she wanted. He pulled away only to nip lightly at her jawline before soothing it with his tongue.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” he groaned in her ear, his voice raspy with need. “How many nights I’ve lain awake, imagining you like this? Torturing myself with reasons why I should not pursue you—pursue this?”

When he pulled up the hem of her dress to her waist, baring her to the warm air in the room, Gwendoline knew that it was time. In what felt like an instant, they had managed to shed their clothes. They were now strewn all over the rug next to them.

It was time. She squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the pain.

“Open your eyes, darling. Don’t look away,” he urged, his voice rough as he slowly pressed forward.

The descent was slow and painful but oh-so delicious.

His self-control confounded her. He didn’t thrust into her, like how she imagined men would do. Instead, he slid into her inch by agonizing inch. Sweat beaded on his forehead and temples as he filled her.

Gwendoline whimpered, feeling a slight discomfort as she felt her walls stretch to accommodate him. She squeezed her eyes shut again, a tear rolling down the side of her eye.

“Look at me,” he growled, his voice thick with barely restrained passion. “Don’t look away.”

She obeyed, her eyes wide and filled with awe and desire. She was no longer a maiden, and she had no regrets. His fullness felt strange and familiar at the same time. It was just right. He belonged to her. Inside her. Over her. It was as if everything was setting them up for this.

It was inevitable.

Damian stilled once he was fully seated inside her warmth, watching her with gentle eyes. Gwendoline knew that he was giving her time to adjust.

The moment was charged with something other than sexual tension. That one had already broken. Something else washed over them as his forehead rested on hers and they breathed each other’s air.

Everything else faded at that moment. Gwendoline had forgotten where they were and what was happening around them. Not completely, but each of those mundane details no longer mattered.

The fireplace.

The raging storm outside.

Their pasts.

What mattered was this moment, something that she would never forget for the rest of her life.

“Are you all right?” Damian asked softly.

His thumb brushed against her cheek. Comfort.

Then, it descended to her lower lip. Seduction.

She opened her mouth to suck on his thumb, not knowing why she did it but loving the way his skin felt on her tongue. He groaned loudly, shifting a little. The movement made her insides tingle.

“Do you want me to move now?” he asked.

She nodded, though her voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes… don’t stop.”

Her words were all the encouragement he needed.

Slowly, almost reverently, he began to move inside her. Each thrust seemed to touch a hidden nerve ending merely waiting to be explored by him. Only him.

Gwendoline’s breath came in short gasps, her hips rising to meet his as he set a steady rhythm. The sting she felt was fading, only to be replaced by pleasure. The heat building between them was unbearable, yet she never wanted it to end. She remembered begging for release.

What was she thinking?

“You feel incredible wrapped around me like a glove,” Damian groaned, his voice strained as he fought to maintain control. His hips continued to move. “I can’t get enough of you.”

His praise stoked her desire further. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as she hugged him tightly with her arms. They were one. Truly one.

They said marriage was about the coming together of a man and a woman, but the consummation confirmed it. This was what they were talking about. Why duels were fought. Why ballads were written.

The sensations were overwhelming. Gwendoline could see sparks in the corners of her vision. Each movement sent pleasure through her entire body.

Could she have felt the same with another man? No, it could only be Damian. He was inside her, pumping deeper and becoming part of her. Yet, it was still his gaze—his tenderness—that almost brought her to tears.

As his thrusts quickened, she knew they were racing toward something—a goal that she had not yet achieved – not like this, anyway. She clung to him, their sweat mingling while her cries of pleasure blended perfectly with his guttural groans.

With every thrust, he was pushing something in here. A button. A nerve. What did they say about these things? She didn’t care.

Then, it finally happened.

Even with her eyes wide open, she couldn’t see. She must have blacked out. But no, every nerve ending exploded. Her back arched off the rug. Her hard nipples pressed against his chest. Each little movement and sensation was a trigger—a domino in a series that had been toppled at one end.

And then, a wave of ecstasy crashed over her.

She shattered in his arms. Her body convulsed around him, her cries echoing in the stillness of the room.

Damian followed soon after, his thrusts becoming erratic as he reached his climax. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breaths ragged as he spilled his seed inside her.

They stayed like that for a while, their bodies entwined and clinging to each other, reveling in the violent aftershocks.

Was this making love?

Would it be like this all the time?

Even as their breaths evened out, Damian didn’t pull out. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his expression softer than she had ever seen it before.

“You’re mine,” he declared possessively. “Remember that, Gwen.”

He didn’t let her respond. Instead, he took her mouth in another passionate kiss. Tender and demanding.

Gwendoline realized that summed up his character. When his mouth descended to suck on a breast leisurely, she knew the night was not over. Not when she felt herself stir again. Ready for him.

She couldn’t understand how passion could be so quickly reignited, but she was not complaining. The night was far from over, and neither of them was ready to let go.

What does this mean for us?

The question hung over Gwendoline even as their bodies moved in sync once more, more urgent than the storm outside.