A Surprise Captive
Eleanor sat in her study the morning after their return from Ashford, staring at the untouched correspondence before her while her mind churned with conflicting emotions.
The journey back to London had passed in tense silence following Damien’s raw confession in the carriage, both of them seemingly overwhelmed by the weight of what had been revealed.
I’ve been hungry for only one woman. You.
The words had echoed in her mind throughout the sleepless night, sending unwelcome flutters through her chest that she ruthlessly tried to suppress.
She couldn’t afford such weakness—not when everything she thought she understood about their arrangement had been turned upside down since his arrival in England.
His confession of desire and love—spoken with such raw honesty it had stolen her breath—complicated everything in ways she wasn’t prepared to handle.
She forced herself to focus on the neat stack of letters Simmons had delivered with the morning tea, each bearing the seal of one of her various correspondents throughout London.
Information was her greatest weapon, and she would need every advantage in the battle ahead, regardless of how her feelings toward Damien might be shifting.
The first letter bore an unfamiliar seal—rough wax pressed with a simple signet. Eleanor broke it open, scanning the contents with growing alarm.
Your Grace,
As requested, I have maintained surveillance of the Richmond property. Notable visitors include several gentlemen of questionable reputation, but one guest of particular interest: Lady Laura arrived yesterday afternoon via private carriage. She has not been observed departing the premises.
I await further instructions.
Your faithful servant
Eleanor’s blood chilled. Lady Laura was apparently now in Croft’s custody—or protection. Either possibility was deeply troubling. Had the woman gone willingly, or had she become another pawn in Croft’s elaborate scheme?
The second letter made her stomach clench with dread. Lord Croft’s elegant script sprawled across expensive paper, the very sight of it making her skin crawl.
Your Grace,
I would be honored by your presence at an intimate dinner party this Friday evening.
Nothing elaborate—merely a gathering of like-minded individuals who appreciate fine conversation and finer wine.
I do hope you and the duke will attend. After our delightful dance at Lady Harrington’s ball, I find myself most curious to further our acquaintance.
I remain your devoted servant, Croft
Eleanor set the letter aside with trembling fingers.
The audacity was breathtaking—after orchestrating the humiliation at Madame Rousseau’s, Croft was now extending a dinner invitation as though nothing had occurred.
But she recognized the move for what it was: another chess piece being positioned on the board.
She needed to find Damien immediately.
Eleanor discovered him in the stables, examining one of the horses with the head groom. He looked resplendent in his riding attire—buff-colored breeches that clung to his powerful thighs, a white shirt open at the throat, and tall black boots that emphasized his commanding height.
“Your Grace,” the groom said, touching his cap respectfully as Eleanor approached. “Fine morning for riding, if I may say so.”
“Indeed, it is, Peters. Would you excuse us, please? I need a private word with His Grace.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The man retreated, leaving them alone among the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls.
Damien turned to face her fully, his eyes cautious. “Eleanor. How may I be of service?”
The formal politeness in his tone stung more than she cared to admit. “I’ve received some disturbing correspondence. About Lady Laura.”
His expression sharpened immediately. “What about her?”
Eleanor fought down a pang of jealousy at Damien’s intense focus on Lady Laura’s situation and withdrew the surveillance report from her reticule, extending it toward him. “She was seen entering Lord Croft’s Richmond residence yesterday. She hasn’t been observed leaving.”
She watched Damien’s face grow increasingly grim as he read the brief message. When he looked up, the mixture of shock and concern in his eyes made something twist painfully in her chest.
“I saw her at the ball,” he said slowly. “She didn’t appear to be under duress.”
“No,” Eleanor agreed, though the memory of her husband with his former lover still stung like a fresh wound. She forced herself to speak analytically. “She approached you quite willingly at the ball.”
Eleanor watched Damien massage his temple as he processed this information. “Laura would never willingly associate with Croft under normal circumstances. She knows what he is—what he did to Dominic. But if she went with him voluntarily…”
“Perhaps she has decided that Lord Croft offers better prospects than pining for a duke who married another woman.” Eleanor kept her voice neutral and watched his reaction carefully.
“You don’t understand Laura’s character if you think her capable of such calculation.” Damien’s immediate defense of his former love sent another spike of unwelcome emotion through Eleanor, sharp and hot. “She’s many things—stubborn, proud, perhaps foolish in her choices—but she’s not greedy.”
Eleanor absorbed his defense of Laura’s virtue.
“Then perhaps Lord Croft has leverage over her that doesn’t require physical force,” she managed, pushing away her unworthy emotions.
“Blackmail, perhaps? A secret that would ruin her if exposed? That would explain why she seemed resigned rather than terrified.”
She studied Damien’s face as he considered this, watching his expression grow darker with each passing moment.
“What could Croft possibly know about Lady Laura that would give him such power over her?” she asked cautiously.
Eleanor watched something flicker in Damien’s eyes.
“Laura’s family is financially secure, her reputation intact…
” He trailed off, and Eleanor saw the exact moment awareness entered his mind.
“Unless there’s something from our past that he’s threatening to expose.
Something that would destroy her chances of making a respectable marriage. ”
“What sort of past indiscretion?”
She braced herself for his answer, knowing it would hurt but needing to understand the full scope of what they were dealing with. Damien’s expression grew pained, and Eleanor could see him wrestling with whether to reveal something so personal.
“We were… intimate before I left for the East,” he admitted finally. “If Croft has evidence of that, or has convinced her that he does, he could threaten to ruin her reputation entirely.”
The admission sent such fierce jealousy through Eleanor’s chest that she had to look away to compose herself. “Which would explain why she went with him willingly—to prevent a scandal that would destroy her future,” she said, hating the slight tremor in her voice.
“And why she seemed so defeated at the ball,” Damien added grimly, seemingly unaware of how his revelation had affected his wife. “She knew she had no choice but to submit to whatever Croft demanded.”
Eleanor fought to maintain emotional distance but found herself failing. She forced herself to focus on the strategic implications rather than the personal pain. “If that’s true, then she’s not a willing ally—she’s another victim of his manipulation.”
Even as she spoke the words, Eleanor couldn’t help but wonder what it meant for her own relationship with Damien that his former lover’s predicament affected him so deeply. The proprietress in her cataloged this as valuable intelligence about their enemy’s methods. The woman in her simply hurt.
“How would he benefit from blackmailing her?” Eleanor pressed.
Damien’s expression darkened as understanding dawned.
“Perhaps he wishes to force my hand. My vote in Parliament. My influence with other peers. Perhaps support for some legislation that would benefit his operations—banking regulations, trade policies, anything that would legitimize his more questionable ventures.” He shielded his eyes with his hand in intense concentration.
“Or maybe he simply wants your wealth… or you.”
Eleanor felt a chill replacing the hot possessiveness. She then recalled his correspondence. “Lord Croft has extended a dinner invitation to us both. For Friday evening.”
“How thoughtful of him.” Damien’s voice was flat with suppressed anger. “Testing the waters, no doubt. Seeing how much we know and whether I’m amenable to negotiation.”
“Precisely why I believe we should accept.” Eleanor moved closer, acutely aware of his masculine presence, the way his broad chest expanded with each breath.
“If he’s planning to leverage Lady Laura’s situation for political gain, we need to understand his strategy.
This dinner may be our only opportunity to determine what’s happened to her and gather intelligence about what he truly wants from you. ”
“Eleanor, it’s too dangerous. If he’s taken Laura hostage—”
“Then he’s already shown his hand,” she interrupted. “He thinks he holds all the advantages, believes he’s caused a rift between us. Let him continue believing that while we gather the information we need to turn his own trap against him.”
Damien’s eyes darkened as he studied her face. “And you think you can manage such a performance? Pretending indifference toward me?”
The question hung between them, loaded with dangerous undercurrents. Eleanor felt her heartbeat stutter beneath his burning gaze, her traitorous body awakening to his nearness.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that it will require very little pretense on my part.”
“Will it?” Damien stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the familiar scent of sandalwood and bergamot, could see the way his pupils dilated as his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. “You truly believe you’re unaffected by me?”
Eleanor’s breath caught as heat bloomed in her chest, spreading outward until her entire body hummed with awareness. “I believe you overestimate your charms, Your Grace.”
“Do I?” His voice had dropped to that rough register that never failed to send shivers down her spine. “I must be out of practice because I could swear I detected a certain… responsiveness in your bearing.”
“You’re delusional,” she whispered, even as her body swayed slightly toward his, drawn by some invisible force she couldn’t resist.
“Perhaps I am…” Damien reached up, his fingers trailing along her jaw with devastating gentleness. “Fascinating, for someone who sees me as merely a fortune hunter—your pulse is racing, Eleanor. Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing has become quite shallow.”
She should step away. Should maintain the distance necessary to maintain her upper hand. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, her lips parting slightly as his thumb traced their contours.
“This proves nothing,” she managed, though her voice lacked conviction.
“No… it does not…” His other hand settled at her waist, drawing her closer until mere inches separated them. “If you’re truly unaffected, then this shouldn’t disturb you at all.”
Before she could form a response, Damien’s mouth claimed hers with hungry urgency. This kiss was raw need given form, desperate and demanding. His lips moved against hers with skillful precision, coaxing a response she was powerless to deny.
Eleanor’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as rational thought dissolved beneath the onslaught of sensation. He tasted of mint and something darker, more dangerous. His tongue traced the seam of her lips until she opened for him with a soft moan that seemed to inflame him further.
The kiss deepened, grew more urgent. Damien’s hand tangled in her hair, destroying her careful arrangement as he angled her head to take the kiss deeper still. His other hand cupped her bottom, molding her against his hard length until she could feel his arousal burning against her hip.
Heat pooled low in Eleanor’s belly, liquid fire racing through her veins as Damien’s mouth moved with devastating skill against hers. She could feel herself melting, her barriers collapsing beneath his assault on her senses.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Eleanor’s hair had come partially undone, copper tendrils framing her flushed face. Damien’s shirt was wrinkled where her fingers had gripped it, his own breathing ragged.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough but smug, “I believe that answers my question about your responsiveness.”
Heat flooded her cheeks as doubt crept in. Had he kissed her only to prove a point?
“You are insufferable,” she said, attempting to gather the remnants of her dignity as she smoothed her disheveled hair.
“And you,” he replied with a grin that was pure masculine satisfaction, “are a terrible liar.”
Eleanor’s blush deepened. Without another word, she turned and fled toward the house, his low chuckle following her retreat.
As she reached the safety of her study, Eleanor pressed her fingers to her still-tingling lips.
Friday’s dinner party would test her resolve in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
Because despite her protests, despite her determination to remain detached, Damien Westmore was systematically dismantling every defense she possessed.