The Dance of Deception
Seven weeks had passed since Damien had appeared in her drawing room, drinking her brandy with that infuriating smile.
Their passionate encounter in the stables had left her breathless and aching for more, yet since that moment, he’d made himself scarce.
He departed early each morning and returned well past midnight, consumed with investigating Croft’s operations and searching London’s seedier establishments for his missing brother.
Eleanor told herself his absence was a relief, but she couldn’t shake the suspicion that he was deliberately avoiding her. Was he avoiding the complications of what had sparked between them? He would likely take Dominic far away from London after all.
The thought of his departure sent pain shooting through her heart. If their time together was limited, she refused to waste another moment of it. Whatever happened when Dominic was found, she wouldn’t let Damien leave without knowing exactly what he was giving up.
And he would learn it tonight.
Eleanor stood before her dressing table mirror, adjusting the deep sapphire necklace that drew attention to the daring neckline of her evening gown.
The silk creation was a masterpiece of strategic seduction—emerald green that made her eyes luminous, cut to emphasize the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts.
She’d chosen it specifically to torment Damien, to make him ache with want while they played their roles as estranged spouses.
She had become, to her own amazement, one of those women hungry for their husband’s attention. The realization should have appalled her. Instead, it only sharpened her resolve.
A soft knock interrupted her preparations. “Enter,” she called, expecting Sally with her evening cloak.
Instead, Damien stepped into her chamber, and Eleanor’s breath hitched in her throat.
He was devastatingly handsome in formal evening wear—black tailcoat that emphasized his slim waist, white waistcoat that contrasted beautifully with his tanned skin, and buff-colored breeches that clung to his powerful thighs in ways that made her mouth go dry.
His dark hair was perfectly arranged, his jaw looked clean-shaven, and his green eyes held an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
“Duchess,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “You look…” His words trailed off as his gaze traveled slowly down her form, lingering on the exposed curve of her shoulders, the enticing shadow between her breasts, the way the silk clung to her hips.
Eleanor felt heat bloom under his scrutiny, her body responding to his obvious appreciation despite her determination to act unaffected. “Thank you, Your Grace. You look quite presentable yourself.”
His smile was wolfish. “Presentable? Such lavish praise from my devoted wife.”
She turned back to the mirror, ostensibly to check her appearance but really to escape the intensity of his gaze. In the reflection, she caught him studying the line of her spine where her gown dipped low, his eyes darkening with hunger.
“Shall we depart?” she asked, her voice suddenly hoarse. “We mustn’t keep Lord Croft waiting.”
“Indeed not.” Damien moved closer, close enough that she could smell something masculine that made her want to press her face against his throat. “Though I confess, the thought of other men seeing you in that gown makes me want to lock you away until morning.”
Eleanor met his eyes in the mirror, noting with satisfaction the slight bulge in his breeches that spoke of his arousal. “How fortunate that you have no such authority over my wardrobe, Your Grace.”
“Fortunate indeed,” he murmured, though his tone suggested he found it anything but. “For them.”
The carriage ride to Lord Croft’s residence began in tense silence, both acutely aware of the other’s presence in the confined space. Eleanor sat rigidly upright, her hands folded in her lap, while Damien lounged opposite her with deceptive casualness.
“Well?” His voice carried a note of careful neutrality after several minutes. “Our agreement specified one month. Has my presence convinced you of its merits, or shall I begin packing for my departure?”
Eleanor studied his face in the lamplight filtering through the carriage window, noting how he maintained his casual pose despite the tension radiating from his frame. “I’ve observed certain… practical advantages to your residence,” she said carefully.
“How delightfully selfish of you,” Damien replied, his tone flat.
“Your influence with the staff has been notable. Your connections have expanded our social standing considerably. And your title does carry weight in business negotiations.”
“And here I hoped you might mention other benefits of my presence.” His smile turned knowing as he leaned forward slightly.
Eleanor lifted her chin, trying to appear indifferent. “I’m afraid I’m quite immune to your charms, Your Grace.”
“Is that so?” Before she could protest, Damien had moved to sit beside her, his large hand covering her wrist. “Your pulse is racing.”
The warmth of his touch sent electricity racing up her arms, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “That’s merely nervousness about tonight’s performance.”
“I see.” His thumb traced circles against her wrist, and Eleanor felt her carefully maintained composure beginning to fray. “Your hands are trembling.”
Eleanor glanced down, annoyed to find he was correct. “I’m anxious about what we might discover tonight.”
“Liar.” His hand moved to her nape, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “We needn’t maintain our pretense in private. Not when we both know the truth of what exists between us.”
“My rouge—” she began weakly.
“Will survive.” His mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear, pressing a kiss there that made her gasp. “As will your coiffure, if I’m careful.”
Eleanor’s resolve wavered completely as his lips traced a burning path along her throat, avoiding her mouth but finding every other sensitive spot that made her arch against him. “You’re playing with fire,” she whispered as his mouth found the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
“Then let me burn,” he replied against her skin, his hand sliding lower to rest on her thigh through the silk of her gown. “God knows you’ve been tormenting me since the moment I saw you in this dress.”
Eleanor’s head fell back against the squabs as his fingers traced patterns against her leg, the silk creating a maddening friction that made her ache for more direct contact.
When his mouth found the upper curve of her breast, just above her neckline, she made a sound that was part moan, part surrender.
“Damien,” she breathed, her hands clutching his arms.
“Say my name again,” he commanded roughly, his hand sliding higher on her thigh. “I want to hear it on your lips when you’re trembling for me.”
“Damien.” The word came out as a plea, and she felt him smile against her skin.
“Still immune to my charms?” he murmured against her throat.
“Completely,” she managed breathlessly, though her body pressed closer to his of its own accord.
The carriage began to slow, signaling their arrival, and Damien reluctantly pulled away. Eleanor’s breathing was ragged, her skin flushed with desire, and she could see her own hunger reflected in his darkened eyes.
“Compose yourself, Duchess,” he said with a wicked smile, though his own breathing was unsteady. “We have a performance to give. We shall put Croft’s mind at ease by pretending to be estranged. An attack is most effective when unforeseen.”
Lord Croft’s London residence was a monument to ostentatious wealth—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and artwork that spoke of money recently acquired rather than inherited taste. Eleanor accepted a glass of champagne from a footman while observing the other guests with sharp attention.
The gathering was smaller than she’d expected—perhaps twenty people—but Eleanor quickly realized the guest list had been curated for them.
These weren’t random members of Society; they were carefully selected pieces on Croft’s chessboard.
Eleanor’s pulse quickened as she realized the true purpose of this gathering—not a dinner party, but a demonstration of power.
She recognized Lord Banburry, whose gambling debts were rumored to be substantial, and Sir Marcus Whitfield, whose shipping investments had recently failed spectacularly. Near the fireplace stood a man she didn’t recognize.
“Your Grace.” Lord Croft appeared at her side, dressed in black velvet with gold stitching that somehow managed to look both expensive and vulgar. “How radiant you look this evening. That color brings out the brilliance of your eyes.”
“Thank you, Lord Croft.” Eleanor kept her voice pleasantly neutral while every instinct screamed warnings. “Your home is quite impressive. And what an… interesting assembly of guests.”
“Each one carefully chosen,” he replied with obvious pride, his smile sharp as a blade.
“I find London Society requires certain strategic alliances to maintain one’s position.
Speaking of which, have you met Mr. Annesley?
He serves on several ecclesiastical committees that handle… marital disputes.”
The threat was delicately delivered but unmistakable. Every person in this room had the power to bring Croft closer to his aim.
Across the room, Eleanor caught sight of Damien engaged in conversation with a portly gentleman she recognized as Lord Cawley.
Even from a distance, she could feel his awareness of her, the way his eyes found her despite his apparent attention to his companion.
But she also noticed how Lord Cawley’s demeanor was oddly deferential, almost nervous.
“I trust the duke is feeling better?” Croft’s question drew her attention back to him. “I heard he’d suffered a rather unfortunate evening recently.”