The Dance of Deception #2
The casual cruelty in his tone grated on Eleanor, but she maintained her composed facade. “His Grace is quite well, thank you. Though I confess I’m not certain what you’re referring to.”
“Of course not.” Croft’s smile was all teeth and no warmth. “How refreshing to encounter such loyalty in a wife. So many modern marriages lack that devotion. Though I imagine that loyalty might be… tested… if certain irregularities in the marriage documentation came to light.”
Before Eleanor could respond, Mr. Annesley appeared beside them as if summoned. “Lord Croft, you mentioned wanting to introduce me to Their Graces?”
“Indeed. Your Grace, Mr. Annesley serves the Church in various capacities,” Croft said smoothly. “Including oversight of marriage validity cases. Such an important role, ensuring the sanctity of matrimonial bonds.”
“How fascinating,” she managed, though her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.
Dinner was announced before the conversation could continue, but Eleanor had got the message loud and clear.
She found herself seated between Lord Banburry—who avoided eye contact and seemed to shrink into his chair—and a nervous gentleman introduced as Mr. Henley, while Damien was positioned strategically across the table where she was forced to meet his heated gaze throughout the meal.
The conversation flowed around topics of politics and business, but Eleanor noticed how each topic seemed designed to highlight the vulnerabilities of specific guests.
When Lord Banburry mentioned his estates, the discussion turned to property values and foreclosures.
When Mr. Henley spoke of his shipping ventures, talk shifted to insurance claims and maritime law.
It was masterfully orchestrated—a dinner party that doubled as a public reminder of who held the strings.
As the evening progressed and wine flowed freely, tongues began to loosen. Mr. Henley, in particular, became increasingly voluble, his voice rising as his inhibitions fell away.
“The thing about Croft,” he slurred to Lord Banburry during the fish course, apparently forgetting their host was within earshot, “is that he’s got damned good instincts about people’s weaknesses. Take his own father, for instance.”
Eleanor’s attention sharpened, even as she pretended polite disinterest.
“Mad as a March hare by the end,” Henley continued, oblivious to the sudden tension at the table. “Spent his final years convinced the servants were trying to poison him. Wouldn’t eat anything unless Croft tasted it first. Rather touching familial devotion, really.”
The comment hung in the air for a moment before Croft smoothly redirected the conversation to safer topics.
But Eleanor had caught the flash of rage that crossed his face before he regained control—and more importantly, she’d noticed how Mr. Annesley had suddenly looked deeply uncomfortable, as if remembering something he’d rather forget.
Madness in the family. A father who died suspicious and paranoid, dependent entirely on his son’s care.
And an ecclesiastical court official who clearly knew more about it than he was comfortable admitting.
Eleanor filed the information away, recognizing it for what it was—a potential weakness that could be exploited by someone clever enough to use it.
Throughout the remainder of the evening, she and Damien circled each other like wary combatants, their public indifference belied by the charged glances they exchanged.
When he passed behind her chair, his fingers briefly brushed her bare shoulder, sending sparks crackling along the skin despite the underlying menace of their situation.
By the time they took their leave, Eleanor’s body hummed with unfulfilled desire and her mind raced with the intelligence they’d gathered—as well as the very real threats Croft had so elegantly delivered.
“He wasn’t just entertaining us,” she said quietly while waiting for their carriage. “He was making a point.”
“Several points,” Damien agreed grimly. “Including the fact that he has Mr. Annesley in his pocket—the same man who will likely oversee Abram’s petition.”
Eleanor felt a chill run down her spine. “Then we’re in more danger than we realized.”
“Perhaps,” Damien replied. “But did you notice how uncomfortable Annesley looked when Henley mentioned Croft’s father? I suspect our host’s carefully curated guest list may have just provided us with ammunition of our own.”
The carriage door had barely closed behind them when Eleanor sensed Damien’s carefully maintained composure finally crack.
Her deliberate torment throughout the evening—the heated looks, the strategic touches, the gown that clung to her like a second skin—had clearly pushed him past his breaking point, and the knowledge sent a thrill of satisfaction through her.
“Come here,” he commanded, his voice rough with barely leashed hunger.
She moved toward him, her silk skirts whispering against the carriage seats as she settled beside him. The scent of him invaded her senses, making her head spin with want.
“Damien,” she breathed.
The sound seemed to snap his restraint entirely.
His mouth crashed against hers with desperate hunger, weeks of distance exploding into fierce possession.
Eleanor met his fervor with her own, her fingers tangling in his dark hair as she pulled him closer.
This wasn’t the controlled seduction of a gentleman wooing his wife—this was primal need given form, raw and consuming.
“I’ve thought of nothing but you,” he growled against her lips, his hands framing her face as he deepened the kiss. “Every night, every moment—you’ve haunted me.”
Eleanor gasped as his teeth scraped against her lips. Wine lingered on his lips, intoxicating her further as his thumbs traced the line of her jaw with reverence. When she arched toward him, desperate for more contact, his groan vibrated through her chest.
“The way you looked tonight,” he continued, his mouth moving to the sensitive spot below her ear, “that dress, the way other men watched you—I wanted to claim you before them all.”
“You’re mad,” she whispered, even as her hands worked frantically at his waistcoat buttons, needing to feel his skin beneath her palms.
“Completely,” he agreed, his own hands finding the fastenings of her gown. “Mad with wanting you.”
The carriage swayed through London’s streets, but Eleanor’s world had narrowed to Damien’s touch. Cool air kissed her skin as silk and stays fell away, followed immediately by the heat of his mouth blazing a path down her throat.
When his lips captured her breast, Eleanor’s cry echoed in the confined space. Her back arched off the velvet squabs as sensation crashed through her—the wet heat of his mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth, his tongue lavishing attention that made her writhe beneath him.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, his hands mapping every curve with worshipful attention. “So damned beautiful it breaks my heart to look at you.”
Eleanor’s world fractured into points of exquisite contact—his mouth at her breast, his hands stroking along her silk stockings, the solid heat of his body covering hers. When his fingers found the apex of her thighs where she ached most desperately, propriety abandoned her entirely.
“Please,” she gasped, her voice unrecognizable. “Damien, please—”
“Anything,” he promised fiercely, his eyes blazing as he looked down at her. “Anything you need, anything you want—it’s yours.”
His touch was both gentle and relentless, fingers creating a rhythm that built unbearable tension in her core. Eleanor gripped his coat lapels, her hips rocking against his hand as pleasure spiraled higher.
“Let go,” Damien commanded softly, his thumb stroking the most sensitive part of her while his fingers parted her slick folds, beginning their maddening dance of caressing where it ached the most. “Let me see you fall apart for me, love.”
The endearment was her undoing. Eleanor cried out as waves of pleasure crashed over her, her body arching and trembling as Damien’s touch carried her to heights she’d never known before.
He held her through it all, his mouth pressing worshipful kisses to her throat, her shoulder, anywhere he could reach—anchoring her through the storm.
As the tremors gradually subsided, Eleanor found herself cradled against Damien’s chest, his strong arms wrapped around her protectively. She could feel the evidence of his own unfulfilled desire pressing against her hip, could see the strain in his face as he fought for control.
“I’d like to—” she began, but he silenced her with a gentle kiss.
“This was for you,” he said simply. “Only for you.”
But Eleanor’s hands were already moving, finding the fastenings of his breeches with trembling fingers. “Please,” she whispered against his throat, “let me give you the same gift.”
As his rod sprang free, she wrapped her dainty fingers around it, her eyes widening at his thickness.
Damien released a deep groan as she licked her lips.
Her hand began to move up and down over the full length of him, her grip somewhat hesitant.
Holding her gaze, he leaned back and wrapped his strong hand over hers, gripping firmly as he showed her how he liked it.
As his breathing became more erratic and moisture gathered at his tip, Eleanor felt Damien release her hand, surrendering completely to sensation. She leaned toward him then, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, “Would you like me to suck on your cock?”
The bold words felt foreign on her tongue, yet thrilling in their power.
She watched his control shatter at her offer, felt the tremor that ran through his powerful frame at her inexperienced but eager touch.
When release claimed him, Eleanor marveled at the intensity of it—the way his body shook beneath her ministrations, the way her name escaped his lips like a prayer torn from the depths of his soul.
They held each other in the aftermath, Eleanor’s breathing gradually slowing to match his as the carriage carried them through the night.
She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling her silken hair spill across his chest, savoring the intimacy of the moment and the knowledge that she had brought him such pleasure.
“Eleanor,” he said softly, his voice rough with emotion.
“Hmm?” She lifted her head to meet his gaze.
“You’ll be the death of me, Wife.” Damien’s smile was radiant as he gathered her closer, his forehead resting against hers. “My brilliant, maddening duchess. What are we going to do with this impossible situation we’ve created?”
“I don’t know,” Eleanor admitted, but for the first time since their arrangement began, the uncertainty didn’t terrify her. “But we’ll figure it out together.”
“Together,” Damien agreed, sealing the promise with a kiss.