She kept her voice even when she spoke. “I refuse to be driven from my own library by some brandy thief.”
“Brandy thief?” Damien laughed, the rich sound filling the room and making her heart flutter inexplicably.Damn the man.“I prefer uninvited sampling expert, thank you very much.”
Despite herself, Eleanor felt her lips twitch, which only annoyed her further. The wretched man had no right to be charming when she was trying to dislike him. “Your presence here is entirely inappropriate.”
“According to whom? The same social conventions that would have left you at the mercy of your thieving executor?” His tone grew more serious. “Forgive me if I place little value on propriety that serves no one but predators.”
The unexpected acknowledgement confirmed that there was more to this maddening duke than frivolous charm. He almost sounded like he cared. Which was precisely the problem—she needed him to be simply awful, not… whatever he was.
“Regardless,” she said stiffly, “this is my private workspace.”
“Then by all means, work,” Damien replied, reopening his periodical. “I promise not to judge your correspondence too harshly.”
Eleanor stared at him in mounting frustration. Somehow, without conceding anything, he’d managed to claim victory in their standoff. He would remain exactly where he was, comfortable and unrepentant, while she sat there seething.
The truly maddening part was that a treacherous corner of her mind acknowledged his refusal to be cowed by her desperate tactics. But that only made him more dangerous, not less.
Eleanor returned to her desk with as much dignity as she could muster, her pen scratching furiously across paper as she composed increasingly creative threats to various business associates who’d failed to meet her expectations. If she couldn’t intimidate her unwelcome husband, at least she could terrorize someone else.
The comfortable quiet that settled between them felt less like victory and more like an ominous truce—one that left Eleanor with the uncomfortable suspicion that she’d just lost the first major battle in what promised to be a very long war.
The Dinner Party Ambush
Eleanor was reviewingthe household accounts when Sally burst into her study.
“Your Grace, Lady Thornfield’s carriage has just arrived—with three other ladies! Mrs. Wright is in quite a state about refreshments.”
Eleanor’s pen stilled. “Lady Thornfield? I wasn’t expecting—” She stopped, understanding dawning with sinking dread. Her friend Cordelia had been dropping increasingly obvious hints about meeting the mysterious returned duke ever since word of his arrival had spread through Mayfair’s drawing rooms.
“Shall I tell them you’re indisposed?” Sally asked, clearly recognizing the trapped expression on her mistress’s face.
“No,” Eleanor sighed, setting down her pen with resignation. “Show them to the blue drawing room. And ask Cook to prepare tea for five. Inform His Grace that his presence is… requested.”
Twenty minutes later, Eleanor entered the drawing room to find her guests arranged like a theatrical tableau. Lady Cordelia Thornfield sat in the center chair with obvious satisfaction, her graying curls perfectly arranged beneath a becoming bonnet. Beside her, the younger Lady Monmouth leaned forward with eager anticipation, while Mrs. Brassey—a nervous creature whorarely spoke above a whisper—perched on the edge of her seat as though ready to flee.
But it was the fourth visitor who made Eleanor’s stomach clench with foreboding. Lady Vivienne Birkenhead reclined in her chair with the languid grace of a cat, her black hair artfully arranged to emphasize her pale skin and striking violet eyes. The woman was notorious throughout thetonfor her string of “intimate friendships” with various gentlemen, conducted with just enough discretion to avoid complete social ruin but sufficient boldness to keep gossips supplied with endless speculation.
“Eleanor, darling!” Lady Thornfield rose with theatrical delight. “We simply couldn’t contain our curiosity a moment longer. When Vivienne mentioned she’d heard the most interesting rumors…”
Lady Birkenhead smiled with feline satisfaction. “One hears such fascinating whispers about sudden marriages and mysterious returns from abroad. Naturally, we felt compelled to offer our congratulations in person.”
Before Eleanor could formulate a response, the drawing room door opened to admit Damien. He paused in the doorway, taking in the assembled company with one comprehensive glance before his features arranged themselves into an expression of perfect ducal courtesy.
Eleanor watched in growing alarm as every female eye in the room fixed upon her husband with varying degrees of appreciation. Even shy Mrs. Brassey sat up straighter, her cheeks coloring becomingly.
“Ladies,” Damien said with a bow. “What a pleasure.”
“Your Grace,” Lady Thornfield practically purred, extending her hand. “I am Lady Thornfield, Eleanor’s dearest friend. We’ve been simply perishing with curiosity about your return.”
Damien crossed to her, bowing over her hand with practiced charm. “Lady Thornfield. Eleanor has spoken of you often.” The lie fell so smoothly from his lips that Eleanor almost believed it herself.
“How gallant of you to say so.” Lady Thornfield’s eyes sparkled with delight. “And may I present Lady Monmouth, Mrs. Brassey, and Lady Birkenhead?”
Eleanor watched with mounting irritation as Damien moved through the introductions with devastating effect. Lady Monmouth blushed like a schoolgirl when he complimented her gown. Mrs. Brassey actually giggled—giggled!—when he asked about her family with apparently genuine interest.
But it was his interaction with Lady Birkenhead that made Eleanor’s hands clench in her lap.
“Lady Birkenhead,” he said, his voice carrying just the right note of respect and interest. “I believe I knew your late husband. A remarkable man.”