“You will learn soon enough just how precious my gift truly was.” The Widow began to fan herself languidly. “I’m curious about one thing. You and Dominic briefly returned to England last year. Not the most practical for you to return amid Dominic’s struggles… Did you return for Lady Laura?”
“No. I had returned only to assess the damage to Westmore Hall after the fire. I did meet with her once to confirm I had no intention of taking her back.”
“I see. Rumor has it that she had a change of heart after you left England.”
Damien nodded wordlessly. It was expected that she’d fall for another after his departure. Though he was mildly surprised he felt nothing for her now.
As he made his way back through the Lyon’s Den’s hidden passages, his mind returned unbidden to Eleanor. The arrangement had indeed become complicated in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
The Ball and Past Ghosts
Eleanor studied herreflection in the large, gilded mirror of her dressing room with a critical eye. The deep purple gown had been a last-minute selection, purchased only that morning from Madame Delarue, who had gasped in delight when Eleanor had requested something “memorable.” The French modiste had not disappointed. The rich silk caught the light with every movement, its modest neckline balanced by sleeves that left her shoulders daringly bare. Tiny silver beadwork scattered across the bodice mimicked stars against a night sky.
“Perfect,” murmured Sally, her lady’s maid, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Eleanor’s caramel brown hair had been arranged in an elegant twist, with a few carefully placed tendrils framing her face. “His Grace will be most appreciative.”
“His Grace’s appreciation is not my concern,” Eleanor replied automatically, though her stomach fluttered traitorously at the thought of her pretend husband’s reaction.
She had spent the past three days in a state of constant awareness of him—his movements through the house, his half-buttoned shirts at breakfast, his infuriating ability to turn each of her schemes against her. Worse, she found herself inexplicably drawn to his company, their verbal sparringmatches becoming the highlight of her day rather than the deterrent she had intended.
“Of course not, Your Grace,” Sally replied with a knowing smile that Eleanor chose to ignore.
A knock at the door announced Simmons. “His Grace awaits you in the entrance hall, Your Grace.”
Eleanor took a steadying breath and rose. Tonight’s appearance at Lady Harrington’s ball would be their first public outing as husband and wife. The prospect filled her with an odd mixture of anticipation and dread.
When she descended the grand staircase, she found her husband waiting below, resplendent in formal evening attire. He cut a striking figure in black and white, his cravat perfectly arranged, his tailcoat emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders.
He looked up at her approach, and the flash of genuine admiration in his eyes sent a rush of warmth through her body.
“My duchess,” he said softly, extending his hand as she reached the bottom step. “You are absolutely breathtaking.”
Despite herself, Eleanor felt a blush rise to her cheeks. “Such honeyed words, Your Grace. One might think you’re trying to charm me.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Always so suspicious. Perhaps I’m simply a man who finds his wife irresistible.” He lifted her gloved hand to his lips.
Their carriage ride to Harrington House was filled with a peculiar tension. Eleanor found herself acutely aware of his proximity in the confined space, the brush of his leg against her skirts when the carriage jostled, the way the passing streetlamps cast his strong profile into dramatic relief.
“We should establish our story,” she said, more to break the silence than anything else. “For those who inquire about our marriage.”
The duke turned toward her, his expression thoughtful. “Simple truths make the best deceptions, don’t you agree? We met through mutual acquaintances, corresponded for a time, and married by proxy due to my obligations abroad.”
“And your return?”
“Those obligations concluded, and I naturally hastened back to England to properly claim my bride.” His gaze held hers, intense and unreadable. “No one would question such a motivation upon seeing you, Eleanor.”
She looked away, unsettled by the way his words stirred something within her.
The carriage slowed as they approached Harrington House, its windows blazing with light, a steady stream of London’s elite ascending the steps to the grand entrance.
“Ready, Duchess?” her husband asked as a footman opened their carriage door.
Eleanor straightened her shoulders. “Perfectly.”
His hand was strong and steady as he helped her descend, then tucked her arm through his as they made their way up the marble steps. The touch, even through layers of gloves and fabric, felt oddly intimate—a partnership presented to the world, however false it might be in private.
“The Duke and Duchess of Westmore,” the major-domo announced as they crossed the threshold into Lady Harrington’s opulent ballroom.
A ripple of curious whispers followed their entrance. Eleanor felt dozens of eyes assessing her gown, her jewels, her proximity to the duke who had been absent from Society for three years. His Grace’s hand pressed reassuringly against the small of her back as he guided her forward to greet their hostess.