Even unconscious and disheveled, he was devastatingly handsome. The strong line of his jaw, the aristocratic nose, the sensual mouth that had kissed her with such passion days ago—all served as a stark reminder of the man beneath the surface. But it wasn’t his physical beauty that made her chest ache as she watched him. It was remembering his raw vulnerability whenhe’d spoken of Dominic, the way his voice had broken with guilt and love.
The three years he’d sacrificed wandering foreign countries, abandoning his own life and prospects to save his brother. His gentle treatment of young Tommy in the garden, the respect he’d shown her independence even when it frustrated him. The way he’d trusted her with his deepest fears in that cottage on the heath. All of it served to remind her of what she’d allowed herself to begin feeling for this thoroughly vexing and devoted man.
“Your Grace,” Simmons said quietly as they neared Mayfair, “what you did back there… it was well done.”
Eleanor didn’t respond immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was weary. “Lord Croft underestimated me, Simmons. He assumed I would react as most wives would—with tears and recriminations and public scandal. Instead, he’s given me exactly what I needed.”
“Your Grace?”
“Proof that he considers me a threat worth neutralizing. And now I have an agent in his own operation.” Eleanor’s smile was shrewd. “Lord Croft may have intended to humiliate me tonight, but instead, he’s handed me a weapon I can use against him.”
The carriage drew to a halt before their house, and Eleanor felt a familiar determination settle over her. She had survived her husband’s death, Abram’s machinations, and the challenge of establishing her independence in a world designed to thwart women at every turn.
She would survive this too. And when she was finished, Lord Croft would rue the day he chose to make an enemy of the Duchess of Westmore.
But first, she needed to determine whether her husband was truly the debauched rake Lord Croft wanted her to believe, or if tonight’s performance had been completely orchestrated and as out of character for him as she hoped.
Either way, Eleanor vowed as Jack and Simmons carried the duke’s unconscious form into the house, she would uncover the truth. And then she would decide whether the Duke of Westmore was worth fighting for—or if she should simply let Lord Croft destroy him.
The Reckoning
Damien’s consciousness returnedin waves of agony, each pulse of his heart sending hammers through his skull. The taste in his mouth was vile—metallic and bitter, as though he’d been chewing on copper coins soaked in laudanum. He groaned and attempted to sit up, immediately regretting the movement as the room spun violently around him.
Fragments of memory flickered through his mind like candle flames in a windstorm. He remembered entering a gaming hell near the docks, following a lead about Croft. There had been wine—too much wine—and then… nothing. Complete darkness.
His mouth felt as dry as parchment, his tongue thick and unresponsive. Water. He needed water desperately. Damien reached toward the bell pull beside his bed, his hand trembling with the effort. The simple movement exhausted him, and he collapsed back against the pillows, breathing heavily.
The door opened almost immediately, which surprised him—servants were rarely so prompt at this hour. But instead of Graves or one of the footmen, Eleanor stepped into the room, carrying a crystal glass filled with blessed, clear water.
The sight of her made his parched throat constrict further, though not from thirst. She wore a day dress of deep greenfabric, her caramel brown hair arranged meticulously, every inch the composed duchess. But her blue eyes… Christ, her eyes held a coldness that made him wish he could sink back into unconsciousness.
“Eleanor,” he croaked, his voice barely recognizable. “Thank God. Water, please—”
She remained by the door, the glass tantalizingly out of reach. Her posture was rigid, her expression carefully controlled in a way that spoke of barely leashed fury.
“Before I provide you with anything,” she said, her voice so coolly polite it might have been addressing an unwelcome caller, “I require some information.”
Damien’s head pounded mercilessly, and the room seemed to tilt at odd angles. “Eleanor, please. I can barely think—”
“What happened last night?” she interrupted, moving no closer with the water. “And I don’t merely want to know which establishment you went to. I mean why were you there, what you were doing.”
The careful neutrality of her tone was more terrifying than if she’d been screaming. Damien tried to focus through the fog of whatever drug was still coursing through his system. Something was very wrong—more wrong than a simple night of excess would warrant.
“I was… gambling,” he managed, attempting a weak smile that felt more like a grimace. “Terrible luck at cards lately. Probably lost half your fortune by now.” His voice cracked on the words, the jest falling flat even to his own ears.
Eleanor’s expression didn’t change. “Is that your final answer?”
“Eleanor, what’s happened? You look as though—”
“At half past two this morning,” she said, her voice cutting through his fumbling words like a blade, “I was summonedfrom my bed by a messenger. From Madame Rousseau’s establishment.”
Damien’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “What?”
“I was instructed to collect my husband, who was found unconscious and naked, entangled with two equally naked women.” Each word was delivered with a sharp edge. “Thoroughly drugged and completely insensible.”
The room spun more violently, though Damien suspected this time it had nothing to do with laudanum. “Eleanor, I swear to you—”
“You were discovered in such a compromising state that the brothel keeper felt compelled to summon me rather than simply deposit you in a hackney.” Her knuckles were white where she gripped the water glass. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me to walk into that room? To see you…”