“I prefer romantic visionary,” she replied primly. “And judging by your current state of besotted confusion, I’d say my vision is coming to fruition quite nicely.”
He shook his head at her audacity, suddenly feeling the weight of years crash down upon him. “While I’m playing at romance, my brother may be rotting in some godforsaken corner of London.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s expression grew serious. “Whatever you believe or discover about Dominic, don’t let it jeopardize your future with Eleanor. Some battles aren’t worth winning if they cost you what matters most.”
As Damien departed Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s parlor, her words echoed in his mind. Suddenly, his choice became clear. Dominic’s safety and Eleanor’s happiness weren’t competing priorities—they were both his responsibility now.
The Dance of Deception
Seven weeks hadpassed 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 daringneckline 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 thereflection, 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.”