The warmth of his touch sent electricity racing up her arms, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “That’s merely nervousness about tonight’s performance.”
“I see.” His thumb traced circles against her wrist, and Eleanor felt her carefully maintained composure beginning to fray. “Your hands are trembling.”
Eleanor glanced down, annoyed to find he was correct. “I’m anxious about what we might discover tonight.”
“Liar.” His hand moved to her nape, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “We needn’t maintain our pretense in private. Not when we both know the truth of what exists between us.”
“My rouge—” she began weakly.
“Will survive.” His mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear, pressing a kiss there that made her gasp. “As will your coiffure, if I’m careful.”
Eleanor’s resolve wavered completely as his lips traced a burning path along her throat, avoiding her mouth but finding every other sensitive spot that made her arch against him. “You’re playing with fire,” she whispered as his mouth found the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
“Then let me burn,” he replied against her skin, his hand sliding lower to rest on her thigh through the silk of her gown. “God knows you’ve been tormenting me since the moment I saw you in this dress.”
Eleanor’s head fell back against the squabs as his fingers traced patterns against her leg, the silk creating a maddening friction that made her ache for more direct contact. When his mouth found the upper curve of her breast, just above her neckline, she made a sound that was part moan, part surrender.
“Damien,” she breathed, her hands clutching his arms.
“Say my name again,” he commanded roughly, his hand sliding higher on her thigh. “I want to hear it on your lips when you’re trembling for me.”
“Damien.” The word came out as a plea, and she felt him smile against her skin.
“Still immune to my charms?” he murmured against her throat.
“Completely,” she managed breathlessly, though her body pressed closer to his of its own accord.
The carriage began to slow, signaling their arrival, and Damien reluctantly pulled away. Eleanor’s breathing was ragged, her skin flushed with desire, and she could see her own hunger reflected in his darkened eyes.
“Compose yourself, Duchess,” he said with a wicked smile, though his own breathing was unsteady. “We have a performance to give. We shall put Croft’s mind at ease by pretending to be estranged. An attack is most effective when unforeseen.”
Lord Croft’s Londonresidence was a monument to ostentatious wealth—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and artwork thatspoke of money recently acquired rather than inherited taste. Eleanor accepted a glass of champagne from a footman while observing the other guests with sharp attention.
The gathering was smaller than she’d expected—perhaps twenty people—but Eleanor quickly realized the guest list had been curated for them. These weren’t random members of Society; they were carefully selected pieces on Croft’s chessboard. Eleanor’s pulse quickened as she realized the true purpose of this gathering—not a dinner party, but a demonstration of power.
She recognized Lord Banburry, whose gambling debts were rumored to be substantial, and Sir Marcus Whitfield, whose shipping investments had recently failed spectacularly. Near the fireplace stood a man she didn’t recognize.
“Your Grace.” Lord Croft appeared at her side, dressed in black velvet with gold stitching that somehow managed to look both expensive and vulgar. “How radiant you look this evening. That color brings out the brilliance of your eyes.”
“Thank you, Lord Croft.” Eleanor kept her voice pleasantly neutral while every instinct screamed warnings. “Your home is quite impressive. And what an… interesting assembly of guests.”
“Each one carefully chosen,” he replied with obvious pride, his smile sharp as a blade. “I find London Society requires certain strategic alliances to maintain one’s position. Speaking of which, have you met Mr. Annesley? He serves on several ecclesiastical committees that handle… marital disputes.”
The threat was delicately delivered but unmistakable. Every person in this room had the power to bring Croft closer to his aim.
Across the room, Eleanor caught sight of Damien engaged in conversation with a portly gentleman she recognized as Lord Cawley. Even from a distance, she could feel his awareness of her, the way his eyes found her despite his apparent attentionto his companion. But she also noticed how Lord Cawley’s demeanor was oddly deferential, almost nervous.
“I trust the duke is feeling better?” Croft’s question drew her attention back to him. “I heard he’d suffered a rather unfortunate evening recently.”
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.