Dinner was announced before the conversation could continue, but Eleanor had got the message loud and clear. She found herself seated between Lord Banburry—who avoided eye contact and seemed to shrink into his chair—and a nervous gentleman introduced as Mr. Henley, while Damien was positioned strategically across the table where she was forced to meet his heated gaze throughout the meal.
The conversation flowed around topics of politics and business, but Eleanor noticed how each topic seemed designed to highlight the vulnerabilities of specific guests. When Lord Banburry mentioned his estates, the discussion turned toproperty values and foreclosures. When Mr. Henley spoke of his shipping ventures, talk shifted to insurance claims and maritime law. It was masterfully orchestrated—a dinner party that doubled as a public reminder of who held the strings.
As the evening progressed and wine flowed freely, tongues began to loosen. Mr. Henley, in particular, became increasingly voluble, his voice rising as his inhibitions fell away.
“The thing about Croft,” he slurred to Lord Banburry during the fish course, apparently forgetting their host was within earshot, “is that he’s got damned good instincts about people’s weaknesses. Take his own father, for instance.”
Eleanor’s attention sharpened, even as she pretended polite disinterest.
“Mad as a March hare by the end,” Henley continued, oblivious to the sudden tension at the table. “Spent his final years convinced the servants were trying to poison him. Wouldn’t eat anything unless Croft tasted it first. Rather touching familial devotion, really.”
The comment hung in the air for a moment before Croft smoothly redirected the conversation to safer topics. But Eleanor had caught the flash of rage that crossed his face before he regained control—and more importantly, she’d noticed how Mr. Annesley had suddenly looked deeply uncomfortable, as if remembering something he’d rather forget.
Madness in the family. A father who died suspicious and paranoid, dependent entirely on his son’s care. And an ecclesiastical court official who clearly knew more about it than he was comfortable admitting. Eleanor filed the information away, recognizing it for what it was—a potential weakness that could be exploited by someone clever enough to use it.
Throughout the remainder of the evening, she and Damien circled each other like wary combatants, their public indifference belied by the charged glances they exchanged.When he passed behind her chair, his fingers briefly brushed her bare shoulder, sending sparks crackling along the skin despite the underlying menace of their situation.
By the time they took their leave, Eleanor’s body hummed with unfulfilled desire and her mind raced with the intelligence they’d gathered—as well as the very real threats Croft had so elegantly delivered.
“He wasn’t just entertaining us,” she said quietly while waiting for their carriage. “He was making a point.”
“Several points,” Damien agreed grimly. “Including the fact that he has Mr. Annesley in his pocket—the same man who will likely oversee Abram’s petition.”
Eleanor felt a chill run down her spine. “Then we’re in more danger than we realized.”
“Perhaps,” Damien replied. “But did you notice how uncomfortable Annesley looked when Henley mentioned Croft’s father? I suspect our host’s carefully curated guest list may have just provided us with ammunition of our own.”
The carriage door had barely closed behind them when Eleanor sensed Damien’s carefully maintained composure finally crack. Her deliberate torment throughout the evening—the heated looks, the strategic touches, the gown that clung to her like a second skin—had clearly pushed him past his breaking point, and the knowledge sent a thrill of satisfaction through her.
“Come here,” he commanded, his voice rough with barely leashed hunger.
She moved toward him, her silk skirts whispering against the carriage seats as she settled beside him. The scent of him invaded her senses, making her head spin with want.
“Damien,” she breathed.
The sound seemed to snap his restraint entirely. His mouth crashed against hers with desperate hunger, weeks of distanceexploding into fierce possession. Eleanor met his fervor with her own, her fingers tangling in his dark hair as she pulled him closer. This wasn’t the controlled seduction of a gentleman wooing his wife—this was primal need given form, raw and consuming.
“I’ve thought of nothing but you,” he growled against her lips, his hands framing her face as he deepened the kiss. “Every night, every moment—you’ve haunted me.”
Eleanor gasped as his teeth scraped against her lips. Wine lingered on his lips, intoxicating her further as his thumbs traced the line of her jaw with reverence. When she arched toward him, desperate for more contact, his groan vibrated through her chest.
“The way you looked tonight,” he continued, his mouth moving to the sensitive spot below her ear, “that dress, the way other men watched you—I wanted to claim you before them all.”
“You’re mad,” she whispered, even as her hands worked frantically at his waistcoat buttons, needing to feel his skin beneath her palms.
“Completely,” he agreed, his own hands finding the fastenings of her gown. “Mad with wanting you.”
The carriage swayed through London’s streets, but Eleanor’s world had narrowed to Damien’s touch. Cool air kissed her skin as silk and stays fell away, followed immediately by the heat of his mouth blazing a path down her throat.
When his lips captured her breast, Eleanor’s cry echoed in the confined space. Her back arched off the velvet squabs as sensation crashed through her—the wet heat of his mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth, his tongue lavishing attention that made her writhe beneath him.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, his hands mapping every curve with worshipful attention. “So damned beautiful it breaks my heart to look at you.”
Eleanor’s world fractured into points of exquisite contact—his mouth at her breast, his hands stroking along her silk stockings, the solid heat of his body covering hers. When his fingers found the apex of her thighs where she ached most desperately, propriety abandoned her entirely.
“Please,” she gasped, her voice unrecognizable. “Damien, please—”
“Anything,” he promised fiercely, his eyes blazing as he looked down at her. “Anything you need, anything you want—it’s yours.”