His wife slightly choked on her wine.How endearing.
“A significant change from our original agreement,” she managed.
“With significant benefits to compensate.” He leaned back in his chair, studying her remarkable blue eyes. “Your Mr. Abram strikes me as a particularly persistent sort, from what you’ve told me. Wouldn’t the visible presence of a duke rather conclusively end his meddling?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Imagine him being informed by the butler that ‘Her Grace is now receiving callers with His Grace’s approval only.’”
Despite herself, Eleanor smiled. “That would be most satisfying.”
“I’m certain Simmons could utter those words with remarkable relish,” Damien added, pleased to see the tension easing from her shoulders.
“One month,” she said finally. “We will try this arrangement for one month. After which, we will reassess.”
He smiled triumphantly. “A reasonable compromise, my darling wife.”
“With conditions,” she added quickly. “You will explain these mysterious ‘business affairs’ that require your presence in London.”
“In time. Some matters require discretion, for reasons that extend beyond my personal preferences.” He would not risk her discovering his search for Dominic too soon. Not until he’d assessed the position of all the chess pieces.
Eleanor held his gaze, her frown deepening with doubt; therefore, what she said surprised him. “Very well. But if your business threatens to create scandal that might damage my reputation, you will give me fair warning.”
“You have my word.” He extended his hand. “Do we have an agreement, Duchess?”
Eleanor placed her hand in his, then opened his palm on hers. With a finger, she tentatively traced the calluses that spoke of a life far different from most aristocrats of her acquaintance. The gentle touch reminded him achingly of what had been missing in his life. She looked up with half-curiosity and half-resignation. “Conditionally, Your Grace.”
“Damien,” he reminded her softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against her wrist. “If we’re to present ourselves as a happily married couple, you should use my Christian name.”
“In time, but for now, you are my most inconvenient duke,” she said, ignoring his thumb’s motion though he felt her pulse quicken beneath his touch. “For one month.”
He laughed, the rich sound filling the space as he tightened his fingers around hers before reluctantly releasing her hand. “One month to convince you of the advantages of my presence. I look forward to the challenge.”
The remainder of the meal passed in surprisingly companionable conversation, though Damien fought against his nature and maintained his distance despite being acutely aware of her proximity, her scent, the silken texture of her skin, the tantalizing glimpse of her breasts.
One month. He would use it to discover if the lust he felt for his duchess might someday mean more than just physical attraction. One month for him to find his brother and send him away from Croft for good. One month to gather evidence against Croft and destroy him.
And if he found himself completely enchanted by his wife after a month? That was a heartbreak he was willing to risk.
Operation: Ducal Departure
Eleanor had neverconsidered herself particularly devious. Strategic, certainly. Determined, without question. But as she sat at her writing desk the morning after her dinner with the duke, quill poised over a fresh sheet of paper, she embraced a new quality: creative malevolence.
“One month,” she murmured, carefully writing the heading at the top of the page. “Operation: Ducal Departure.”
The grandfather clock in the hall struck nine, which meant His Grace was likely still abed after their late dinner. Perfect. She had at least two hours to set her plans in motion before he emerged to plague her household with his insufferable charm and distracting forearms.
She hadn’t missed how the servants had fawned over him. Even Mrs. Wright, who had served the Sinclair family for twenty years and prided herself on maintaining proper distance from all gentlemen, had blushed like a schoolgirl when the duke had complimented her selection of table linens.
“Traitors, the lot of them,” Eleanor muttered, though she couldn’t entirely blame them. The duke wielded his smile like a weapon, precision-targeted and devastating in its effect.
Well, two could play at that game. If Damien Westmore thought to win this battle of wills with his green eyes and casual disregard for proper attire, he would soon discover that Eleanor had weapons of her own.
She dipped her quill and began to write, her instructions flowing across the page in precise, determined strokes. After completing her masterful planning, Eleanor slipped into the library seeking refuge from the chaos of her morning—the housekeeper was having vapors about the evening’s menu, the butler was annoying her with accolades about the newly arrived master, and her lady’s maid had somehow managed to scorch her favorite morning dress. All she wanted was twenty minutes of peaceful solitude with her correspondence.
She froze in the doorway.
Her most inconvenient husband sat sprawled in the leather chair by the window, boots propped on the ottoman with casual disregard for propriety, reading what appeared to be her copy of theTimes. He looked annoyingly comfortable, as though he’d been there for years rather than the mere day since his unwelcome arrival.