Only For His Lady (The Theodora Sword #1)(8)

The sword slipped from her fingers and she spun around to face the dark, towering, muscle-hewn gentleman who’d caught her notice in the hall. The gentleman who’d been watching her. Ah, yes, it all made sense. Herbie had likely realized they’d require help handling the weapon and he’d sent this stranger—which explained why the man had studied her in the ballroom a short while ago.

She smiled. “Herbie sent you.” Theodosia motioned to the sword. “Which is splendid. I desperately require assistance.”





Chapter Three


Damian took in the empty space above the sideboard, the shattered glass throughout the room, the broadsword lying upon the floor. And then slowly, back to the diminutive, yet well-rounded, armor wearing miss who’d caught his attention in the ballroom.

“I do not have much time.” Her voice clear like bells recalled his attention. “If you’d be so good as to pick that up,” she pointed to the sword. “I would be tremendously appreciative. I imagine Herbie realized it was entirely too cumbersome for the both of us.”

Herbie?

“And he surely realized one of your…” Her cheeks blazed red. “Er…he surely realized you could handle it with a good deal more ease than myself.” Or him, he swore she muttered.

The lady was no warrior. Why, she was a thief. The lady was stealing. Nay, correction. The lady was not just stealing. She was stealing from him, the Duke of Devlin. People were subservient and simpering around him, and they most certainly did not filch his personal belongings.

“Hullo?” She waved her hand.

“Yes?” he asked, closing the door behind him and turning the lock.

She cocked her head. Apprehension settled on the delicate planes of her face, and then her eyes brightened. “Oh, splendid idea. It is far safer to close the door in case someone happens to come upon us.” The lady lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “Especially the Duke of Devlin. They say he is a horrid, odious beast.”

They would be right.

Damian strode over. He should be focused on the fact that some stranger had stolen into his home, invaded his office, and made a proper mess of his sideboard, and…He glanced down at the jagged marks upon his floor.

The lady’s wide, cornflower blue eyes followed his stare. “Oh, that.”

Instead of proper outrage, he stood transfixed by the riot of midnight black curls piled atop her head. He didn’t bother to point out that he’d, in fact, not issued any questions or statements.

“I’m afraid the sword is responsible for that.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you suppose the duke will note the damage to his floor?”

“I daresay he will,” he drawled.

The young lady bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, yes I fear you’re right.” She jabbed her finger to the remnants that used to be his collection of brandy and whiskey. “We’d be wise to at least put the space to rights.” She scanned his office and then her eyes lit once more. “I have it!” She bounded across the room, her metal breastplate clanging noisily as she skidded to a stop beside a large urn. The thief held it aloft, as though she’d unearthed James Cook’s treasure and then grunted, staggering back under the weight of it. “Will you carry this for me, sir?”

Damian stalked over and wordlessly accepted his urn. She raced back to the pile of broken decanters and glasses. “Well, come over. We don’t have much time.”

He lowered his brows. By God, the chit was ordering him about. Color bloomed on her cheeks as she added, “Please.”

Damian closed the distance between them. In the course of his nine and twenty years, no one had dared order him about. Not his tutors, his nursemaids. Not his instructors at university. Even his own Mother was wise enough to not issue orders to him.

The clink of crystal hitting the metal of the urn echoed. “Are you always this quiet?” she asked, pausing to look up from her efforts.

“Yes.”

Her lips twitched.

He narrowed his eyes, and her smile withered. “Oh, I thought you were making light of me.” She returned to her clean up.

“I do not make light of people.” And people didn’t make light of him.

She wrinkled her nose. “What an odd friendship,” Nor did he have friends. “You and Herbie are an unlikely pairing.”

Who in hell was this Herbie fellow? He ran the name through his mind, the partner to this thief who’d wrestled the great family relic from his wall.

She paused once again. “Do you intend to help?”

“Help?” He sent an eyebrow arching up.

Her color deepened. “I understand you didn’t come to clean the Devil’s den.” Despite himself, his lips twitched. “And of course know it was my fault, however, I’d be grateful if you helped me tidy this, please.” The armor-clad thief expected him to clean?

Silently, he went to a knee beside her and began picking up shards of glass, setting them into the urn. If a single member of his staff, family, or acquaintance saw him, they’d have him committed to Bedlam. In silence, he and the bold miss picked up shard after shard, in a tight, yet companionable silence. He stole a glance at her as she diligently cleaned his floor, dropping the larger shards into the urn. Feeling his gaze, she stopped and looked up.