The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  “You shouldn’t be here,” his uncle growled in a low voice. “You shouldn’t exist.”

  Daphne put a hand on her father’s arm. “Father,” she chided, casting apologetic eyes toward Damon.

  Sephe and Cassie moved between their brother and their uncle at the same time, forming a wall.

  “Uncle Fillmore,” Cassie said quietly but firmly. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a public display. And any disparaging words you say to your nephew—our brother—cast aspersions on us all and reflect most poorly on you.”

  What backbone his sister possessed to face down this man a good thirty years her senior. Her ardent defense touched him. He had endured such castigation before; his sisters most certainly had not. Had they decided to distance themselves, he’d have understood.

  Fillmore ignored them, leaning around Sephe as he addressed Damon, icy daggers emanating from his eyes. “You should not be Duke,” he hissed. “You are not a Malford.”

  Damon’s brow rose. “Why, dear Uncle—are you suggesting my mother cuckolded my father?” The corner of his cheek slid up into a sardonic grin. “I would be careful what you say. Men have called each other out over lesser offenses. And not that you would know, but I am a crack shot. I’ve had lots of time to practice.”

  His uncle’s face paled. He dusted off invisible flecks from his coat before nodding at Damon, as if that would put the bad blood of the past few moments—or past decades—behind them.

  “I am thirsty, Father,” Daphne said in a calming voice. “Shall we find some refreshment?” She looked to Cassie and Sephe. “Perhaps you would like to accompany us?”

  Damon breathed a sigh of relief. He needed a chance to escape, to be alone.

  “By all means,” he said to his sisters. “I would like to explore the gardens as it is. I have heard they are among the finest in London.”

  With that, he excused himself. His insides shook, but his outward demeanor revealed nothing. He tipped his head politely to the various matrons and young debutantes who gaped at him and nodded to several gentlemen. All the while, his mind screamed: Get out. Find some space. You’re going to start again. You’re going to start.

  A peek through the windows showed the gardens ablaze with lantern lights. A number of couples strolled along the paths. No good. Run. Flee. Don’t show them. Don’t show them.

  As quickly as he could, he raced down the nearest hallway, seeking a place of respite. He tried the nearest door, hoping not to surprise a couple in flagrante delicto or disturb his host. To his delight and relief, the door swung open to reveal a rather expansive library, numerous wooden bookshelves covering the walls, each crammed full of titles. Thank God. He slammed the door behind him and stood, trying to catch his breath.

  The tics exploded with a ferocity he’d not felt in years. His head jerked repeatedly to the side and his nose twitched uncontrollably. It had been ages since his body had reacted in such a manner, but he gave it free rein. Any more suppression would make it worse. He flexed his hands, waiting for the surge of adrenaline to work its way through his body.

  Years of practice had given him mastery over the tics, for the most part. The urge to move in such random ways rarely struck. In fact, the compulsion to repeat the odd mannerisms only reared its head in times of great stress. Such times had been rare at the abbey, so much so that he’d truly believed the tics gone.

  No such luck. During the first few weeks at Thorne Hill, as he’d worked to assimilate with his family and master the running of the duchy, the old feelings had returned. Not often, but enough. He’d hoped it was merely a reaction to being back in that space, in those rooms in which he’d been beaten and shamed so many years ago.

  Apparently not.

  He stared into the flames of the large fire blazing in the fireplace. At least the fire was oblivious to the battle raging within him. He paced, body spasming, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the anger to dissipate.

  After a few minutes, the tension eased. He breathed slowly, deep breaths in and out, like he’d taught himself years ago. Just when he thought he had complete control again, a soft voice spoke from behind him.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you should know you’re not alone in the room.”

  Chapter Five

  Rexborough Ball, London – Early April, 1814

  Damon whirled.

  A young woman sat in a cushioned nook near the window, dressed in a rather simple gown of pale green. Gorgeous sable hair swept up in a simple chignon highlighted her elegant neck. Kind chocolate brown eyes watched him, and her lips curved into a delicate smile. She set the book she’d been reading on her lap.

  “I hate it when my sisters surprise me when I think I’m alone, so I thought I owed you the same courtesy.”

  “Who are you?” Damon demanded, his mind racing. She’d seen him. She’d seen him at his worst, when his body wasn’t under his control and he’d twisted and turned as if truly demon-possessed. Apprehension flooded through him. What if she revealed his secret, that the tics that had plagued him as a child were not completely gone? What if it started again—the accusations, the avoidance?

  She rose and approached him. No trace of repulsion reflected in her eyes. “Grace Mattersley. Sister to Claremont.”

  “Claremont,” he repeated, stalling as he tried to place the name. So many blasted titles to remember. A Christian name teased at him. Derrick, perhaps? Or Deveric? Yes, that was it. Deveric Mattersley, Duke of Claremont.

  “Damon,” he said, cocking his chin in the air to disguise his unease. To go on the attack was often the strongest defense, was it not? “Blackbourne. Duke of Malford.”

  Damn. He should have simply said Malford. That’s how it was done. Not giving one’s Christian name, not as member of the ton and with certainty not as a duke. He might be rusty, but he remembered the rules. Most of them. Still, she’d introduced herself by her given name. Was it any wonder he’d done the same?

  He did not like how off-kilter this stranger set him.

  Grace—Lady Grace—smiled, revealing dainty white teeth. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. But I’d best leave you to yourself, lest we be discovered here together.”

  She was right; it wouldn’t do to be caught in a compromising position with a young lady of the ton. Even one as delectable as this.

  A satisfied smirk spread across his face. “Well, if I had to be caught with someone.”

  He inched toward her, coming to a stop a mere hand’s span from her face. Her chest rose and fell, nervousness emanating from her.

  “What?” His smirk turned into a sneer, her obvious discomfort upsetting for some reason. “You wouldn’t wish people to know you were associating with the Demon Duke? For that’s what they call me, as I’m sure you have heard, now that you know my name.”

  He ogled her up and down in an intentionally rude fashion. What are you doing? Why are you trying to frighten her?

  So that she would run. So that she wouldn’t want anything more to do with the odious Duke of Malford. Because his body wanted everything to do with her and that was unacceptable.

  “Would you?” he added, his voice sharp. He expected her to cower, to back away. That was what most others did when he brought out his beastly side.

  She didn’t.

  She looked him full in the face, those chocolate eyes nearly sucking the soul out of him. Warmth radiated from them—not sensual, but rather sympathetic, as if she knew what he was doing and felt sorry for him.

  Sorry would not do. It would not do at all.

  Quick as lightning, he swooped in, his hand wrapping around her neck, his face dipping down until he brushed his lips across hers. He waited for a moment, gauging her response. He wasn’t such a monster that he would truly force a woman; he merely wanted to shake her up a little. And give her reason not only to keep their meeting a secret, but also to keep far away from him.

  Beautiful young debutantes were not in his plans for the future—no sense pinin
g after something he could never have. And he couldn’t ever have someone like her. How could he marry someone, perhaps even have children, if there was the chance said children would suffer from his affliction? No, far better to maintain the monkish lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed.

  And yet, as her lips opened shyly beneath his, as she leaned into him, other parts of his body waged war against his well-thought out plan. He wanted to inhale her, to absorb her, to touch and caress every part of her soft, delicious, and strangely unafraid body. He deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking out to taste her mouth. Would she run in fear now? Reject him for this depraved behavior? His heart constricted at the thought.

  She made a soft sound, half sigh, half whimper, and opened her mouth more fully. Their tongues wrapped in liquid embrace, and he ran his fingers into her hair, clutching her to his body.

  The logs in the fireplace settled, and the crackling noise startled him back to reality. He broke off the kiss and stepped away, his fingers going to his mouth.

  “I—” he began, but stopped. What could he say? He wanted to apologize, to beg forgiveness for his brutish behavior. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted her to think him awful, so he wouldn’t be tempted by those heavenly eyes and luscious mouth. He wanted her not to despise him, not to reject him like so many others. What was wrong with him? The surge of emotions overwhelmed him. He needed to run, to flee, to clear his head. Again.

  “Don’t worry,” she said as she moved toward the door. “Your … secret … is safe with me.”

  “Secret?” He whirled to face her again. Damn. She had seen. She’d seen his tics. Of course she’d seen. How could she not, with how he’d been carrying on?

  She touched his arm briefly, the lightest bit of reassurance. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”

  With that, she exited the room, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Six

  Rexborough Ball, London – Early April, 1814

  Grace leaned against the wall, her racing heart robbing her of breath. She’d nearly fallen from her seat when he’d burst into the library. She’d hoped to have the room to herself, to read and to avoid the crush of people in the main ballroom. She’d get an earful from her mother later on, perhaps her sisters, as well, but she hadn’t had it in her this evening to engage in small talk and smile and simper.

  She’d finished several of Aesop’s familiar tales and started The Count of Oltranto when the door had whipped open and the devil himself had entered. Not the true devil, naturally, but that man, Malford. Damon Blackbourne. So sinfully handsome in all that black, and with such a look of wrath on his face. Was it any wonder she at first believed Lucifer himself had come calling?

  And then the poor fellow had had some sort of fit. What else could she call it? His fists had clenched, his cheeks had spasmed, as he’d attempted to control his body, but his neck had jerked and his nose moved and his whole form had seemed to pulse to an unheard rhythm.

  Perhaps she should have been frightened, witnessing him move in such a way. Her old nurse would have crossed herself and whispered against demons. But Grace wasn’t scared. Instead, sympathy had burst upon her for this large man fighting what appeared to be a hard battle. The desperation in his eyes when he’d finally seen her, like that of a cornered deer, had mirrored the entrapment she often felt.

  But this man was no meek deer. He was the panther she’d first thought him to be, sleek and black, untold power hidden in those ferocious blue eyes. And then he had pounced, kissing her when she’d least expected it. She ought to have been outraged, she supposed. He had no business being so familiar with her person. And yet, he’d given her a choice. He would have stopped. She’d sensed his momentary hesitation.

  What had come over her? It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed before, but this kiss had been different. Somehow, in that instance, it had felt right. Maybe Mama is correct. Maybe those novels do have a bad influence on me. She exhaled. It wasn’t as if the man was Fitzwilliam Darcy, despite his brooding demeanor. She didn’t know him at all—he was as likely to be a scoundrel as a hero. Wasn’t he?

  She’d heard of him before tonight, of course. Emmeline had regaled them with tales of the mysterious new Duke of Malford, returned from the grave. Nobody knew where he’d been or what he’d been doing these last seventeen years.

  There was no doubt he was a Malford; those blue eyes gave it away. He looked a great deal like his mother, actually. What had happened? Why had he been away?

  “Some say he went mad and was locked up in an asylum. Or was banished for unnatural acts,” Emmeline had exclaimed in the carriage.

  “What kind of acts would those be?” Grace hadn’t been able to help herself; she’d had to ask, merriment crinkling her cheeks.

  “A lady never speaks of such things.”

  “Especially when a lady knows not what those things are.”

  Matilda had hushed them, but that hadn’t stopped Emmeline and Rebecca from whispering amongst themselves.

  With those rumors and the violent physical convulsions she’d witnessed, why hadn’t she been frightened? Grace didn’t know. Her instinct had been to soothe, not to scream. The poor man had seemed lost and bewildered. As she so often did herself.

  And then that kiss. She traced her lower lip with her finger. To her surprise, part of her—a large part—wanted to go back into the library and kiss him again, to experience once more the electricity, the magnetism that had flowed between them for one brief moment.

  Smoothing her skirts, she made her way to the main ballroom, grateful the door behind her hadn’t opened and the mysterious Malford hadn’t emerged. She adjusted her hair, which his hands had loosened from its pins. The man would not appreciate her sympathy, nor her vision of him as some sort of wounded animal. Men preferred to be viewed as strong and invincible. Lord knew her father had never admitted fault.

  “Grace! Where have you been?” Rebecca rushed to her side. “You’re missing all the fun. I’ve danced with Lord Brisbane and Lord Evensham, as well as Lord Emerlin. And what of the Duke of Malford? Clad all in black, like a vengeful spirit. And that skull pin!” Rebecca shuddered. “You missed it. He nearly came to blows with his uncle in this very room!”

  Grace frowned at her sister. She hadn’t seen whatever altercation Becca referenced, but still. “A vengeful spirit? What nonsense! The man is in mourning for his father and brother, you goose. I was right here and saw him myself. He’s as human as the rest of us.”

  Rebecca dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “If you say so. Did I tell you Lord Emerlin has asked to waltz with me? Two dances in one evening. Mama will be so scandalized!”

  She grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her through the crush, weaving toward the other side of the room, where Emmeline stood with her friend, Lady Adelaide. It took every bit of Grace’s willpower not to look behind her, to see if her duke had appeared.

  Damon sank into the settee in front of the fire, threading his fingers through his hair. What had just happened? He’d come into the room seeking respite and refuge, a place to let his body have full rein. And had ended up kissing the most heavenly female he’d ever laid eyes on.

  Had Hobbes been here, he surely would have greeted such an assertion with a snort. “It’s not as if you’ve spent much time around women, living in that God-forsaken abbey,” the man would likely have said.

  Regardless, no one had caught his attention the way the little mouse reading in the library had.

  Mouse? Where had that come from? She was no mouse; she was a beauty. A lioness. But something in her quiet demeanor, not to mention that she’d been hiding in the library, suggested she didn’t consider herself such. He’d guess she far preferred a quieter, simpler lifestyle. Or was that hopeful thinking?

  He shook his head. What had gotten into him, imagining a nice, quiet life, with a nice, quiet wife? With Grace Mattersley as his wife? Good God, the unsettling events of the evening—of the past months—were
clearly having a most deleterious effect. They’d unbalanced him. There was no other reason he would be thinking of Grace Mattersley as an option, much less a marriageable one.

  But she wasn’t afraid of you. She saw you, really saw you, and wasn’t afraid.

  “That doesn’t matter. By tomorrow, my uncle will have spread the tale through all the corners of London,” he muttered. Even if families still welcomed him into their homes—an homage to his very respectable mother and sisters, no doubt—they would never entertain the thought of one of their daughters marrying him. It just wasn’t done.

  He sank lower in the settee. How long could he hide before his sisters got worried? Or worse, how long before some incorrigible rakehell tried something as atrocious as kissing one of them in a darkened room? Damon scowled. It had been a some since he’d had to think of anyone but himself. He stood up, adjusting his waistcoat as he reluctantly prepared to rejoin the ball.

  Duty called.

  Chapter Seven

  Rexborough Ball, London – Early April, 1814

  Grace tapped her foot, impatient as the strains of a waltz started up. She was ready to return home. She’d been ready an hour ago, but hadn’t wanted to make a fuss and drag her sisters away. They were enjoying themselves. No doubt Emmeline had danced with nearly every young buck here and Rebecca had hardly lacked for partners. Grace had refused all requests, making such excuses as she could. Now she stood against the wall, watching the hands of the large, ornate clock at the north end of the room. How much longer would she have to stay?

  Malford had reappeared a short time after their library encounter, but did his best to avoid her. Or perhaps to avoid people all together. He’d occasionally check on his sisters and then disappear again. To where, she wasn’t sure. If she ventured to the library, would she find him there again?