Grace pursed her lips. “I suppose. But did you ever consider that to the Egyptians, we might be the exotic ones?”
“That’s silly. We are the most civilized society on the planet.”
“Tell that to the ancient Romans.”
Emmeline batted her on the arm with her gloves as Rebecca entered the room.
“I don’t suppose we could ride horses in Hyde Park?” their youngest sister asked in a wistful voice.
“Tomorrow,” Emmeline said. “You’ve promised all week to accompany me, and so you shall!”
After an hour looking at Bullock’s curiosities, Grace wished to return home. Not that the objects and the animals weren’t intriguing, but her head ached and she relished the idea of a short lie-in. With a good book. A new book, perhaps. They were close enough to Hatchard’s; surely her sisters wouldn’t mind if she disappeared down the street for a few minutes.
“I shan’t be gone long,” Grace insisted.
Emmeline frowned. “At least take Mary; you know very well you cannot go alone.” Mary was Rebecca’s personal maid, who had accompanied the women to the Hall as per their mother’s request.
“Then you shall be without a maid,” Grace protested.
“Yes, but Rebecca and I shall still be together, safely in this Hall, whereas you cannot possibly venture out onto London streets unaccompanied. It isn’t done.”
Grace sighed as she headed out the door, Mary close behind her. It wasn’t done. It wasn’t done. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be a man sometimes. Men could go where they wanted when they wanted, instead of following such silly rules of convention. Grace knew the rules were there to keep women safe—unsavory types occasionally preyed upon ladies in town, even ladies of good repute, if they were on their own. But from here to Hatchard’s, in the middle of the day? Mary, at least, was wise enough to follow at a short distance behind as Grace moved at a rapid, angry pace, no doubt not wishing to disturb the Mattersley daughter’s fit of pique.
Upon entering the beloved bookstore, Grace paused to inhale the smell of the books. Her eyes feasted on the shop’s rich offerings, the sumptuous leather-bound volumes, the plainer pamphlets, the maps. Mr. Hatchard nodded in greeting; Grace was a familiar presence in his shop.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hatchard,” she called out, her good mood restored now that she was among the rows of books. “Have you got anything new for me today?”
Mr. Hatchard smiled. “Yes, Lady Grace, I believe I do. Have you read Frances Burney’s new novel, The Wanderer?”
Grace clapped her hands in excitement. “No, indeed, but I would surely like to. I did so enjoy Camilla.” She raced toward the volume the shop’s proprietor extended to her. As she reached for it, she stopped, hand in mid-air.
A gentleman stood in the back of the shop, dressed head-to-toe in black, his finely tailored coat enhancing the breadth of his shoulders, the leanness of his middle. She swallowed. Surely it couldn’t be?
The Duke of Malford looked up from the book in his hand and tipped his hat in Grace’s direction.
“Good afternoon, Lady Grace.” He flashed her a devilish grin.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she responded automatically, though her heart began to race. What was he doing here? Did he know? Did he know how he had affected her? How she had thought of him every day—and night—since the ball? How she had thought of that kiss?
She was as moonstruck as Emmeline’s friend Lady Adelaide Guernsey over a man. And oh, how she hated it. Heat rushed to her cheeks even as she broke off her gaze, looking fixedly at Mr. Hatchard. Thankfully, the bookshop owner made no comment regarding her flustered behavior.
Malford sauntered over to her. “What have you chosen, if I may ask?”
Surely he’d heard Mr. Hatchard? Why was he asking such an obvious question? “Um, the latest by Frances Burney. I doubt you would know of her.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Why ever not?”
Grace gulped. He could and most likely had misconstrued her comment as an attack on his education. Having grown up in Yorkshire, he’d not attended Eton, much less Oxford, as most noble sons did. Why did she continually make such faux pas in his company? “Because her stories mostly appeal to women, I think.”
“Tsk tsk, Lady Mattersley,” he responded, a gleam again entering his eyes. “I greatly enjoyed her Camilla, although I rather preferred Cecilia, to be honest.”
“You’ve read Fanny Burney?” Grace wanted to bite her lip over the inanity of that comment. What was wrong with her?
Mary moved into her line of sight, the maid’s curious eyes watching the exchange. If only Grace could send the girl away. She did not want anyone observing her reactions to the Duke of Malford, spots of pink no doubt illuminating her cheeks, considering how they burned; the flustered movements of her fingers as she clutched the book in her hands; the way her breathing had accelerated to the point where it must be noticeable.
Drat it all, why must Mary and Mr. Hatchard be here? Or perhaps the better question was, why must Malford? The feelings he aroused in her were nothing like she’d ever felt before—and quite a bother, truth be told.
Mary moved several inches closer.
Malford ignored the maid, his sole focus on Grace.
“There wasn’t all that much to do at Blackwood Abbey,” he confessed, looking directly in her eyes. “At least it had an excellent library.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful.”
His brilliant blue eyes lulled her, mesmerized her.
“It is. Rows upon rows of books of every sort, fiction, history, economics, law. I daresay it could rival Hatchard’s. No offense intended, sir,” he added, nodding toward the shop’s proprietor.
“None taken, Your Grace. It was always my honor to serve your mother when she frequented the shop.”
“That explains the trunks of books which made their appearance twice a year. I suppose I should thank her for that, at least.” His smile did not reach his eyes.
Mary stepped forward. “Mi—milady. Perhaps we ought to return to the Hall?”
“Ah, the faithful maid here to rescue her lady from the evil wolf.” He grinned so widely that his incisors did, in fact, render him rather wolfish.
He tipped his hat to them both. “It was a pleasure, Lady Grace. I myself am off to read Lord Byron’s Corsair. I hear it is quite the tale. A youth rejected by society because of his actions.”
His grin faltered ever so slightly. His eyes looked sorrowful. Grace longed to comfort him, but any action on her part in front of Mary and Mr. Hatchard would most definitely be noted. She didn’t need stories making their way back to her family.
“Indeed,” was all she could think to say. “I should be going. Good day to you, Da—Your Grace.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth for a second before he passed by and walked out the door.
“It is now,” he called over his shoulder. “A good day indeed.”
Chapter Ten
White’s Club, London – Mid-April, 1814
A week later, Damon stood outside White’s on St. James’s Street. He’d never been in, although naturally he’d heard about the famous gentleman’s club as a boy.
Having spent the greater portion of the day listening to his sisters discuss the merits, or lack thereof, of nearly every member of the ton—for his edification, his mother had insisted—Damon thought nothing sounded better than an evening in the company of gentlemen who would leave him alone. He’d considered staying at home and hiding away in the library, but he had the sneaking suspicion his sisters would have found him even there.
His mother assured him he was a member of the exclusive club. She’d called in a favor from the Duke of Arthington, whose father had been an old family friend, to secure the thirty-five members’ approval necessary for membership.
It must have been some favor, to overcome my reputation. The Demon Duke, indeed. Well, he could play the role. Doing so would likely keep others at bay, anyway—if, indeed, anyone w
ished to approach. Adjusting his cravat, he climbed the few steps and confidently crossed through the entrance, seeking solitude and solace for a few hours.
Inside, a number of gentlemen loitered—many sat alone, reading the paper while sipping on some sort of alcohol. Brandy or whiskey, no doubt. Others bantered back and forth over games of cards. As he walked through the main room, smatterings of conversations about horses and guns and certain debutantes echoed around him. Younger bucks compared notes as to which houses boasted the best female companionship in all of London. At this, he gave a wry grin.
No one paid him much attention. Oh, a few eyes had looked up when he’d walked through the door, but by and large he was left to himself, discretion and privacy a welcomed code at White’s.
Settling into a chair, he had opened Byron’s book to read when a gentleman from across the room approached. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” the man said. “I do hate to be so forward, but do you remember me?”
Damon looked the man over. Sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, a friendly expression on his face. Nothing familiar. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir.”
The man nodded. “It’s been years; I understand. I’m Peter Wainscott, of Delview Manor.”
Delview Manor bordered Thorne Hill to the east, didn’t it? An earl, perhaps? Or a viscount? Damon clenched a fist, pressing it into his thigh. He should know his own neighbors, shouldn’t he? Then again, learning the basics of the estate, the ins and outs of polite society itself, had swallowed up all of his time while he’d been at Thorne Hill.
“Viscount Huntington,” the man added, his expression hopeful that that might help.
“Again, my apologies. It’s been a long time since I’ve been … south.”
Why was he apologizing? He outranked the man. Still, guilt rode him that this Huntington recognized him, whereas he had no memory of the man.
Lord Huntington grinned, a friendly gesture that set Damon somewhat at ease. “I understand. I didn’t suppose you might recall, but we used to play together as boys. Occasionally, when your family invited mine to dinner.”
A vague memory hit Damon of a snowball fight and tunneling through snowdrifts with a sandy-haired boy long ago. “I remember a snow castle …” he began.
“—Yes.” Huntington nodded enthusiastically. “Remember when we pelted my sister, Julia, with snowballs? I thought your father was going to thrash the both of us.”
He did. At least me. Later on, once you’d left. Shaking off that bitter thought, Damon gave a wan smile.
“Anyway, I was delighted—astonished, really—to hear you were back,” Peter pressed on. “I was so saddened to hear that you had died, and, well, obviously—” He faltered.
“Obviously I hadn’t.”
“Yes, right.” Huntington cast his eyes at the fireplace, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of his waistcoat. “My condolences on the loss of your father and brother.”
None are necessary. Not for my father, at least. “Thank you.”
“If you would care to join us, we’re playing whist.” Huntington motioned to a table of men in the corner.
Damon was about to decline the invitation—he truly did prefer solitude this evening—when a man sitting in a chair near the gamblers caught his eye.
His uncle.
Fillmore Blackbourne’s attention was riveted on Damon, fury purpling his face. The man gripped a tumbler of dark liquid in his right hand. His knuckles were so white, it was a wonder he hadn’t shattered the glass.
Huntington cleared his throat, drawing Damon’s focus again. The viscount looked to Damon’s uncle, then back to Damon. “Perhaps I—”
“Please, return to your friends. I’m afraid this is not the night for me to join you.”
Huntington’s face relaxed. He was no doubt grateful to have been excused, especially as Damon’s face knitted itself into a snarl.
“Perhaps another time,” the viscount said before moving off.
Damon merely nodded, no longer paying attention to his childhood companion. His eyes fixed on his uncle, who rose from his chair and approached him with a rather unsteady gait. The man was clearly in his cups.
“You!” his uncle shouted as he neared his nephew. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a club for refined gentlemen. Not for the devil himself.”
Damon remained sitting. “The devil himself? You do me too much of an honor, Uncle.” His voice was calm, disinterested, even, but his blood boiled with rising anger in the face of this attack.
“Get. Out!” Fillmore roared, his face heavy with rage. “You have taken everything else from me. You may not take this!”
A man to Fillmore’s right put his hand on Fillmore’s shoulder. “Lord Fillmore,” the man said in a quiet but firm voice. “That’s enough.”
Fillmore shrugged off the man’s hand, glaring at the newcomer. “He is an usurper. A monster! You should see! You should see him when he is possessed. A demon inside that boy, I tell you! He should have stayed in Yorkshire. He should have died. I am the one fit to be Duke, not he!” Flecks of spittle flew from Fillmore’s mouth as he shouted for all the room to hear.
Damon rose from his seat and stood nose to nose with his uncle, or rather nose-to-balding-head, given the man’s shorter stature. The muscles in Damon’s neck spasmed, the urges to jerk nearly overwhelming him. But he would not. Not here, not in front of this man. He took one long, deep breath, drawing himself up to his full height. He towered over the older man.
“Say another word, Uncle, and you shall meet me at dawn. The only reason I have not called you out already is because of my family. Our family.”
Fillmore’s face paled. Coward. His uncle looked down at the glass in his hand. Taking a quick gulp, he set it on the table next to where Damon had been sitting. With a final glower at his nephew, he stalked toward the door, guided by the man who’d checked him a moment ago.
So much for peace and quiet, and anonymity. Well, he hadn’t exactly been unknown upon entry, but at least he’d been left alone. Now the focus was on him, although a few gentlemen returned to their own activities at his stare. He looked at the book in his hand. Why bother? There was no respite here, not now.
The man who’d escorted Damon’s uncle to the door reappeared. “Arthington,” he said, extending his hand to Damon.
Ah. James Bradley. The Duke of Arthington. The very man who’d gained him access to this club.
“Malford,” Damon answered. “But then, I suppose you already gathered that.”
Arthington nodded. “An unfortunate incident,” was all he said.
Damon immediately liked him for that; it was clear the man was offering him privacy and not expecting any further explanation.
“Yes, well, perhaps it was too much to hope to be accepted here,” Damon said before he could stop himself. Damn, that was not the kind of thing to admit to a stranger. But his emotions were roiling, his anger increasing toward his uncle, toward his father, toward this life he’d been denied and now wasn’t sure he wanted. He clenched his fists as the familiar urges assailed his body anew. No. Not here. Not now.
“Nonsense,” Arthington said, flashing his slightly crooked teeth in a grin. “Would you care to join my friend Emerlin over there—” He gestured toward a tall, waifish man with a shock of black hair. “—and me? We are bound for Watier’s.”
“Thank you,” Damon said, genuine appreciation curling through him, even as he focused on controlling his body. “Another time, perhaps. I must be going.” He tipped his head at Arthington, who returned the gesture.
“Anytime,” Arthington said as Damon strolled out the door.
Once outside, Damon sucked in huge gulps of the nighttime air, willing his body and his mind to settle. Turning north, he walked, counting and re-counting to the sum of eight as he went. When that didn’t work, he broke into a run. If anyone were paying attention, they’d no doubt remark on the peculiar behavior of the Duke of Malford. Better to incur gossip for runn
ing than for head spasms that would surely mark him as a candidate for Bedlam. He pushed his body to its limit as he raced through the narrow back streets toward Hanover Square.
Running had always helped. Something about putting all of his focus and energy into placing one foot in front of the other, of pushing his heart and lungs to the brink, forced his mind to let go, to calm down, to give up the urges to move in other, less regular ways. He’d discovered that in adolescence, when the movements had been at their worst.
He’d thought at first they’d worsened because of the shame, the pain, the guilt, the despair, and, yes, the loneliness at having been banished from his home. From his family. His siblings. His mother. The frequency of his bizarre movements, his need to control and organize his surroundings, had increased exponentially in those first few months. But after a while, he’d noticed patterns. Or perhaps not patterns, exactly, but a rhythm. There were times when the need to move plagued him not at all, and times during which nothing helped except to let his body do what it needed to do. Sometimes the movements seemed connected to his inner state; other times not.
He’d wondered at times if his father were right. Maybe he was possessed by demons; maybe he was plagued by devils. What other explanation could there be for these bizarre behaviors and thoughts with which he suffered? He’d even thought at times, in the worst of the dark days, those long cold winter nights with no companions except a fire and a book, that perhaps he would be better off dead.
Then it had begun to improve. Why, he didn’t know. Was it because he’d found ways to cope, ways to soothe the manic body rhythms? Running worked. Reading often worked, too, as long as he was absorbed in the material. And animals. Animals in particular soothed him like nothing else, and he’d spent many a happy hour at the abbey with the stable hand’s dogs and the stray cats that hovered about.
His heart pounded as he rounded the corner to Hanover Square and came to the rear entrance of his town house. At the sight of the mews, he cursed. He’d forgotten about his carriage. He’d have to send someone for it.
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