He bent over to put hands to knees as he gulped in large amounts of air. It had worked, though, this fierce physical punishment; his control had returned. As he strode through the rear entryway, still breathing heavily, a loud meow hit his ears.
Cerberus, his three-legged cat, charged down the hallway at him. His mother wasn’t fond of having animals in the house, particularly in London, but Damon had insisted. If he must be here, attempting to live up to his new title amongst people he didn’t know, people inspecting his every action, he at least needed the one thing that adored him completely, no judgment, no reservations. He leaned down and scooped up the cat, which lavished head butts on his chin.
The animal had appeared out of nowhere one day, lounging about on the front steps of the abbey as if he owned the place. From that day on, he had.
The ease with which the feline got around was surprising, considering his lack of a front leg. It was unclear if the cat had lost the limb in some sort of injury or had been born that way. The absence had never slowed Cerberus down, however; the cat acted as if he were every bit the equal of his four-legged brethren, undaunted by any challenge that crossed his path.
It’s exactly what Damon had needed; a fellow companion who was different, but lived life as if he were the same as everyone else. Such a regal feline, with his long, black hair and piercing amber eyes, had deserved a moniker on par with his bearing. Cerberus, the name of the three-headed dog who guarded the gates to Hades, seemed appropriate for a three-legged cat, somehow. And amusing.
The cat followed him everywhere, even on runs, although by far his favorite activity was curling up in Damon’s lap in Blackwood Abbey’s vast library. Leaving Cerberus at the abbey once he’d received his mother’s summons simply wasn’t an option.
The cat lapped at the sweat on Damon’s neck, and he chuckled, setting the feline down.
“I know,” he said, as the cat watched him with those wide amber eyes. “I need to bathe.”
Walking farther down the hallway, he whipped off his coat and waistcoat and called for servants to draw him a hot bath.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs to his chambers. “I will run again tomorrow. I should not have given that up.”
Fillmore’s face, veins popping with fury, leapt to mind. The man clearly bore a monstrous grudge against Damon. It seemed quite possible he might resort to violence to achieve the end he’d wanted so long ago. Damon would have to remain on the alert.
He paced the length of his bedroom as he waited for the servants to fill the large bathtub in the dressing room beyond. When the knock came to signify all was ready, he shed his clothing without waiting for Hobbes (he’d never liked the idea of a valet dressing and undressing him, anyway) and slid into the steaming hot water, sighing in relief as the aches and stresses of the day oozed out of his pores.
His head back, he studied the chocolate brown of the walls. A boring, staid color. No life to it. Unless it was the rich, chocolate brown of a certain Grace Mattersley’s eyes.
He hadn’t seen her anywhere in the past week after their two brief, although intense, encounters. Then again, he’d attended few social affairs. Having Cousin Daphne in town, and her mother’s sister, Aunt Martha, to serve as chaperone, had provided his sisters with another social outlet, letting Damon off the hook, thank goodness.
It was a relief not to have to rub elbows with the ton every evening, especially since he remained an object of great interest. On the other hand, solitude had its drawbacks. One of them being that a certain chocolate-eyed, well-read mouse was nowhere to be found.
Cerberus plodded into the dressing room and leapt onto a stool to the side of the bathtub. The cat stared at the water disdainfully, as if wondering why anyone would ever subject himself to such torment, then began cleaning its face.
“I miss my mouse,” Damon said to the cat, which ignored him as it groomed itself. Or rather, I miss the game of cat-and-mouse. Their encounter at the bookstore played in his head—and, without question, the unexpected kiss at the Rexborough ball.
It was strange to think so often of a woman. Of one woman in particular, in any case. Even in the wilds of Yorkshire, Damon had garnered plenty of female attention.
“It’s the eyes,” Hobbes had often commented with a roll of his own. “Or maybe that wicked grin you wield.”
In his youth, Damon had a few times enjoyed the charms of a certain dairymaid from the neighboring farm. In recent years, however, he’d mostly kept his distance. He didn’t need the complications women brought—not with his affliction. Still, the village girls had sought his attention, giggling when he’d passed. Until they’d heard the rumors about him.
The same had happened in London at first—appreciative glances from ladies of all ages. But tales of the Demon Duke must have spread quickly, spurred on no doubt by his uncle. Debutantes might still watch him out of the corners of their eyes, but their mothers ensured their daughters gave him a wide berth.
As an eligible duke, young and with all his teeth to boot, his mother had sworn he’d garner a plethora of female attention. His sisters, too, decreed he’d be fought over in the marriage mart.
Not that he wished to marry.
But, still, their predictions had proved wrong.
On the streets, men and women either stared openly or, more often, avoided his gaze. It wasn’t so much the cut direct, perhaps, since he tended to avoid eye contact, as well. Not out of shyness or uncertainty, but because he had better things to do with his time—and his mind—than worry over the silly workings of London society.
But Grace was different. She hadn’t been scared of him, even in the library, even when he’d tried to intimidate her. He’d thrown her off balance in the bookshop, appearing where she’d likely never expected to see him, but still she’d held her own. There’d been enough time for her to hear the stories about him, if she hadn’t known them already. She could have refused to acknowledge him, could have excused herself immediately. She hadn’t. Most surprising, with her, Damon didn’t feel judged on his eccentricities. She’d seen them and still interacted with him, still seemed as affected by him as he was by her.
With her, he felt electric. On fire. Alive.
Perhaps it was the mouse that had captured the cat.
Chapter Eleven
Hyde Park, London – Late April, 1814
Grace set down her pen and straightened her back, relishing the view of the Serpentine. It was a bit chilly to be in Hyde Park so early in the morning, but she’d needed to get out, to escape for a while. At home at Clarehaven, a small lake nestled in the northern corner of the estate, and she’d often ridden there to find solitude and write. The inner grounds of Hyde Park, though not as remote, had proven surprisingly quiet, given the usual hustle and bustle of London. It was a place she’d found much to her liking.
She hadn’t come by herself, naturally; a maid was situated nearby, along with a footman, but as the two seemed quite engaged with each other—the young serving girl kept making calf eyes at the marginally older footman—it almost felt as if she were alone. Oh, how she relished the quiet, broken only by the delightful birdsong of a few thrushes, tits, and finches. Occasionally, a horse nickered—someone out for a morning ride along Rotten Row, perhaps—but for at least a little while longer, she could imagine she had the park to herself.
A family of ducks made its way out of the water onto land, the mother anxiously ensuring each baby followed along in line. Occasionally, one of the tiny ducklings attempted to hop to the side, but its efforts didn’t last long, as the mama duck quacked at it and nudged it back in place.
Oh, little duckling. You and I are kindred spirits, both desiring a different path but forced into a straight line, following along dutifully with our siblings.
Not that, as the privileged daughter of a duke, her given path was a difficult one. She’d seen enough from the insides of her carriage of the unseemly side of London life, had read enough tales of woe, t
o be grateful that was not her lot. But if only her life weren’t so prescribed. She was expected to comport herself properly at all times, marry well, manage an estate, and produce male heirs. Nowhere in there were allowances for wanting to pursue other passions.
Wife and mother. Those were to be her primary occupations. Her own mother had seemed perfectly content raising her brood of children. Indeed, two boys and five daughters, as well as the entire Clarehaven estate, was quite a household to manage, even with help from nurses and nannies.
Grace ran a finger over the edge of the paper, the corners of her mouth tipping down. Seeming content and being content were often two entirely different things. And when it came to marriage, Matilda’s unhappiness had been evident in her rigidity, in the dourness that had permeated the entire family. Especially after their father had opted to spend more and more time in London, leaving his wife and children at Clarehaven.
Their father had taken a mistress in London, perhaps more than one. He’d indulged freely in women and spirits, living the dissolute lifestyle commonly accepted among male members of the ton.
She looked out over the waters. That was one of the reasons she had little interest in marriage, unless she could form a true love match, like that of her brother Deveric and Eliza. Or of Darcy and Elizabeth.
Unbidden images of Damon flooded her brain. His dark, tousled hair, his piercing blue eyes, the sharp edge of his jaw. How striking he was in complete black. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn he always dressed thusly, in mourning or not. It suited him, giving him a dangerous air. An air he seemed to welcome. An air that fed the flames of imagination of those around him. The Demon Duke.
“The Demon Duke, indeed,” she said with a huff. Perhaps he dressed so, acted so, because it kept people at arm’s length, where she suspected he preferred them. He didn’t truly think himself possessed, did he? Emmeline had giddily related the tales Fillmore had spouted the night of the Rexborough ball—tales of Damon’s fits that had overset Grace’s mother.
But not her. Though he’d manifested his anger in physical ways with the tossing and jerking of his body, that didn’t mean anything, did it? Deveric often leapt upon his horse to pound out his own emotions. Needing a physical outlet was not so uncommon for a man.
In any case, it hadn’t frightened her to see Malford in such a state. Why, she didn’t know. Perhaps it should have.
A baby deer limped out of the woods nearby, the mother not far behind, keeping a watch over her offspring. The fawn must have been injured at some point, though it hobbled along determinedly. Malford reminded her of that deer, a wounded animal needing tenderness and care.
One of Deveric’s dogs had been caught in a trap once at Clarehaven. The poor animal had lain there, wounded and bleeding, in desperate need of help, but anytime anyone had tried to near it, it had snarled and snapped with all the ferocity it had, preventing anyone from coming to its aid. Deveric had had to shoot it to put it out of its misery.
Damon was like that snapping and snarling dog, although he didn’t show it. He maintained that stoic, uncaring façade. But she had seen it. She had seen the inside, however briefly, and it made her want to hold him, to tell him it would be all right if he’d let people help. Let her help.
She closed her eyes. Whom was she kidding? Why should it be she who could help, she who disliked the crush of society nearly as much as he did? Because I understand it. The war within oneself. That desire for love and acceptance so at odds with the need to be one’s true self.
The mother deer and the fawn disappeared back into the woods. Grace glanced at the paper on which she’d written precious few words, then to her maid and the footman. She caught only the flash of a dress hidden partially behind a tree, and heard a giggle, then a telling silence.
She should probably chastise them. They were supposed to be accompanying her, protecting her. But who was she to begrudge them momentary happiness? The memory of Damon’s face, so close to hers, and then his lips caressing hers, danced through her brain again. A silly grin crossed her face at how cautious his touch had been, though he’d set out to intimidate her. If he were a demon, he was a gentle one.
A crunching along the nearby foot path startled her out of her reverie, and she turned to find none other than the Duke of Malford running down the path at full speed. Alarmed, she hopped up. Was someone pursuing him? He ran right past, then stopped and reversed, breathing heavily as he nodded toward her.
“Why, good morning, Lady Grace.” He paused to gulp in more air. “I, er, would not have expected to find you here.”
Her forehead creased in alarm. “Are you all right, Damon? Is someone chasing you?”
His mouth quirked up at her use of his Christian name, an accident on her part, given her concern and the fact that she’d just been thinking of him in rather intimate terms.
He brushed the hair from his forehead, which was beaded with moisture. “I am quite fine, I assure you, Lady Grace,” he said, teasing evident in his address. “I enjoy exercise. I find it calms my mind and body.”
The rapid rise and fall of his chest eased into a more regular rhythm. He wore only breeches and a black shirt—no waistcoat or overcoat—and rather plain black shoes similar to those her footman wore. The sparseness of his attire, plus the sweat that molded it to his skin, rendered the lines of his physique readily apparent. A shiver ran through her at the leanness of his legs and his narrow hips. She jerked her gaze to his arms, startled by their surprising muscularity. Perhaps he boxed?
A chuckle escaped him. “My eyes are up here, Lady Grace. Although you are welcome to look all you like…”
Horror dropped her jaw as her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She’d been caught red-handed ogling a man.
The side of his mouth twitched into a wicked grin. “As long as you return the favor,” he added, dipping his gaze pointedly to her chest.
Grace laughed. She ought to be outraged and chastise him for being less than a gentleman, but that hardly seemed fair, given she’d just openly admired the leanness of his middle.
“Of course, you are wearing more clothing than I.” He gestured to her pelisse, his eyebrow crooking up mischievously. “You could always remedy that.”
Grace’s mouth fell open once more. Was she truly standing in Hyde Park exchanging potentially suggestive—no, make that overtly suggestive—conversation with the Duke of Malford? She, who’d always been somewhat of a wallflower, however voluntary the wallflower position had been?
Had the maid and the footman noticed her interaction with Malford? She glanced in their direction. No trace of the maid’s skirt remained. Grace’s eyes widened. Had something happened to the pair?
“Don’t worry,” Damon said. “They are happily entertaining each other. I could see as I ran by.” He winked at her. “I averted my eyes to give them some privacy.”
Grace giggled. She actually giggled. Giggling like a silly schoolgirl was something she’d never been prone to. She rather detested such behavior, actually. And yet here she was, giggling as if she were one of the many vapid young debutantes she despised.
“They ought to be keeping an eye out for my welfare,” she managed to say once the laughing fit had subsided.
“True.” Damon’s eyes darkened. “But if they were here, I couldn’t do this.” He strolled forward, slowly enough to give her plenty of time to back away. She didn’t. When he stopped, mere inches from her body, a surprisingly pleasant smell tickled her nose. A very masculine smell. He stood, his eyes locked with hers, waiting to see what she would do.
A wise woman would back away, would break the tension. Young ladies of the ton did not engage in salacious behavior, much less in broad daylight. They weren’t doing anything salacious, however. Yet. Her eyes traveled over his face, taking in the deliciousness of his high cheekbones, the devilish arch in his brows, the ferocious intensity of his blue eyes. Eyes that bored into hers.
Her breath hitched. Sur
ely he wasn’t going to kiss her, not here, not in the morning light where anybody could happen upon them. Verbal play was one thing, but a physical encounter would be every bit improper. She should take a step back. She should move, break away. But it was if his eyes held her captive. His own breath caught as he lifted his hand and ran the backs of his fingers along her cheek. Her lids closed at the softness of his touch. Memories of the library flooded back, of his lips on hers. Oh, if only he would lean in and kiss her anyway, the consequences be hanged.
Her eyes flew open at the boldness of the thought. His squinted in amusement, as if he knew what she was thinking. Then his attention dropped to her lips, a hungry look on his face. A hunger matching hers. Thank goodness she wasn’t the only one affected.
He dropped his hand but didn’t move back. Neither one said anything.
“Milady?” broke in a voice from a near distance. Startled, Grace turned to her left, where the maid stood, her hair slightly mussed. The footman stood next to her, uncertainty written on his face.
Grace’s hand flew to her lips. She backed away from Damon, avoiding his eyes. “I-I—” she stammered.
“Lady Grace is fine,” Damon said, stepping away as well. “We were merely discussing her—” He glanced down at the pen and paper on the ground. “Writing.”
The maid nodded, but cast hesitant eyes toward her mistress.
“Tis fine, Dora,” Grace agreed. “His Grace and I are acquainted.”
Dora turned back to the footman and they moved off a short distance, granting Grace a modicum of privacy.
“I owe you an apology,” Damon said in a soft voice.
“Whatever for?”
“For speaking to you so baldly before. It is not how a gentleman treats a lady. I beg a thousand pardons.”
Grace’s skin erupted in goose bumps at thoughts of their earlier conversation.
“I am unaccustomed to dealing with ladies. Much less those of your high status.” He exhaled, running his fingers through his hair. “It is clear,” he started, then broke off, turning his head away. “It is clear I do not comport myself well around you. I shall not trouble you with my presence again.”
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