The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  Before Grace could say a word, he turned and ran down the path, his legs flying as if all the Hounds of Hell were chasing him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lamshill Ball, London – Early May, 1814

  Two weeks. It had been two weeks since he’d seen her; two weeks since that morning in Hyde Park, when he’d wanted nothing more than to strip her down naked and lie with her in the soft grass.

  What had Lady Grace Mattersley done to him? He hardly knew her, and yet he thought of her all the time, of her luscious brown eyes, intelligence sparkling in their depths. Of her soft manner. Of her matter-of-fact, less volatile approach to the world.

  Maybe she wasn’t as composed as she appeared. He’d flustered her in the park, to be sure, with his ungodly behavior, and even in Hatchard’s, her hands had betrayed some level of agitation. Though she’d hardly batted an eye at his strange movements at the Rexborough ball.

  She showed no fear of him. Why was that? Others had always given him nervous glances, at least at first, though thankfully not the servants at Blackwood Abbey.

  When the movements had been at their worst, when he was perhaps twelve or thirteen, Mrs. Hardy, the abbey’s housekeeper, had steadfastly ignored them, treating him as if he were the same as any other boy. She’d rarely acknowledged, in fact, that he was master at all. He’d loved that about her; that to her, at least, he was no better—and no worse—than anyone else. It was a heady feeling after his father had drilled into him for so very long that he was a Malford; though he may not be the heir, Malfords behaved in certain ways. Malfords were better than those around them. And Damon was every kind of evil because he was not living up to the family name.

  Tonight was another grand ball celebrating Napoleon’s surrender and abdication to Elba. Damon had wanted to beg off, but his sisters had their hearts set on attending and Daphne’s aunt had taken ill. He would have to chaperone.

  Would Grace be there? He half hoped she would, half hoped she wouldn’t. He’d studiously avoided events he’d thought she would likely attend as he tried to wrestle his emotions under control. Why on God’s Earth had he spoken so explicitly to her in the park?

  On the other hand, she had been investigating his body. And had laughed along with the conversation. Still, he’d been careful when he’d gone running to avoid the place in which he’d last encountered her, in case she returned to write again.

  What did she write? Journals? Letters? How did noblewomen spend their time? His sisters evidently found plenty to do to occupy themselves. Social calls took up a great deal of their days, as did shopping. Damon enjoyed neither venture.

  Besides his runs in the Park and his books, he was immersing himself in the management of the estate, in understanding the books and planning future investments. Thank heavens that, for all his other faults, his father had done a decent job with keeping Thorne Hill not only solvent, but also prosperous. Bookkeeping and estate management were proving more pleasing than Damon had thought possible. The organized rows of numbers and logical calculations soothed the part of him that craved order.

  His brother, Adam, however, had griped in his infrequent letters at the responsibilities he’d been expected to assume.

  “I’ve never been clever at sums. Not like you, brother,” he’d written on more than one occasion. “How do you do it, adding so quickly in your head?”

  Numbers had always come easily, unlike many other things. Physical self-control, for one. Even as a boy, Adam could sit still for hours. Not Damon. He had to move, to utilize his limbs. He had to release the energy, lest it do so on its own in other, less acceptable ways. A difficult dilemma here in London, given he was bound to encounter persons he’d much rather avoid if he took to the streets.

  Once or twice he’d returned to White’s, glad not to have encountered his uncle a second time. According to Cassie, Fillmore’s gout had flared up once again, and he was homebound. Damon couldn’t say he was sorry. The man was detestable, an unpleasant reminder of Damon’s very unpleasant past.

  While at White’s, he’d spent a pleasant evening with Arthington and his friends: the Marquess of Emerlin, the Duke of Cortleon, and the Earl of Stoneleigh. They’d whiled away the hours talking horses and books—both topics on which Damon could expound, at least. And politics. Damon cared not for it, but as a duke, he needed to learn.

  Each man proved surprisingly pleasant. None pried into his private affairs, but welcomed his opinions as he gave them. He’d actually enjoy spending time with any of them again.

  “When Claremont returns, we shall have to go carousing. Engelsfell, too.” Arthington clapped his hand on the table for good measure at his assertion.

  Damon went still. Claremont? These gentlemen knew Claremont? Grace’s brother? It shouldn’t have surprised him; the ton wasn’t all that large of a group, and the men and women of similar age a smaller circle still.

  “You think Her Grace will let her husband go carousing?” Emerlin’s mischievous grin revealed dangerously charming dimples. No doubt the ladies went wild for him.

  The Earl of Stoneleigh took a swig of his drink. “You think he would want to? Unlikely. He only wants to be with his wife and children.”

  “Ah. You have me there,” Arthington said. “Deucedly bad, this marriage thing. Though if one has to marry, may it be to someone as lovely as Claremont’s American.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  They each drank a toast to that, though Damon had no familiarity with this Duchess of Claremont. The Duke, however, was evidently besotted with her.

  Fueled perhaps by the brandy, Arthington shared numerous tales of Claremont’s sisters. Amara, the eldest, had endured some sort of scandal, though now she was married and gone. Cecilia had married some time ago, and she and her husband rarely came to town. All four men agreed Emmeline could charm the most dissolute rake while trying to marry him off to someone or other at the same time.

  “And Lady Rebecca’s knowledge of horseflesh rivals my own,” Emerlin said, his eyes growing soft when he spoke her name. His mouth twisted, however, when he added, “Though she is of such tender youth.”

  Neither gentleman mentioned Grace. She remained an enigma.

  “And the Lady Grace?” Damon had to ask. How could he not? The beauty was always on his mind.

  “I am not well acquainted with her.” Arthington said. “A bluestocking, I believe. Always with her nose in a book.”

  “Nothing wrong with reading,” Lord Emerlin broke in. “It would behoove you to give it a try, Arth.”

  Arthington cuffed his friend on the head, eliciting chuckles. Arthington and Emerlin’s friendship was obviously a deep one.

  Ah, the privilege of knowing someone cared about you that much. He and Adam had had that, as children. Being ripped from Adam had hurt as much as being torn from his mother. More, perhaps, in that he’d played with Adam on a daily basis, whereas Felicity Blackbourne had often busied herself with other matters.

  He grieved for his brother. He truly did. Not because of Adam’s recent death—they hadn’t seen each other for seventeen years, after all. No, he grieved for what had been and what now would never be. They’d exchanged the occasional letter, but Damon had not known Adam, the man. And Adam had not known him. When their father was dead and Adam was Duke, they’d welcome him back into the family. Adam had said as much in his last letter.

  So much opportunity lost. Though could he ever fully forgive them for exiling him to the north? At least they hadn’t forced him into an asylum or had him killed, as had been Fillmore’s wish. And still was, apparently.

  A shout from the street pulled him out of his reverie and back to the sights and sounds of London passing by the carriage window. His sisters sat across from him, conversing with Daphne, who sat to his side, but all three paid him little regard, used to him being lost in the depths of his own mind.

  The coach came to a halt outside a grand mansion on the edge of Grosvenor Square. Who was hosting this ball again? No doubt every ot
her member of the ton knew exactly whose home this was. As the door to the coach opened and his sister Cassie made to step out, she whispered, “The Earl and Countess of Lamshill.”

  How well she was getting to know him, to realize he’d be at a loss. Names didn’t stick in his head well, not like numbers, especially when there were so many different titles attached to them.

  He followed the women out, nodding to the coachman, who drove off to stable the horses for a few hours while the ducal family was in attendance.

  Lights blazed from the front entrance, a thousand or more candles in chandeliers casting a yellow glow on the attendees gathered below. Ladies in similarly styled dresses—some of colorful hues, but many more of the pastels and whites he was coming to loathe—chatted in small groups as the butler announced the new arrivals.

  “His Grace the Duke of Malford, the Ladies Cassie and Sephe Blackbourne, Miss Daphne Blackbourne,” the butler dutifully intoned as Damon and his female companions entered the ballroom. All eyes moved to them, but lingered for a shorter amount of time. The scandal of his appearance was dying down. Thank God.

  His sisters greeted acquaintances, exclaiming at each other’s gowns, though they all looked the same to him: white muslin after white muslin. Numerous young bucks eyed his female relations; he’d better not go far, especially as a particularly bold lothario walked up to Sephe and not so discreetly ogled her bosom.

  He stalked toward her, ready to call the man out, but Sephe was already delivering a sharp rebuke. The would-be Romeo cast a dark look at her, one that turned to fear when he spied Damon, and slunk off to the other side of the ballroom.

  “Glad to see you can fend for yourself, sister,” Damon said.

  “Indubitably,” Sephe replied, casting him a sweet smile. “Which means you needn’t hover all night long. I will be fine. We shall be fine. We know what not to do.”

  “Don’t disappear with a man into the gardens, don’t let a man escort you alone to a different room in the house, don’t dance with the same man more than twice in the evening, and maintain a proper distance in the waltz at all times, if indeed one dances a waltz at all,” Daphne rattled off in a monotone. She looked around the room, thereby missing Damon’s amused grin.

  “Seriously, brother. Go and enjoy yourself,” Sephe insisted. “Play cards. Dance. Speak with, I don’t know, a woman. Live a little. You spend far too much time cooped up in the study at home, or in the library. I’ve never known anyone so immersed in books as you.”

  He did.

  Grace pinched her nose between her fingers, wishing for the hundredth time she’d stayed at home. She’d considered pleading a headache, but her family would have seen right through it.

  “You only get headaches when it’s time to go somewhere,” Emmeline had pointed out crossly just last week.

  So Grace had dutifully dressed in her favorite ball gown, one of a pale green hue with darker, bolder green embroidery enhancing the hem and bosom. She’d always been partial to green. Until you saw eyes of a blue lighter than the sky.

  She brushed the thought off, then touched her hair, which Bess had styled into a flattering chignon, with wisps of hair curled to frame her face. She had even agreed to a dollop of Rigg’s Liquid Bloom for her lips, though nothing heavy enough to merit disapproving comment.

  Would this Season never end? It had been one social event after another. Theater outings, afternoon tea, carriage rides along Rotten Row, and balls. This was the third ball in two weeks, and she’d scream if she had to dance one more minuet.

  She should try, should give it an effort. Her mother so dearly hoped this would be the year she made a match. And a number of the gentlemen were pleasant enough. She’d danced with Lord Ratheby last week and Lord Derwood earlier tonight. They’d been able conversationalists and had even expressed admiration for novels. Both men were clearly interested in furthering their acquaintance, especially since Lord Ratheby had come calling unexpectedly that very morning. Grace had used the headache excuse then. He was a fine man. He just wasn’t a particularly interesting one.

  Blue eyes under swooping black eyebrows popped into her mind. She pinched her lips and shook her head, attempting to shake the image loose. She hadn’t seen Malford since their encounter at the park. Was he avoiding her? Or had they simply not attended the same functions?

  She shouldn’t care. Given his actions in the library and his speech in the park, his intentions weren’t honorable—if he had any sort of intentions toward her at all. The man didn’t seem to know what to do with her; half the time it was as if the Devil himself were trying to seduce her, the other half as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.

  Emmeline danced past with Lord Tarrington—their second dance of the evening. Emmeline’s eyes flashed and the young viscount watched her every move.

  Grace sighed. It was all so confusing. Why couldn’t she be interested in the right kind of fellow, if she had to be interested at all? Or better still, why couldn’t she leave it all behind and return home to Clarehaven, to her spot by the lake, where she could create characters and weave stories that worked out exactly the way she wished them to?

  Because there was clearly no controlling the Duke of Malford. And even if … even if he expressed a more formal interest, her mother would never approve. Under normal circumstances, a duke would be a more-than-ideal match, a coup, in fact, even for the daughter of a duke. But not this duke. Not the Demon Duke.

  More whispers and gossip about him had reached her in the recent weeks. Some said he’d shot a man over a card game. Others, that he rode a beast of a horse pell-mell through Hyde Park, leaping bushes and forcing spectators to rush out of his way, lest they be trampled. Emmeline’s friend Adelaide insisted his eyes had turned orange and glowed in a possessed manner when he’d encountered Lady Sarah Trumble at Gunther’s last week.

  Grace didn’t believe any of it. First off, what would a devil be doing getting ices at Gunther’s, anyway? And secondly, she just knew he wouldn’t intentionally harm anyone. He’d had the chance to harm her, twice, and he hadn’t. He hadn’t exactly behaved as a gentleman, ’twas true, but it was clear that although he might have a temper, he wasn’t a violent man.

  Why did her thoughts always return to the Duke of Malford? As if she knew him well enough to judge his character. As if she knew him at all. And yet she continually scanned the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of him.

  Rebecca elbowed her at one point. “Is there someone special you seek?”

  Grace pulled at the edge of her glove, not meeting her sister’s eyes. “No. I’m merely in want of some air.”

  Luckily, Rebecca’s friend Lady Agnes asked her something at that moment, sparing Grace further questioning.

  “His Grace the Duke of Malford, the Ladies Cassie and Sephe Blackbourne, Miss Daphne Blackbourne.”

  Grace’s whole body tensed at the announcement. He was here. He was actually here. Her eyes feasted on him as he conversed with his sisters, occasionally flashing one of them that cheeky grin. His face turned dark, dangerous, when a young man approached Sephe. The man quickly left.

  She drank him in, those long limbs and that black hair. His square jaw. Those mesmerizing eyes. How could all the other women not be looking at him, too? A few debutantes cast discreet glances his way, but by and large the room ignored him.

  He probably preferred it so. He was likely as uncomfortable as she, trapped in close quarters with all these people. A kindred spirit, someone else who preferred solitude to hours in a cramped room with nothing else to do but paste on a smile and listen to endless prattle.

  Or did she merely hope he were so? Had she begun to fancy him her own personal Darcy, like Eliza with Dev? Had she blurred the lines between fantasy and reality without knowing it?

  “That’s the danger of novels,” her brother Chance had teased her last year, before he’d taken his commission. “You lose yourself so much in them, dear sister, you might come to believe the characters and stories are real
.”

  She peeked once again at Damon. He stood off to the side, arrogance and indifference writ across his face as he perused the room. He could have easily been Darcy’s twin, all brooding and boredom. And discomfort.

  And was she Elizabeth Bennet? Was she waiting for him to profess how ardently he admired her? She pinched herself. Ninny. Though Austen’s hero appealed, this wasn’t a fairytale and she wasn’t writing the ending.

  She smoothed the curls off of her forehead, curls Bess had painstakingly achieved with a hot iron. Thank goodness the maid hadn’t burned her, as had happened on a previous occasion.

  Perhaps she could sneak out to the gardens. She’d have to take someone, unfortunately; ladies did not enter the gardens alone. But it was unlikely any of her companions would want to leave the ball yet; it was still relatively early in the evening and the dancing had hardly begun.

  The strains of Mozart echoed through the room and she closed her eyes, soaking in the beautiful sounds.

  When she opened them again, Malford stood before her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lamshill Ball, London – Early May, 1814

  “H-hello,” she stammered. “I was … I was enjoying the beautiful music.”

  “Yes. Beautiful.” His stare was intense, not acknowledging the musicians in the least.

  Her cheeks burned. If only her skin wouldn’t betray her every time he was in the vicinity!

  He bowed formally and extended a hand. “May I have the pleasure?”

  A noise came from Rebecca, still at Grace’s side. Of course she remembered Grace had danced with Malford once before, at the ball a few weeks ago. Glances from those around ensured others had not forgotten, either.