The Demon Duke

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by Margaret Locke


  It was not unseemly, however, to dance with him again. It had been only the once, sometime distant, and now once more. Emmeline’s eyes flashed to hers, as if to say, It’s not the number of times. It’s that you’re the only one with whom he dances. And only the waltz.

  Was that true? Had he not danced with other debutantes at events she hadn’t attended? Were there any events she had not attended, given how many invitations her mama and sisters had accepted on her behalf?

  Thank goodness her mother was not here tonight; Matilda had caught a cold and had chosen to remain at home to rest. That was a good thing, as Grace engaging with Malford for a second time would likely have sent her mother into full pneumonia.

  “You are not to associate with him, Grace,” her mother had commanded after the Rexborough ball. “We need no further scandal to taint this family, and Malford is nothing but scandal. Those eyes. That devilishly black form.” A sharp exhalation followed the words. “No, he will not do, duke or not!”

  Matilda Mattersley’s words echoed in Grace’s mind, but they produced not the usual acquiescence, the normal retreat on her part, but rather, rebellion. Defiance. She’d spent much of her life as the dutiful daughter, a model of propriety and obedience. It’d been expected. It’d been needed, for Amara’s sake and that of the entire family.

  But Amara was gone. And Grace no longer wanted to serve everybody else. She wanted to please herself.

  Nodding at Malford, she let him pull her onto the dance floor. Once there, he assumed the waltz position, settling himself an appropriate, perfectly decorous distance from her, and lightly positioned one hand at her waist, the other clasping her hand loosely. It was everything that was proper.

  As proper as this new dance could be, at least. Many matrons still clucked about the waltz, deeming it unseemly. But more and more balls included at least one or two. Even Almack’s had recently approved it.

  They began moving to the music. Neither spoke a word. Grace stared at his chest, her eyes following the intricate weaving of his black cravat, the startling specter of the skull pin holding it in place. What should she say? So many times since that morning in Hyde Park, she had wanted to see him, to assure him he’d done nothing wrong. So many times she’d wanted to assure herself.

  She peeked up. His eyes, bluer than the heavens, fixed on her face. He wasn’t smiling. She inhaled sharply.

  “I can’t seem to stay away from you, Lady Grace,” he finally said. His nostrils flared. She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. He watched her, devoured her, like a lion with its prey.

  “I-I …” She swallowed. Who was this simpering miss? She may not be the most comfortable in mixed society, she may be a wallflower, but it was by choice, not because of lack of backbone. She straightened her shoulders and tried again. “I see no reason for you to do so.”

  The hand on her back pulled her in closer, not enough to raise eyebrows, but enough that the heat radiating off of his body enveloped her.

  The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I haven’t had much practice in dealing with the fairer sex, I admit.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I shall work harder to behave like a proper gentleman in your presence.”

  But I don’t want you to! I want you to pull me closer, to kiss me, to never let me go. Grace gasped at her own thoughts. Damon’s face blanched at the noise and he loosened his grip.

  “I’m sorry!” she cried, clasping his hand tightly. “It was something I was thinking, Your Grace. Not you, my lor—Damon.”

  Hearing his name on her lips, his grip on her waist tightened again and he drew her in until their bodies nearly touched, whirling her around the floor. Anyone paying attention now would consider his closeness unseemly. But she couldn’t bring herself to restore the appropriate amount of space between them. No, not when his nearness did such queer things to her insides.

  What was it about this man?

  “I have missed seeing you,” he whispered in her ear. “Everywhere I go, I look for you, even though I know I shouldn’t. I fear you have bewitched me.”

  She stumbled, caught off guard by his words. Her eyes flew to his, which were hungry, wanting. Would he kiss her? Would she let him? Here in the middle of the ballroom?

  He didn’t. His eyes darkened, and he took a noticeable step back, restoring the proper distance between them. As the music came to an end, he muttered, “But I am not good for you. No one needs to be subjected to my demons, least of all you.”

  With a stiff bow, he nodded to her and walked off without another word out of the ballroom. All eyes followed him before returning to her, curiosity, pity, and judgment radiating from faces everywhere.

  Grace stood rooted to the floor. What had just happened?

  Damon braced himself against a balustrade outside the entranceway to the garden, breathing in the cool night air. He fought the tumultuous emotions rocking through his body. He’d sworn he was going to leave her alone. He was right; he was no good for her, not with his obnoxious behavior during their previous encounters. And yet he couldn’t help it. He was like the proverbial moth to the flame, though she was the one who was going to get burned.

  He longed to turn around and walk back in, sweep her in his arms, and dance with her again. Or better yet, spirit her away down a dark hallway, find a room, perhaps a library, and share a stolen kiss or two. Or more. His body tightened at the thought of Grace in his arms, her dress undone, her head thrown back in pleasure. He groaned.

  “Malford. Is that you?”

  Damon willed his body under control. Hopefully it was dark enough in the gardens that whoever was speaking wouldn’t notice the billowing of his pantaloons. He turned toward the voice. Oh, thank God, a familiar face. “Lord Emerlin. A pleasure.”

  Morgan Collinswood, Marquess of Emerlin, gestured toward the ballroom. “Too crowded for you?”

  “Something like that.”

  Damon’s cryptic answer elicited a laugh from the fellow peer, whose dark hair and light eyes reminded Damon a little of Adam. And himself. “And you?”

  “A certain female is determined to secure another dance with me. As we’ve already danced twice together, it’s best we not engage in a third. And since no doesn’t seem to be in her vocabulary, I opted for the coward’s route: escape.”

  A bush rustled nearby as a couple emerged from one of the garden walks. The woman’s face radiated happiness, the man’s complete bliss.

  “I do believe we’ve just witnessed the betrothal of the Earl of Esslington and the Lady Beatrice d’Avignon,” Emerlin whispered.

  A fierce longing swept through Damon, so powerful it was as if he’d been knocked from a horse. If only it had been he and Lady Grace in that garden, he and Grace about to share the happy news.

  It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. He hardly knew her. So why was every fiber of his body drawn to her, as if she were the puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing?

  Because she had seen him. Truly seen him. And she had not rejected him—not in the library, not at the ball, not in the bookstore, not this evening, though every eye was on them. He’d never experienced such open acceptance in his life. How could he let that go?

  He knew suddenly what he must do. The answer was painstakingly obvious. And terrifying. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

  Demons be damned.

  Fear be damned. There was only one logical solution.

  Damon Blackbourne, the Duke of Malford, must go courting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Claremont House, London – Early May, 1814

  Grace rode home in the carriage in complete silence. Not that her sisters were quiet; they chatted gaily, exchanging notes on rumors they’d heard and social events for the next week. Grace said not a word, but nobody questioned it; they were quite used to her silences.

  What they didn’t know was that she was angry. Angrier than she’d been in a long time, as a matter of fact.

  How dare he? How dare that oaf dive in and out of her life,
pulling her in like a fish on a hook, only to toss her back at random moments? That wasn’t how a suitor ought to go about things. Not that Damon was her suitor; he’d made it quite clear he wanted to be anything but.

  She clutched at her pelisse as she descended from the carriage, using every bit of restraint not to stomp up the stairs and thereby command unwanted attention. She ground her teeth as she entered her bedroom and as Bess helped her out of her dress. She narrowed her eyes as she put on her nightgown, used the tooth paper, and brushed out her hair. And she fumed as she crawled under the blankets.

  She stared at the ceiling. One small tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. She’d had enough of Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford, and his rude behavior. She wasn’t going to attend to him ever again.

  No, the Demon Duke was not for her.

  “Milady, you have a caller,” the butler announced at breakfast the next morning. What? Grace normally eschewed morning calls, preferring to use the time to read or write. Occasionally, she met with friends for visits to the Royal Academy or to take tea or to stroll through one of the pleasure gardens. But she far preferred the east-facing seat in the library, where she could bask in the sun’s warmth while immersing herself in what she loved most: words.

  Emmeline and Rebecca looked at her, questions in their eyes. Before they could comment, before she could fret she was only in morning dress, the butler called out rather frantically, “His Grace the Duke of Malford,” as Damon sailed into the room, a single white rose in his hand.

  Emmeline’s eyes widened into huge circles. Rebecca broke out into a toothy grin before Emmeline yanked her by the hand toward the door. Both women curtsied quickly to Malford, murmuring greetings before racing out, claiming they had a social call across town.

  Traitors.

  Grace glanced at him, coolness in her eyes. She said nothing.

  Da—Malford; she would not think of him by his Christian name—approached her, his expression turning from confident and eager to uncertain in the space of a few seconds. Good. He could at least sense she was less than thrilled to see him.

  “Grace?” He handed the rose to her.

  She took it, but commented, “The correct way to address me would be as Lady Grace Mattersley, Your Grace.”

  He stepped back, his head snapping up, visibly stung. Now he knew what it felt like to receive the hot and cold treatment.

  “I beg pardon, Lady Grace.” He paused, as if debating his next move. “I wanted a chance to explain my erratic behavior toward you. I was hoping you might consent to a ride with me through Hyde Park?” He gestured toward the door. “My barouche is waiting outside.”

  “I could not possibly go for a ride with you alone, Your Grace.”

  “Indeed not. The carriage is spacious enough for a maid to accompany you. Or your sisters, if you would like.”

  At that, her mouth dropped open. He was willing to discuss his behavior in front of her sisters? What was he about?

  She should decline. Truly, she should. Had she not vowed just yesterday evening to have nothing again to do with the Duke of Malford? And yet, her curiosity drove her to say, “Very well. I’m sure Emmeline and Rebecca would be most pleased to visit the Park. Once we have all changed for such an outing.”

  “If they haven’t already departed, that is.”

  Her eyebrow rose.

  “Since they had a previous engagement. The one that caused them to run out of the room upon my appearance.”

  Grace couldn’t help but laugh. “I have no doubt, Your Grace, that my sisters are right outside that door, listening to our every word.”

  A scuffling noise and the sound of swishing skirts proved she was right. She stood, her chin firm, her resolve set. “Perhaps once in the park, we might let my sisters take in the air for a while. On their own. A maid shall come along, naturally, but she may sit up with the driver.”

  Mother would never approve. I shall do it, anyway. I must solve the puzzle of this Demon Duke, must know what demons chase him so.

  A smile crossed his face.

  “Surely riding with you in the middle of Rotten Row in an open-air barouche with a driver and a maid would not be objectionable,” she continued. “But rest assured: I want answers.” She gave him a mischievous grin before pointedly adding, “Damon.”

  Emmeline attempted to engage Damon in polite conversation as they rode to the park an hour later. His curt answers, while not impolite, soon dissuaded her and she turned instead to Rebecca, commenting on the fashions worn by the people riding or strolling past.

  Damon rubbed his hands along his black breeches, his pulse racing. Nerves. Grace sat next to him, garbed now in a simple dress of a peach hue so luscious, it made him want to nibble on her, but she remained quiet, looking out at the scenery as it flew past. Other than the small smile she initially gave him, her focus remained outside of the barouche. So much for his ability to charm.

  What was he doing? Why had he decided he needed to court Grace Mattersley? Not that one carriage ride meant a betrothal, but that was the direction in which he was headed if he continued to single her out. Which, undeniably, had been his intention when he’d arrived at Claremont House. Now, sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands itched to move. He couldn’t possibly want to offer for Grace, could he? He, who’d sworn never to marry because he’d be an unfair burden on any woman?

  That’s what you mean to determine: whether or not you even like her, whether she’s suited to you. He was attracted to her, no doubt about it. Just being near her and inhaling her light scent, a subtle floral, perhaps violet—much less intrusive than the perfumes many other women layered on—had him wanting to bury his face in her hair, to pull the pins out and let those glorious mahogany tresses flow down over her shoulders. He wanted to nibble the length of her neck from her shoulder to her ear and then capture those succulent lips with his. His loins tightened at the thought, and he turned back to the conversation between Emmeline and Rebecca, desperate to keep his physical desires under control.

  “I don’t see why Mama won’t let me ride my own horse alone in Hyde Park,” Rebecca lamented with a pout.

  “It’s not seemly, and you know it, Becca.”

  Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Then I cannot wait to get back to Clarehaven. At least there I have some freedom.”

  Grace made a noise at that. “I thought you were enjoying the attention from eligible suitors? Especially a certain Lord—”

  “I am,” Rebecca broke in, before her sister could finish the name. Flushing, she cast a quick glance at Damon. “I simply miss my horses.”

  “You should come to Tattersall’s,” Damon said. “I am sure you are a better judge of horseflesh than many men.”

  Emmeline’s brow puckered. “Surely, Your Grace, you know Tattersall’s is an unacceptable place for a woman to visit?”

  Rebecca elbowed her.

  Damon grimaced. Lady Emmeline was correct, naturally. He’d never given much thought to the restrictions placed on ladies. He had enjoyed an unprecedented amount of freedom, growing up without the constraints of going away to school, much less the judgment of peers. He’d thought he’d missed out, but there had been benefits to his youth that had been denied to others, particularly those of the female sex. What a misfortune to live constantly under such strict societal dictates. His fingertips dug into his thigh. He was subject to those dictates now, as well.

  “You are right, Lady Emmeline. Forgive me, Lady Rebecca. I am not yet well versed in the ways of city life.”

  “City living and its restrictions have never appealed to me,” Grace interjected. “All these silly rules.”

  Lady Emmeline gaped at her sister before quickly shutting her mouth, clapping with excitement as they entered the southeast gate of Hyde Park. “I do so adore strolling through the park. It is such a beautiful place.”

  “With that I agree,” Damon said. He had run here every morning since the encounter with his uncle at White’s. It had done w
onders for his physical and mental well-being. Not that these ladies needed to know his secrets. Grace turned and gave him a nod. Could she, too, be remembering their private encounter here?

  “Ooh! Ooh!” Lady Emmeline exclaimed. “I see Lady Adelaide! Look, Rebecca. And Lady Jane Marlowe is with her.” She waved at her friend. “Would you mind very much if Rebecca and I walked a stretch, so that we might spend time with our friends? Not that we don’t enjoy your company.”

  Grace pressed her lips together to contain her amusement. “Go ahead, dearest sister. I do not claim to be the best companion. Nor does His Grace seem the type to bend one’s ear with mindless chatter.”

  Damon chuckled at her statement. “Please,” he said to Emmeline and Rebecca as he signaled for the driver to stop. “I would not wish to deprive you of superior company.”

  As Emmeline and Rebecca exited the carriage, helped by the driver, Damon looked to Grace.

  “We didn’t even have to find a reason to get them to leave,” she said.

  The driver returned to his perch next to the maid, Dora, and set the horses into a slow walk. As the carriage rumbled down Rotten Row, Damon pulled at his gloves. Uncomfortable things. What to do? What to say? How did one go about courting? Or whatever he was to call this.

  “Thank you for accompanying me today,” he offered. “You look quite lovely.”

  Grace’s cheeks pinked and she turned away, watching the trees for a few moments. When he said nothing else, she gave a loud sigh. “You promised to explain.”

  “Explain?”

  “Yes, explain! You promised to tell me why you seek me out, but then once you find me, you do all you can to get away. It’s as if you’re playing a game of cat and mouse, and I can’t say that I care for it.” The words came out a whisper, but steel undergirded them.

  Damon sat, nonplussed by her frank assessment. It was refreshing to hear her speak so plainly, rather than having to wade through layers of correct behavior to determine her true feelings. Cat and mouse, she’d said. When he’d first seen her, he’d thought her a mouse. Not today. She looked him straight in the eye, no demurring miss. Beneath her shy manner lay a backbone of iron.

 

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