Matilda’s face softened at the mention of her grandchildren. “That is true,” she conceded. “But also different. Deveric is a man and whether we like it or not, men weather scandal better than women. Also, Eliza was a blank slate, an American with no known background. Malford, on the other hand, has quite the reputation, and none of it favorable.”
“None of it? With whom have you been speaking, Mother? I have not observed anything untoward in his behavior.” Besides those two kisses. But she would not mention those.
Matilda sniffed. “I am of old acquaintance with Lord Fillmore Blackbourne, Damon’s uncle. He has told me of Malford’s wild behavior as a child, of his unpredictable temper and physical … difficulties.”
Grace folded her arms over her chest and huffed. “And you believe the word of a man who’s just learned he’s no longer heir to the title and its wealth? A man who would accost another in such a public setting as a ball?”
“Fillmore Blackbourne has no need of wealth, I am sure. The whole family is well off. Not that we should be speaking of such matters. It isn’t proper.” Matilda studied her daughter for a long while.
Grace returned the stare, refusing to be cowed.
“Who have you become?” her mother said at length. “You are not the Grace I know.”
Grace walked over to the window, looking out at the street below. “Because I am not being docile and quiet, do you mean, Mama? Because I dare to speak out on behalf of something, someone, I believe in?”
Silence echoed behind her.
“I cannot countenance your acquaintance with him, Grace,” Matilda finally said.
“You do not know him.”
“Nor do you. I ask that you think of the family, of your sisters who are seeking suitable partners. Amara did enough damage.”
Grace snorted. “What about Chance? He cut a wide swath through London society before taking a commission to fight Napoleon.”
“Again, he is a man. Some things we can change, but how we were born is not one of them.”
Matilda’s footsteps echoed as she exited the room. Grace remained where she was for a long while, watching the carriages move along the street, men and women making their way toward whatever afternoon pursuits they sought.
“Exactly, Mother,” she whispered. “Exactly.”
Damon rode home, at peace for the first time in a long while. He’d truly enjoyed the ride with Grace’s sisters, who were both delightfully charming in different ways. But Grace—Grace was special. Was it possible he’d found someone who could accept him for who he was? His mother and his siblings cared for him, but they were family. Blood relations. Not that the blood connection had mattered to his father.
It was too early to know for sure if he and Grace were a match, wasn’t it? But they’d forged a connection in the carriage and not merely in the physical sense, although his desire for her was nearly overpowering. Her lustrous brown hair, her intoxicating eyes, that dimple when she smiled. How were suitors not beating down her door?
On the other hand, she was rather unconventional. Not that he had much experience with ladies, but she certainly wasn’t like any other society miss he had met in his month here in London. Thank God. Other women looked at him with fear.
Or desire. A few widows and even one married woman had made overtures at several points. A casual fling would not offend their sensibilities, they’d intimated, so long as it was kept private. He had declined each offer. He was not interested in being something someone had to hide. He’d had enough of that already.
Grace was different. She had no use for the conventions and restrictions accepted by everyone else. Not that she showed that outwardly. Her behavior was impeccable, so much so that at first she blended into the background. The perfect mouse. Now he understood that was intentional; she’d rather observe than be observed, rather have the freedom to be with her own thoughts than deal with the demands of others.
How admirable that she’d found a way to be herself in such a restrictive setting as the aristocracy. Her path wasn’t completely clear, however.
“I long to publish a novel,” she’d confessed, “but my mother will not hear of it. She insists it isn’t to be borne, a Mattersley publishing a novel, though many English women, even those from titled families, have done so.”
If Grace were his, he’d let her write to her heart’s content.
If she were mine.
The once-radical notion that he could form a true connection with someone and be accepted for exactly who he was no longer seemed an impossible dream. But what were Grace’s thoughts on an attachment? She hadn’t spoken against marriage, yet from listening to her this afternoon, it was clear she viewed it as one more restriction. Could he convince her otherwise? Did he want to?
After arriving home and leaving the carriage and horses to the care of the stable hands, Damon entered the foyer, satisfaction bringing a lightness to his step. He was almost looking forward to the dinner at the Marquess and Marchioness of Framington’s tonight. Would Grace be there? Why hadn’t he asked?
The lightness lasted until he rounded the corner into the library. His uncle sat in Damon’s favorite chair near the window, hands on his cane, the blackest expression on his face.
“Uncle,” Damon said in curt greeting. He strode to the desk and removed his gloves, pouring himself a tumbler of whiskey. He took a sip.
Fillmore gave him a baleful stare.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No.” His uncle shifted in his seat, careful to keep his foot elevated on the small stool in front of him. Too bad his gout hadn’t incapacitated the man more fully.
Damon sat in the grand chair behind the desk and propped his feet on its edge, knowing full well that was likely to set off his uncle. Fillmore Blackbourne had never approved of such casual behavior. Damon sipped again at the whiskey and waited.
“How dare you?” Fillmore roared. “How dare you?”
“How dare I what? Exist? I suppose you should take that up with my mother and father. Oh, wait. He’s dead.”
Fillmore’s face reddened to the point Damon seriously wondered if his uncle’s head were about to explode. “How dare you cut off my funds?”
“Oh, that.”
His uncle, he’d recently learned from his solicitors, had long received a sizable number of pounds from Silas annually as a form of allowance. With Fillmore owning the smaller but well-producing Arbour Manor near Bath, Damon saw no reason for his uncle to continue to need such a hefty sum. It was a drain on the Malford coffers. Plus, there was the matter of Fillmore’s treatment of Damon, both then and now. It’d not only been easy to cut off the funds, he’d relished it.
Fillmore pushed himself to his feet and hobbled over to stand in front of Damon, spittle flying from his mouth as he addressed his nephew.
“I am a Blackbourne!” he cried. “More Blackbourne than you have ever been or ever shall be. It should be me managing the estates, not you, you rotten excuse for a human being!”
Damon’s blood boiled. It took all he had not to rise and strike the man. “Indeed. But you are not Duke; I am. I make the decisions. And the sums you’ve required, especially in the last year, far exceed what could possibly be necessity. I don’t know why my mother put up with the increase. I’m assuming, rather, she didn’t know.”
Fillmore snarled. “I am a man of honor. I settle my debts.”
“Ah, so that is it. You have run up gambling losses?”
His uncle blanched. “A bad run at the tables, but my luck will turn. It always does.” He leaned onto the desk, propping himself up on one hand. “I am the rightful Malford heir. Not you. You low-down bastard. I will have what is mine.”
Damon swung his feet down and stood up, bracing his fists on the desk and leaning forward so that his face was mere inches from his uncle’s. “You may think whatever you wish about me, dearest Uncle, but mind my words: slur my mother’s name by calling me such again, and you will be dead at dawn.”
A cry from the entryway alerted Damon and Fillmore to his mother’s presence.
“Damon,” she said, her eyes beseeching.
Damon’s fingers itched to close around his uncle’s throat, but instead he gave his mother a stiff nod.
Fillmore backed off a step, his face paling. Beads of sweat dotted his brow. “You are the devil’s spawn,” he shouted, thwacking his cane across the desk. “Your father should have killed you years ago.”
His mother charged in, ablaze with fury. “You will leave our home. You are no longer welcome here,” she commanded her brother-in-law.
Fillmore’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I will have my retribution,” he vowed as he made his way to the door. “I will have what should have been mine.”
Damon’s mother collapsed into the chair Fillmore had occupied, tears streaming down her face. Damon remained where he was, his knuckles white against the desk from the pressure placed on them. He held still, fighting the urges surging through him. He would not twitch, would not tic. Not in front of his mother. He jerked his head once, hoping she’d not notice.
“I should have called him out,” he finally muttered as he sank back into his seat, his leg bouncing underneath the desk. At least she couldn’t see it. “I should have demanded satisfaction for the offense against my honor. Your honor.”
“No, Damon,” his mother said. “You need not stoop to his level.”
“A gentleman defends his honor, does he not?” Damon snarled. “Not that I would know, having had no one to teach me.”
Felicity Blackbourne sucked in a breath. “I take responsibility,” she whispered, sorrow evident in her voice.
Damon slammed his hand on the desk. “It was not you, Mother. It was him. My father.” He spat the name. “And my uncle.”
“But I should have tried harder, should have insisted…”
“So that he could beat you, too?”
She winced, her shoulders tightening.
“Did he beat you? Did that bastard beat you, too?” His voice had risen to a roar, and the muscles in his neck spasmed. Not now. Not now.
His mother rose and crossed to him. She laid a hand across the top of one of his, still balled against the desktop. “He is gone now, Damon. It does not matter.”
“It matters to me! Did he beat Adam?” Damon paled as a worse thought hit him. “Did he beat the girls?”
“No, no, never.”
“Then why?”
“Because … because I told him my father had also made movements like yours when he was a child. I said it to defend you, to show it wasn’t your fault. To show it wasn’t something evil. But it only made him angrier. He was furious I hadn’t revealed that beforehand. He thought I had deceived him.” She sighed. “But how was I to know? How was I to know that one of my poor children might also be afflicted in such a way? If I had—”
“You wouldn’t have wanted me?” His voice caught.
She rested a hand on his cheek, her eyes growing moist. “Heavens, that is not at all what I meant. I love you, Damon. I always have. I only wish I could have spared you the pain you needlessly endured all these years. It is not your fault. I failed you.”
Damon circled the desk and enfolded his mother in his arms. His own cheeks grew wet as they held each other. “The fault lies outside of both of us, Mother.”
It lay with the true demons: Silas. And Fillmore.
Chapter Seventeen
Pall Mall, London – Early May, 1814
Grace hesitated outside the entrance to Harding Howell & Company, dreading having to enter the drapers. She’d much rather visit the unfamiliar bookshop a few doors down, but Emmeline had decreed they needed new gowns. “We cannot keep wearing the same tired old things. We simply must look our best this Season.”
Grace was so weary of the social whirl, the constant demands to attend the theater or dinner parties or, heaven forbid, another ball. Why did people feel the need to constantly be with one another? Was it so awful to want an evening or two with nothing more to do than curl up with a good book? Or perhaps even retire early instead of staying up all hours of the night?
As Emmeline passed through ahead of her, Grace lingered in the doorway, casting furtive glances down the street.
“Would you like to go?”
“What?” Rebecca’s voice had startled her.
“To the booksellers. Would you like to go?”
“You know I would.”
Emmeline was already fingering through fabrics, paying no attention to the fact that her two sisters still remained outside.
“Go. Take Bess. Emmeline and I won’t leave the shop until the both of you have returned, and since she and I are here together, we are suitably chaperoned.”
How much the restrictions placed on women’s movements irritated Grace. Who would it hurt to wander down the street alone and look at a few shop windows? Surely no ruffians lay in wait on a bright, sunny afternoon, especially not in this part of town?
She’d rather go by herself, but Emmeline and Rebecca would never allow it. She looked into the drapers. Bess was now examining fabrics alongside Emmeline, and was as completely entranced. When Rebecca called her over to accompany Grace to the bookshop, Bess’s face fell before she quickly smoothed it over.
Guilt settled on Grace’s shoulders like a heavy shawl. If only she didn’t have to pull the maid away from something she enjoyed.
What choices did servants have with their time, after all? Fewer than she did. That was a sobering thought; she lamented her own constrictions, but she faced fewer than many of the people she lived with day in and day out.
Should she stay for Bess’s sake? I’ll only go for a moment or two. We’ll be back in plenty of time for Bess to see the fabrics.
“Thank you, Bess,” she said.
The maid bobbed her head, and the two made for their destination.
Grace had never been in this particular shop. It was quaint, stacked to the rafters with books. Volumes even lay piled haphazardly in a few of the aisles. The place charmed her instantly. How had she not heard of it before?
She strolled the aisles, running her fingers over the book spines. Bess, with her permission, had opted to stay near the front of the shop. At least there, the maid could look out the window. Did Bess not care to read? The thought saddened Grace. How could anyone not love the worlds books opened up?
She pulled an ancient copy of Gulliver’s Travels off the shelf and was thumbing through its pages when a deep voice spoke in hushed tones quite near her ear. “Lady Grace. What a pleasant surprise.”
She whirled around and nearly fell into Damon’s arms. He stood mere inches away, a wolfish grin on his face. Had Bess noticed him? Grace tried to peer around him, but the man was so big she couldn’t see anything but his chest and shoulders, delineated nicely under a well-fitted coat. Black, unsurprisingly, as was his undershirt, though Grace suspected it was not mourning that drove his sartorial choices. He’d affixed a skull stickpin to his cravat, as usual, though this one was winking.
“Your—Damon. I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“We seem to frequent the same places.”
“Indeed.” Balls. Bookshops. The park.
Their repeated encounters shouldn’t surprise her; though London was a large city, members of the ton and indeed those of ducal families moved in smaller circles, frequenting the same social affairs, the same entertainments. The same shops. As she and Damon were both book lovers who preferred to eschew company for the sake of printed words, did it not make sense they should find each other in a bookshop again?
She looked at the large volume clasped in his hand. “Oh, what are you reading?”
He held up the book. “Edward Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Volume One. I’ve always wanted to read the set, but we didn’t have it at the abbey.” He gestured toward the tome she held. “And you?”
“Gulliver’s Travels.”
He wrinkled his nos
e. “Never cared for that one.”
“No?” She set the book back on the shelf.
“You don’t have to take my word for it,” he said with a chuckle.
She walked a few steps away, running her fingers along the titles.
He followed.
His nearness was overwhelming, intoxicating, and she wanted to inhale deeply to absorb the delicious, masculine scent of him.
“I trust you,” she breathed, looking into the clear blue of his eyes.
“Those are perhaps the sweetest words anyone has ever spoken to me,” he said, his voice husky. He reached forward and traced the edge of her ear before dropping his hand back to his side. “Forgive me. I cannot seem to resist touching you when I am in your presence.”
Grace should make her excuses and leave. That’s what her mother would want. For the sake of the family. But as she soaked in his face, his smoldering eyes, she couldn’t. She didn’t want to. Her fingers trembled. Oh, to reach out and caress him, to run her fingers through his ebony hair, over those admittedly devilish eyebrows, along his high cheekbones, and across those lips, those sensuous lips.
Would anyone notice? The aisles were narrow and packed with books. The proprietor hummed to himself as he filed books an aisle or two away, but she couldn’t see him. Could Bess see her? She bit her lip in indecision.
“Am I disturbing you? Should I leave?”
“No, no,” she blurted out. “I just … that is … my mother has forbidden me to see you.”
“Forbidden? What, would she have you wear a blindfold, lest I cross your view at any given social event?” His tone was light, but the derisive undercurrent unmistakable.
“I—No. She fears your reputation might damage my sisters’ chances of making suitable matches.”
Damon’s mouth contorted in a grimace. “That bad, am I?” He settled the book under his arm and turned to go.
She grabbed at his elbow. “I didn’t say I felt that way,” she cried.
He turned to face her, her hand still on his arm.
“I don’t! You know I don’t. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to hurt my family,” she said, her voice softer.
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