The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  The same serving girl who’d shown them to the parlor scurried into the room.

  “Bring us the young lady,” Fillmore barked at her.

  The girl dropped a hurried curtsy and raced out again.

  “I knew you would come for her,” Fillmore said, addressing Damon. “I could see it in your eyes when you looked at her. You lust for her.”

  Deveric cleared his throat.

  “It’s true. My apologies, Your Grace, for such frank talk. Your sister is an attractive woman.” Fillmore licked his lips.

  Damon wanted to retch.

  Deveric tensed next to him, but his words belied his reaction. “She is, indeed. A gentleman would know how to treat such a lady. Don’t you agree, Lord Fillmore?”

  Damon glanced at Deveric. The statement could cut two ways. The flinty look in his green eyes suggested the barb was aimed at his uncle.

  Fillmore hooted. “Indeed. And we all know Blackbourne is no gentleman, regardless of what title he claims.” He waved an arm dismissively. “He’s not even fully a man.”

  Fury filled Damon’s head, spawning rivers of rage that flooded his mind and wouldn’t let go. He was one second away from losing control and going after the man, regardless of the pistol Fillmore still pointed at him.

  The door swung open. All three men turned toward it as Grace walked through. Her eyes widened upon seeing them. She cast an anxious glance toward Fillmore.

  “Come here, my dear,” he commanded.

  She obeyed, walking over to stand next to his uncle on his right side, near the fireplace. Her eyes met Damon’s, but he was still so lost in his own haze of anger he couldn’t read them. She gave a weak smile.

  “I was just saying, Lady Grace, that Damon here is not only not a gentleman, he’s not even fully a man!” He hooted again, clearly amused by his own statement.

  Grace said nothing. She gave the tiniest of head shakes, invisible to Fillmore, as if telling Damon not to respond. He focused on her, on those luminous chocolate orbs, fighting with all his might against the tics struggling to erupt, against the desire to charge his uncle and strangle him barehanded, regardless of the consequences. He used every scrap of strength to focus on Grace and ignore all else around him.

  Until Fillmore spoke again. “He’s a demon. The thorn in my side. An embarrassment to the family. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here.”

  Fillmore’s hand shook. At any second, his uncle could accidentally shoot at him. Or intentionally, for that matter. With how unsteady Fillmore was, there was a chance he’d miss, but it was a chance Damon wasn’t willing to take. They were too close.

  “You seem rather disgruntled with your nephew,” Deveric broke in with that relaxed voice. It sounded almost as if they were chatting over a game of cards, or tea. “Why is that?”

  “Haven’t you seen? Or perhaps he’s managed to hide it from you, his true self.” Fillmore frowned, but his hand steadied. “He twists and contorts himself in ways no human should. He ought to have been committed to an asylum years ago. I always told Silas that. No Blackbourne loses such control.”

  Damon looked to Grace. She betrayed no emotion, made no sounds, but edged slightly away from his uncle and closer to the fireplace. Was she preparing to run?

  “Indeed,” Deveric said, drawing Fillmore’s attention back to him. “It must have been hard for you, growing up with such a beast.”

  Grace’s eyes widened but she said nothing.

  Deveric’s words stabbed Damon in the back. Though part of the plan was to convince Fillmore he had an ally in Deveric, the statement still hurt. Despite the hours in the carriage, their acquaintance was brief. Could Damon trust that Deveric truly did not believe what he’d said?

  Fillmore cackled. “Exactly. I pleaded with that idiot brother to get rid of him. He wouldn’t listen. Said he could reform him. He failed. My stupid brother. Never could see the bigger picture.”

  “You were the brains in the family, I take it?” Deveric’s voice was smooth, encouraging.

  Fillmore took a swig from the crystal glass and set it back down on the side table. “With certainty. My mother always saw it. She said it was a shame that I’d never inherit. That I was the better man. The better Blackbourne.”

  Damon had never met his grandmother. She’d died before he was born. But were she alive now, he’d kill her for the seeds of discord she’d sown in her son.

  “I’ve always known it,” Fillmore continued. “I made my peace with it, best I could. Until—” He broke off, his eyes flying to Grace. “Where are you going?”

  “My apologies, Lord Fillmore,” she replied, her voice steady. “I was cold and thought to warm myself by the fire.”

  Fillmore harrumphed.

  “You were saying?” Deveric prodded, commanding the man’s attention again.

  “Until he threatened to cut me off! Just like you did, you cur.” He pointed at Damon with his free hand, spittle flying from his lips. “As if I were disposable, a responsibility he could wipe his hands of. Yes, I had gotten myself in a bit deep at the tables, but I always get back out. And a Blackbourne pays his debts!” His voice shook with rage. “I knew then what I had to do, what I should have done a long time ago.”

  Damon’s brow creased.

  Fillmore crowed. “Haven’t you worked it out?” He flashed his teeth at Damon, a manic grin in a face contorted with glee. “The only thing between me and the vast Malford wealth was my brother. And my nephew.”

  “My brother. The heir,” uttered Damon. The pieces were falling into place.

  “Exactly! Adam hadn’t married; there were no other Blackbourne males. It was easy enough to arrange for a carriage accident.”

  Grace gasped.

  Fillmore shot her a quick glance before turning back to Damon. “But I never thought you still lived. That your mother would send for you. That whore, turning to a mongrel when she could have had me. All those years I pined for her, even after she married Silas. Married him because he had the title and the wealth. And then to reject me in favor of you!”

  He raised the pistol, aiming it straight at Damon’s heart. Damon cast one final glance at Grace. The terror on her face burned into him even as he reached for his own pistol. He’d never make it in time, but he had to try.

  Suddenly, Grace whipped her arm around over her head, the fireplace poker clutched in her right hand. She brought it down on Fillmore’s skull, the impact making a sickening thud. The pistol dropped from his hand, and he slumped over in his chair, blood oozing from the side of his head.

  Grace stood behind him, cheeks slack, her eyes huge orbs. “Did I kill him?”

  Deveric crossed and kneeled next to Fillmore, searching for a pulse in the inert man’s neck. “No. He’s alive.”

  Damon remained rooted to the spot, a cascade of emotions sweeping through him. Fear from having nearly been shot by his crazed uncle at close range, disbelief that it was his uncle who’d caused his father’s and brother’s death, anger that Grace had endangered herself by attacking Fillmore, and relief, oh such intense relief, that she was safe and his uncle neutralized—at least for now.

  “Grace,” he whispered, his blue eyes seeking hers. She dropped the poker and ran to him, crashing into him full force and wrapping her arms around him.

  “I knew you would come,” she said, her head resting against his chest. “I knew it.”

  He brought his hands up, momentarily breaking her grasp. He took her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he leaned in and caught her lips in a fiery caress. She ran her fingers around his back, holding him to her as she returned the kiss, all the emotions of the past few days burning between them.

  Deveric cleared his throat behind them, and Damon reluctantly broke off the kiss.

  Grace turned around and gave her brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry, brother.”

  Deveric shrugged. “It was well earned by both of you.” He walked toward his sister and enfolded her in a hug of his own. “I’m s
o glad you are safe.”

  “Did he—did the bastard mistreat you in any way?” Damon’s gaze ran up and down her person. Though her hair was askew and her crumpled ball gown rimmed around the base with dust and dirt, she showed no other visible signs of injury.

  “Not at all. Unless you count being subject to the ravings of a mad man—and intense alcoholic fumes—abuse. I was well cared for, all things considered.”

  The two men heaved sighs of relief.

  “Still, we must marry at once.”

  Both Mattersleys turned to stare at Damon.

  “We must,” he insisted. “Her reputation has been irreparably harmed, and it’s my fault.”

  Grace snorted. “I think it was your uncle’s,” she said before she grew quiet, biting her lip, her eyes unreadable.

  Deveric looked back and forth between the two. “Still, Grace, Damon is right; there is no chance you will recover from this with your reputation intact. You’ve been in the company of an unmarried man for a night.”

  “A widower more than twice my age! I can’t believe you’re making that argument, Dev. You, who were always such a staunch supporter of Amara.”

  He grimaced. Her words had hit their mark. “I know. But look at what it cost her, Grace.” Pain flitted across his face. “I don’t want you to suffer in such a way.”

  Before she could respond, Deveric turned to Damon. “My apologies for having to say those things, Damon. They gave me no pleasure.”

  A myriad of emotions flitted through him at Deveric’s words. He had doubted, even if momentarily. Guilt hit him for his own lack of faith. He studied the plush Oriental carpet at his feet.

  “Malford,” Claremont said, his voice troubled. “Damon. You didn’t believe me. Did you?”

  Damon didn’t respond.

  Grace stepped forward, touching his chin with her fingers, forcing him to look up. “I didn’t believe him,” she said. “Not what he was saying, and not that he meant it. Anyone who gets to know you at all knows you’re nothing like what your uncle claims you to be.”

  Fillmore groaned.

  “Not wishing to be a spoil-sport,” Deveric said, “but I think it is time for us to leave. We can finish this conversation elsewhere.”

  Damon and Grace nodded, and the three exited the room. The maid hovered just outside. From the look in her eyes, she’d heard at least some of what had transpired.

  “Is he—Is he dead?”

  “No. But he will have a mighty fine headache when he awakens.”

  The maid nodded, her lower lip trembling.

  Damon studied her a moment. “Do you wish to remain in my uncle’s employ?”

  The young woman burst into tears. “No, but I haven’t anywhere else to go. He says if I leave, he’ll turn me out without a reference. And then what would I do? I’ve got no one else. My ma and pa, they died.”

  “You will come work for me,” Damon said. “I will double your wages.”

  The maid hiccupped. “Truly, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. Unless the distance is too far? Thorne Hill lies some seventy miles from here.”

  She shook her head. “That be fine, sir. I mean, Your Grace.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Gather your things and meet us at the front of the house as soon as you can. I don’t think it will be long before Fillmore awakens.”

  She nodded and scurried out of the hallway, presumably to her chambers.

  Tears brimmed in Grace’s eyes. “That was a kind and generous thing you did. I had not thought of it myself.”

  He nodded. “Let us go. We shall continue this discussion about our marriage in better quarters.”

  She stiffened but without further word descended the stairs, her brother following close behind.

  Damon took a moment to breathe. He’d come so close to losing her. And now she was to be his wife.

  He’d never lose her again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bath, Somerset, England – Mid-May, 1814

  “He’s gone! Lord Fillmore is gone!”

  They spun at the sound of the maid’s frantic voice. She raced to them from the front door.

  “Gone?” Grace exclaimed, bile rising in her throat. She’d truly killed him, then? No matter her fantasies of doing so a few short hours before, she’d never thought of how it would feel in reality to take another’s life. Her hand flew to her mouth. I’ve killed a man.

  “He must have gone out the back while I was packing. There was blood on the step, an’ his horse is missing.” The maid swallowed, her small satchel banging against her legs.

  Damon swore.

  Deveric grasped Grace’s arm, steadying her. “It will be all right,” he whispered. “He can’t get you now. You are safe.”

  She hadn’t given a thought to her safety, only to her sin. But surely the man wouldn’t come after her a second time? Then again, he was clearly insane—and had committed murder before.

  “Damn him. Damn him!” Damon paced in front of the carriage, his long strides like those of a prowling panther. “I should have finished him off. I should have—”

  “No,” Deveric interjected. “Your sense of honor is greater than that. As is mine. But should we encounter him again, when he is conscious …” His lips pulled into a grim line.

  Damon stilled. “He had better hope he never sees me again. For if he does, I shall call him out.”

  “Indeed,” Deveric said, laying a hand on Damon’s shoulder. “For now, shall we make haste? I am sure my family wishes to know Grace is unharmed.”

  “Of course.” Damon quickly aided Grace into the carriage, then Daisy, before climbing inside himself. Deveric followed.

  Grace took the seat next to the maid, forcing the two men to sit side by side. In no way was she prepared to ride next to Damon, not with the way the touch of his hand had sent her pulse aflutter, even as Damon’s declaration—“We must marry at once!”—pounded through her head.

  “Would you prefer I get a room? Allow you some rest after recent events?” Deveric asked, as the carriage left the Crescent.

  “No, dearest brother. I wish to leave this city as soon as possible in order to put these foul memories behind.”

  Grace fell silent, her emotions a jumble as the streets of Bath flew by. They’d been traveling for about ten minutes when Deveric yawned and then tucked his head into his corner of the carriage, settling his hat over his eyes. A soft snore emanated from him less than a minute later. Shame spilled through Grace; she’d been so absorbed in herself, in all that had happened, she hadn’t taken into consideration that the two men had ridden all night to get to her. She, at least, had slept a few short hours in Bath. They must both be exhausted.

  She looked across at Damon. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Should we stop after all?”

  “No. I, too, want nothing more to do with Bath or my uncle. Ever again.”

  He fell silent and she followed suit. With the maid—Daisy was her name—riding with them in the carriage, it was not the time or place for a more serious discussion.

  Luckily, Daisy did not feel the need to chatter, or perhaps sitting amongst peers in the interior of such a lavish coach intimidated her into silence. She’d attempted to clamber up next to the driver, but Grace had stopped her. “It will be more comfortable for you inside, Daisy, and you deserve it after having to put up with Fillmore Blackbourne.”

  True courtesy had motivated Grace, but also the knowledge that with Daisy and her brother there, she could avoid a more intimate discussion with Damon. The intensity of her newly acknowledged feelings, the terror of Fillmore Blackbourne nearly shooting Damon—all of it was such that she had not the strength for anything at the moment. She needed merely to exist, grateful the unexpected drama of the last twenty-four hours was now behind them.

  Did Damon feel the same? He directed his attention not at her, but out the window, seemingly lost in thought. She took the opportunity to drink him in. His thick, black hair was tousled fr
om the day’s travels. Stubble dotted his jaw, which only enhanced his raw masculine appeal. His lips were slightly pursed, but that didn’t hide their sensuality. If only they could repeat their kiss in Fillmore’s parlor here, without Dev or Daisy, just she and Damon, locked in a heady embrace as the carriage rocked on.

  Her skin flushed. And then what, you ninny?

  “We must marry at once.” Damon’s assertion echoed repeatedly in her mind. She couldn’t ignore the tendrils of excitement the notion aroused. Damon Blackbourne, hers, forever?

  She’d given lip service to the idea of marrying for her family’s sake, but until Damon, never had anyone moved her to make a lifelong commitment seem reasonable.

  “If I were ever to marry,” she’d insisted to her family on more than one occasion, “it would only be for love. A grand, passionate love. Not for duty, or honor, or expectation.”

  Nothing less than the kind of love Deveric and Eliza shared made giving up what little freedom and independence she had make sense.

  But what choice did she have now? Though thankfully nothing untoward had transpired, she was ruined in the eyes of society. Damon saw no other course than for her to marry him, immediately. Deveric clearly felt the same.

  It was Lord Fillmore, not Damon, who’d dishonored her, however. How would wedding Damon save her? Save her sisters? Could it?

  The ton would see no other option; she must marry or live in permanent scandal. The most logical course of action was to marry Malford.

  Was it such a bad notion? She loved him, after all. And he felt something for her. Could it be love?

  She sighed. It was all too much. Let me think of lesser things. For a little while, at least, while there is respite in this carriage.

  The coach hit a rut in the road, and she bounced in her seat, clasping at the cushion as her eyes dropped to Damon’s long legs, which rested on the floor across from her. Black boots led to equally black breeches, breeches which revealed the fine musculature of his thighs. She should not linger there. It was most improper.

  Her gaze moved up to his lean midsection and over his chest. The light speckling of hair peeking above the top button of his shirt aroused her curiosity. He was cravatless. How had she not noticed before? When had he removed it? She hadn't expected to see him in such a state of undress. The hint of his chest sent shivers through her.