The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t be watching for him. This wasn’t her normal behavior, daydreaming about a mysterious man. Kissing a man wasn’t normal behavior, either, and that didn’t stop you.

  Chastising her inner devil, she crossed her arms, glowering at the dancers. A young gentleman who’d been making his way to her stopped mid-stride at her expression, the confident smile draining from his face. He turned and walked the other way.

  She put a hand to her lips to stifle the giggle threatening to escape. Who knew she had such power as to halt a man in his tracks?

  A slight clearing of the throat came from her right side. She looked up into the Duke of Malford’s fierce face. It was far more likely that his dark expression had sent her potential suitor scurrying, not her own meager grimace.

  “Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Grace?” He gave her a gallant bow and held out his hand.

  All attention was riveted on Malford. And her. Her skin prickled, no doubt flushing that horrid puce she detested when she found herself the object of scrutiny. She should refuse him, should not risk more interaction with him this evening. Her mother’s nearly apoplectic expression, visible from across the room, confirmed it.

  Grace had never been the type to defy societal expectations. Not openly, at least. While her inner thoughts often ran wild, her outward appearance, her behaviors in polite society, were never such as to stir up commentary. No scandal had ever been attached to her name, unlike her sister Amara.

  Dancing with the Duke of Malford would no doubt alter that, especially as no one had seen them introduced.

  A noticeable hush fell over the room. Goose pimples erupted on her skin. She loathed being the center of attention. She should refuse him and end this.

  But doing so would surely draw more attention. Unfavorable attention. On him. He hadn’t asked anyone else to dance, she was sure of it. And she wasn’t about to shame him with a public rejection, not after what he’d endured.

  Plus, dancing with him meant she could touch him again. And, oh, how she longed to touch him, to prove this was real, not an imaginary dream. She’d kissed this man. She wanted to dance with him, truly wanted for the first time ever to waltz with a man.

  Exhilaration burst through her, the sweet sizzle of defiance catching her off guard. Let them talk. She would accept. She would show kindness to this man. Surely no one could fault her for kindness? And if they did? Let that be on them.

  “With pleasure, Your Grace,” she replied, placing her hand in his.

  His nostrils flared and his eyes widened.

  If only she’d answered with some other word. Pleasure brought his kiss back to her—as if she would ever forget it—and her breathing hitched.

  His lips twitched into a sly grin. Before she could say anything, he swung her into position, his hand around her waist, his other hand clasping hers. He held the correct amount of distance between them—no one could accuse them of impropriety, beyond the scandalous nature of the waltz itself—and yet she felt as if she were on fire, as if they were the only two people in the room, as if she’d melt into a puddle on the floor should she stop looking into his eyes. Quickly, she turned her head toward the other dancers.

  “Chicken,” he teased. He gripped her hand more tightly.

  Across the room, her mother held a hand to her throat, horror etched across her face. Emmeline swung by in the arms of some marquess or other and winked at her. A most inappropriate laugh threatened to burst forth at such disparate reactions from two of the people with whom she was closest in the world. She bit her lip to keep it from escaping, startled when Dam—Malford—made a noise, almost like a groan.

  She looked up at him. He had closed his eyes, but opened them again, piercing her with the full force of those magnetic blue circles.

  “What is it about you, Grace?” he said, shocking her with the use of her Christian name. Had he noticed his error? He whirled her into the next turn, deftly maneuvering her around the other dancers.

  “You dance quite well, actually,” she blurted out.

  His body tensed and his eyes cooled, although he didn’t release her.

  “For an uncultured savage, you mean?” he bit out. “It amazes what one can learn watching one’s sisters’ dance instructor, if one puts his mind to it. And they’ve borrowed me often for practice these last few months.” A harsh sound, almost a bark, escaped him. “So you see, wild dogs can learn new tricks.”

  “That’s not at all what I meant. Not in that way, at least. I know you’ve had a different upbringing. But surely you know that is not your fault.” She tilted her head. “To call yourself a savage seems unduly harsh.”

  He gave what she could only term a snort and looked away. “Don’t you know? Don’t you know of me? I thought everyone knew of my story, how my father, my mother, sent me north because I was rotten. Evil to the core.”

  Now it was Grace’s turn to snort. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but your trials and tribulations have perhaps played a larger role in your life than in mine. No, I have not heard much of you before tonight.”

  That wasn’t exactly the truth, given her sisters’ conversation in the carriage. Plus, a week or so past, Emmeline had read something in the daily paper about a duke returned from the dead, who’d grown up in the north, even though his family lived west of London. Grace hadn’t paid attention to the details, however. She’d been immersed in Shakespeare’s sonnets and had tuned out her sister’s incessant prattle, as she often did.

  Malford stared at her, nonplussed. She’d surprised him. Good. Why she took delight in that, she didn’t know. But she did. Likely he was used to being the one to set people off balance.

  “In any case,” she added with a casual wave, “I set no store in gossip. I’d rather hear the truth from the horse’s mouth.”

  He chuckled, an unexpected but pleasant sound. “You’re calling me a horse?”

  Grace’s face burned. “Of course not. You know what I meant.”

  He nodded briefly as the music came to an end. “Indeed, Lady Grace. Too bad. I rather fancied myself a thoroughbred.”

  “Or a stubborn ass.”

  Her hand flew to her lips. She’d said that aloud? How her mother would chastise her; women did not speak so plainly in the company of gentlemen. They certainly ought not to speak so rudely. Before she could utter an apology, Malford threw back his head and laughed, a rich burst of amusement that drew every eye to them again.

  He bowed before her, delight crinkling his eyes. “I appreciate an honest woman,” he said, raising her gloved hand to his lips before pressing a kiss to it. “Thank you for the dance.”

  With that, he strode toward the ballroom entrance, signaling his sisters and calling for his coat.

  Grace watched him go, despite everyone gaping at her. Surely they were wondering how she, the notorious wallflower, had snagged the attention of such a man. And what had she said to make him laugh so?

  She twirled a curl with her finger. Let them wonder. It wasn’t their concern, anyway.

  Chapter Eight

  Blackbourne House, London – April, 1814

  A grin crept onto Damon’s face the next morning as he sat for breakfast at Blackbourne House, the Malford town house in Hanover Square. He buried his head in the papers lest his sisters notice, but they were too busy chatting about the ball to pay much attention to him.

  After his sisters exited the room, his mother approached, dressed from head to toe in severe black, a black that mirrored his own garb—though each wore it for different reasons.

  Despite being in deep mourning, Felicity Blackbourne had insisted on accompanying the family to London. “I shall refuse all social events,” she’d said. “But I want to be there to show my support for Damon as head of this household. As Duke of Malford.”

  She paused now before him. “Damon.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry for what happened yesterday evening with Fillmore. Cassie told me. I did not know he would be present. The l
ast I knew, he was still in Bath. We do not communicate much.”

  Damon gave her a curt nod before turning back to the paper.

  “And I am sorry,” she added, her voice catching, “for all of it. For your father. For not doing better by you. For what you suffered.”

  Did she mean the beatings at his father’s hand? Or his own movements and rages?

  Did it matter? The only reason he hadn’t completely closed himself off to his mother was she had written. Not often, but enough to show she still cared.

  She’d never visited, though. No one had. Blackwood Abbey had long festered as the neglected Malford estate; it was cavernous and run-down and so far north that nobody had wanted to bother with it in years. As it was not a manor on which tenants depended for aid and protection, but rather an old abbey dissolved during the reign of Henry VIII and given to some Malford duke or another, it had languished, attended to by a skeleton staff, for the last two hundred years.

  He nodded stiffly, unsure of what to say. She had made other overtures in the last few months since his return. When he hadn’t responded much one way or the other, she’d shrunk back into herself, taking refuge in her mourning for Silas and Adam. She’d made sure the steward devoted hours to instructing Damon on managing the Malford estates and the details of the dukedom, but had mostly kept to herself.

  Tears filled her eyes and one made its way down her cheek. He reached over and wiped it off with his finger, blue eyes meeting blue. More tears spilled out as she sobbed.

  “I … I wanted to be stronger, Damon. I wanted to keep you here. But a part of me thought maybe it would be better for you away. He wouldn’t … he couldn’t beat you if you weren’t at Thorne Hill, and I had hoped that maybe for you it would be easier, without eyes always on you.”

  Damon swallowed. He’d never thought of it from that angle, that by sending him away, his mother might have actually thought she was helping him. He’d only felt the hurt, the pain, the devastation resulting from the ultimate rejection, that of a child by his parents.

  It was true that once he was in Yorkshire, he’d had a freedom he’d never known before. No one had beaten him. No one had mocked him. If the servants had, it had been behind his back. But frankly, he doubted it. They had all taken to him, delighted to have someone new in their midst. A master.

  Mrs. Hardy, the housekeeper, and her husband, Joseph, who’d served as rather a jack-of-all-trades at the abbey, mending items and caring for the few horses, had taken him under their wing and become his surrogate parents, more loving than any he’d known. Especially his own.

  “I want you to know—I need you to know that I am sorry. So very sorry. I don’t ask that you forgive me, but you need to hear this: I accept you fully, as Duke and as my son. In the few short months since your return, you’ve mastered everything thrown at you, excelling in all aspects. I am proud of you.”

  She swallowed and his throat bobbed likewise, a surge of emotion flooding through him. But before he could respond, she spoke again, her fingers fidgeting with the lace at her sleeve cuffs. “I’m worried, Damon.”

  “About what?”

  “About Fillmore. About what he might do. He was so angry last autumn to hear you were still alive. And that you were coming home. He seemed to think he would become the next duke after the passing of your father and A-Adam.” A sob choked off his brother’s name.

  Damon rose from the table and enfolded her in a brief, awkward embrace. “Rest assured, I do not fear my uncle. Men like him, all bluster and no action, are two a penny.”

  His mother ducked her head as he released her, worry creasing her brow. “I hope so, my son. I hope so.”

  Chapter Nine

  Claremont House, London – April, 1814

  Had it truly been a week since the Rexborough ball? A week since Grace had kissed a man—and not any man, but the Demon Duke himself, Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford?

  Not that he was any sort of demon. She knew better than that. All week long, her sisters had discussed the gossip around him, tidbits they’d gleaned from the papers or from their morning calls. Some said he’d killed a man as a boy and that’s why he’d been banished. Others claimed his mother had cuckolded his father, who couldn’t bear the sight of her bastard son, so he’d sent him away. Far-fetched rumors insisted he turned into a bat at night and stole the souls of young virgins. She had struggled to hold her tongue at such tripe.

  But hold her tongue she had. Her family would take immediate notice if she talked about Malford at all. They’d questioned her enough after the ball. How had she known him? Why had he wanted to dance with her? About what had they conversed?

  She’d simply shrugged, ignoring the first two questions. “We talked of the mundane things everyone speaks about: the London weather, the health of the King, the theater.”

  None of that was true, of course. Thoughts of the duke streamed through her mind at inopportune times, but she had revealed nothing in the days since. Her sisters would mock her mercilessly, given how often she teased them about pining over potential suitors.

  “Do you not know?” her mother had cried the morning after the grand event. “Do you not understand the scandal this could cause? What notion did you take into your head to accept him after refusing all others? You must not do so again. Indeed, no, you must avoid the Duke of Malford at all costs, for your sake as well as the family’s. Think of your reputation. Of our reputation.”

  Grace’s mother had carried on for another several minutes, though Grace had ceased listening.

  She adjusted the bonnet on her head, shaking off remembrances of her mother’s endless chastisements. She took great pleasure in reliving that evening as often as she could in her mind. Surely that was typical behavior for someone who’d experienced such a kiss? She was allowed ruminations, wasn’t she?

  It was a fruitless yearning, however. As exciting and, yes, handsome as the man was, he was not suitable. Of that she was well aware, especially given her mother’s lecture after the ball. Her family would never approve of such a fellow—he was too unknown, too wild, too much of a black sheep.

  Perhaps that’s why you keep thinking about him, silly goose; he’s exactly what you could never have, so it’s easy to let your fancy run free. There’s no possibility of anything becoming real.

  It wasn’t as if her family couldn’t endure scandal. Her eldest sister, Amara, had suffered greatly for her illicit tryst in a garden with an engaged gentleman. But she and the family had weathered the storm, Deveric having done his best to minimize the damage. Then Amara had run off with a sea captain last summer, to everyone’s dismay. Yet the Mattersleys had carried on, though Matilda was quick this time to lay all blame at the absent Amara’s feet, lest her actions taint her sisters’ prospects.

  Had it worked? The only one of her sisters who’d married was Cecilia, a number of years ago, though even the youngest, Rebecca, had been out for two years already. Rebecca, like Grace, professed no rushed desire to marry—but what of Emmeline? She, at least, made no bones about desiring a match.

  “I haven’t found anyone to my liking,” Emmeline had declared with a toss of her head at the end of last Season, but a touch of sadness had lingered in her eyes.

  Both of her sisters had had a steady number of dance partners at the Rexborough ball, however, much to her mother’s visible relief; if gossip still abounded about the Mattersley family, it seemed not to have dimmed the women’s prospects. Not that a dance a marriage proposal made.

  When Grace’s eldest brother had married their distant American cousin Eliza two years ago, there’d also been talk. No one had known of Claremont cousins in America, and Eliza’s mannerisms and way of speaking were considered odd. But with her bright, happy personality, she’d quickly endeared herself to everyone who met her. It hadn’t taken long for Deveric to fall deeply in love with her.

  The match had delighted Grace and her sisters. Deveric had suffered much during and after his first marriage. Their mother, how
ever, had not approved.

  At least at first. Matilda Mattersley may not have accepted the American upstart right away, but they’d reached peace with each other, especially given the changes in Deveric. He was no longer the overly solemn, rigid man he had been. For that Grace was also thankful.

  She missed Eliza. If only the American were here in London. But Eliza hadn’t wanted to subject Isabelle and her older siblings, Frederick and Rose, to the London air or the bitterly cold weather that had enveloped the country.

  Eliza staunchly defended Grace’s love of books and her desire to write, and for that reason and many more, Grace loved her. Eliza was as much a fan of novels as Grace and they often discussed Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, two most excellent works Grace herself had read countless times.

  Eliza had met the author, a Miss Jane Austen, in London some time ago. Although Miss Jane did not wish it widely known she’d penned those works, preferring instead to publish them as being written by “a Lady,” she’d welcomed both Eliza and Grace into her home at Chawton. They’d spent several comfortable afternoons chatting with each other.

  Someday Grace, too, wanted to write novels. Oh, she couldn’t match the wit of Miss Jane Austen, but to put pen to paper, to create characters so intimately familiar and yet so different, to control the happenings and morals of her own tales? Nothing sounded more thrilling.

  “Are you ready?” broke in an eager voice from behind her.

  Grace turned to find Emmeline hopping down the stairs, her cheeks already ruddy despite the fact they hadn’t yet stepped foot outside.

  “I am so excited,” Emmeline continued, without waiting for Grace to answer. “Aren’t you excited? I so love visiting the Egyptian Hall!”

  “Even though you were there just last Season?”

  “Indeed! I am sure there are many new things.” Emmeline’s expression grew dreamy. “Can you imagine? Visiting Egypt? La, everything there is so exotic.”