The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  “You are right. The problem is, I can’t explain it.”

  She crossed her arms and gave an actual harrumph, much like a child angry at not getting her way.

  Damon snickered. “You look adorable.”

  Grace glared at him, challenge in her eyes.

  “I can’t explain it,” he said, “because I don’t understand it myself. I am drawn to you, there’s no denying that. But I don’t know why.”

  Silence filled the barouche, the only sound that of the horses’ feet clopping.

  “You do know how to flatter a woman.” Grace’s mouth pinched into a wry grimace.

  “That’s not—what I mean is, I’ve spent most of my life alone. I am not accustomed to dealing with people on a daily basis, much less those raised among the rigid strictures of the ton. I’m adjusting as much as I can, having been with my family for a few months and now having to circulate here in London. But I don’t enjoy it. I feel uncomfortable at nearly all times. Vulnerable.”

  Grace’s eyes widened at his confession. She likely hadn’t expected him to speak so directly after his previous hedging.

  “I have struggled with body movements for much of my life.” He studied the carriage floor as he spoke those words. He didn’t want to see her face, even though she’d already seen his movements for herself. If her expression turned to revulsion once he acknowledged the tics … but she said nothing, so he pressed on before he could stop himself.

  “They were much worse when I was a child. The movements—the ticcing—came almost all the time then.” He ran his fingers through his hair, seeking the strength to continue. “I learned over time that if I ran, if I pushed my body hard, they sometimes eased. Anger and fear exacerbate them.”

  Grace laid a hand on his arm, and he turned to her, every muscle in his body rigid. Her chocolate eyes met his. In them lay no judgment, merely sympathy. Was that worse?

  When she didn’t say anything, he went on. “As I got older, the movements mostly stopped. I don’t know how or why. I thought perhaps I had learned to control them. But, as you saw, when I am provoked, they can reappear.”

  The whinny of a passing horse distracted him momentarily. He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  Grace’s soft voice wafted to his ears. “I am honored you feel comfortable sharing such an intimate detail with me, Your Grace. Damon,” she said. “But I still don’t understand why.”

  “Why? My father said it was because I was possessed by the devil, that I was evil, that no person moved in such unnatural ways. He did his best to beat the demons out of me.” A harsh sound erupted from his throat, halfway between a laugh and a groan. “It didn’t work.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Grace said. “I meant I don’t understand why me.” She ducked her head, her fingers fidgeting with a button on her sleeve. “I am not the kind of woman who turns heads. Nor do I wish to be, truth be told. I am happiest when reading or writing. People often make me uncomfortable. So when you say you are drawn to me, I struggle to understand why.”

  He leaned toward her, tipping her chin up with his finger until their eyes met. “You turn mine. All those other men are idiots if they don’t see it.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “I admit, when I first saw you, I thought you a quiet mouse. But you are no mouse. You are a lion tamer.” He stroked his fingers along her cheek, reveling in the softness of her skin. Not bothering to check if anyone might be watching, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, once, twice, before moving back. “And I am starting to suspect I am the lion.”

  “A panther.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A panther is how I saw you the night you burst into the library. Dressed all in black, sleek and sinewy, with barely leashed energy and power.”

  “Sinewy? Is that a word a proper young English miss should use to describe a man?”

  Grace grinned, her cheek creasing with a charming dimple. “I am learning, sir,” she said, “that I am far less proper than I myself had suspected.”

  He laughed, a full-blown laugh of the kind he hadn’t enjoyed in some time. “You do surprise me, Lady Grace Mattersley. And therein lies your answer.”

  “My answer?”

  “As to what draws me back. It is exactly that; you surprise me. I may not have grown up in the midst of this society, but few things that people do truly surprise me. I find human behavior fairly predictable. But you? I’m never quite sure what you are going to say or do next.”

  “Do you mean like this?” She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. Upon sitting back, she winked—winked—at him.

  Instead of answering, he drew in close again, clasping her head between his hands before he swooped in, his lips claiming hers in an explosion of need. She gasped, then wound her own hands up through his hair, her lips opening under his as they moved together.

  She tasted like sugar. No, smoother, like honey. Like the sweetest dessert he’d ever known. He couldn’t get enough. He groaned as she moved a hand to the back of his neck, holding him close to her. He nibbled at her lip and she responded in kind, their breath mingling as need shot through to the heart of him.

  “I do say!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hyde Park, London – Early May, 1814

  Grace and Damon sprang back from each other. She looked to the source of the voice outside the carriage, exhaling in relief. Her brother’s friend, the Duke of Arthington, rode next to them on a fine thoroughbred.

  He tipped his hat. “Not that I blame you, Malford, but might I advise a bit of discretion? Gossipmongers lie in wait everywhere, hoping for just such a happening as that. Luckily for you, perhaps, it is not quite the fashionable hour, and so only I have witnessed—”

  He flashed Grace that snaggle-toothed grin. “That is, I witnessed nothing beyond a chaperoned young lady out for a pleasant ride.”

  He kicked his heels into his horse’s side, touching his fingers to his hat before riding on ahead of them.

  Grace spun toward Damon, whose stiff shoulders hinted at regret. No! He would not pull away now! Before he could say anything, she put a finger on his lips. “Don’t you dare apologize. Apologizing takes away from the experience, and I shall treasure that kiss. Always.”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I admit, I like your plain-spoken ways. It’s rare a woman would confess to enjoying such a thing, is it not?”

  “It is? Wherever did you hear that? My older sister and my new sister-in-law have both waxed profusely about the delight they take in kissing their husbands.” And in doing more than kissing, not that she would reveal that to a gentleman.

  “Indeed?” He arched an eyebrow. “One might question the company you keep.”

  She elbowed him, though without any real force.

  After a few moments of companionable silence, she said, “I suppose we ought to turn back now. My sisters must be wondering to where we have disappeared.”

  “Likely they haven’t given us a second thought, but if you wish to return home.” He signaled to the driver.

  “I don’t. I would keep on riding right out of town if I could.” Oh, how true. How she longed to escape the confines of London, though then she could not spend more time with this man, so refreshingly different than others of her acquaintance. Unless he came with her…

  He pushed a piece of hair behind her ear. “Tell me of your life. I want to know what it was like to grow up normal.”

  “Again, sir, I am not sure I qualify as normal. But if you insist.” She spoke to him of Clarehaven, of her love for reading. Of her siblings.

  “I wish I’d had the opportunity to know my siblings,” he said.

  “I love my sisters and brothers, and they me. I cannot imagine life without them, especially being ripped away from them. I am so sorry, Damon.” She paused. “Though I’ve never felt quite in step with them, either. I don’t want the things young ladies are supposed to want, don’t enjoy the things young ladies are supposed to enjoy.”

  “I
could say the same of me.”

  “You don’t enjoy needlepoint and harp playing and practicing perfect posture?”

  He laughed, a full-bellied sound. The minutes flew by as he shared his own experiences, first at Thorne Hill and then in Yorkshire. When he talked of the vast library at Blackwood Abbey, Grace’s heart pounded.

  “Oh, how I would love to see it! I am already green with envy. All of those books in one place, ripe for the reading.”

  “You would travel to Yorkshire for the sake of a private library when there are numerous ones here in London?”

  She cocked her head. “Yes, I believe I would. Blackwood Abbey sounds absolutely heavenly. The lake, the forest. The old, crumbling buildings. It seems the perfect setting for a Gothic novel and a bit like Clarehaven. Minus the crumbling, perhaps.”

  He chuckled. “Have you ever traveled north?”

  “No. We have no relatives there, only to the west. And as a lady cannot travel on her own, I have had no opportunity. The farthest north I have ever been is Birmingham.”

  “A shame. There is a beauty in the isolation, the sweeping moors. Not that all of northern England is deserted. York is a thriving town.”

  “Did you get to York often, then? I thought you said the abbey was some twenty miles removed?”

  “Occasionally. To seek new books or … companionship.” He broke off, pulling at his cravat.

  To what kind of companionship did he refer? Perhaps she was better off not knowing. A lady didn’t ask such things.

  “It sounds like you miss it.” Her brown eyes shone with sympathy. “I miss Clarehaven, too. It is so much more soothing to the spirit than the loud, dirty bustle of London.”

  “I agree.”

  “When the Season is over, will you return to the abbey? Or must you now stay at Thorne Hill?”

  “My mother would like for me to reside with the family. But Thorne Hill holds many unpleasant memories for me.”

  Grace touched a hand to his arm. “I am sorry for the loss of your father and brother. That must be so difficult. I lost my father years ago, but my sister Amara ...” She grew quiet. “Amara disappeared only last summer.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “She eloped with a sea captain. The gossips had their way with that, to be sure. Though as we’ve heard nothing, not a single letter, I fear them drowned.” Grace fingered the edge of her pelisse, pulling it closer around her, though the air was pleasantly warm. “I guess that is something we have in common, then. Scandal. And loss.”

  Damon longed to pull her into his embrace, to have soothed the pain in her eyes as she’d talked of her sister, but he heeded Arthington’s warning. The path had indeed grown more congested as they neared the park entrance again.

  “I do not mourn my father,” he said. “He was a horrible man. If anyone were the devil, it was him.” The words were low, gruff. “And yet, I have always wondered. I know of no one else who shares my affliction. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I would have been better served in Bedlam.”

  Grace gasped. “Surely you don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t know what to believe. I would like to think that I am no monster, that my father was wrong, and yet sometimes, Grace, my temper rears its head so fiercely that I scarce know what is happening. And as you know, I am not cured.” His jaw clenched, aching with the longing to be a normal man, one who could pursue a lady such as Grace Mattersley without guilt or reservation.

  “Perhaps there is no cure. Perhaps there needn’t be. Many a man has a temper. My father did. Yet I’ve seen how gentle you’ve been with me, even when you had opportunities not to be. Even when you were pushed beyond your limits, as you said.”

  Lady Rebecca waved to them as they approached, Lady Emmeline at her side, still engrossed in conversation with two female companions. He nodded in return, his whole insides protesting that his time alone with Grace was ending.

  “This has been a most peculiar conversation,” he said. “We do not seem to observe the formalities, the politeness in topics, do we?”

  She gave him one of those beautifully wide smiles. “No, indeed, sir. And for that I am most grateful.”

  Rebecca raced to the side of the carriage, her hand clutching her bonnet to her head. “My goodness, you have been absent for nearly three-quarters of an hour.”

  Grace sucked in a breath. Had it truly been so long? Would others comment?

  But Becca continued as if their lengthy absence were nothing of import. “We have had the most delightful time,” she exclaimed. “The Duke of Arthington stopped and let me examine his horse. We even discussed the best way to cure mallenders. He says he shall tell his stable master of the ointment I recommended.”

  Emmeline approached at a more leisurely pace, clearly loath to leave the company of her friends. As she followed Rebecca into the barouche, she said, “I do hope you and His Grace enjoyed your time alone, sister.”

  Grace’s cheeks blistered, and from the heat rushing to his face, even his must have taken on a slight glow. Had Arthington said something? Surely not; he’d been riding in the opposite direction after their encounter.

  Emmeline arched an eyebrow in silent question, but pressed no further as they made their way to Claremont House.

  Upon arrival, Damon helped each sister from the carriage, his hand lingering on Grace’s waist longer than strictly proper. He’d enjoyed himself immensely. How much lighter his soul was now that he had shared about his affliction with Grace.

  His lips thinned into a line. Suppose once inside, she reconsidered and decided she no longer wished to associate with someone such as him? Suppose she had played along in the carriage and was only waiting until she could make her escape?

  He flexed his hands, clenching and unclenching them. No. Thoughts such as those had bedeviled him his entire life. He wasn’t going to give in to them now.

  “It was a pleasure,” he said to Grace, soaking in the beauty of her dainty features.

  “My pleasure, indeed,” she replied. “I hope to see you again soon, Your Grace.” She curtsied before him, then flashed him a rather impudent grin.

  He gave her a formal bow, watching until she disappeared into Claremont House before climbing back into the barouche.

  Soon couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Claremont House, London – Early May, 1814

  “Where have you been?” Matilda Mattersley, Dowager Duchess of Claremont, stalked her way toward her three daughters, a scowl on her face.

  “We were riding with the Duke of Malford, Mama,” Emmeline offered.

  Matilda’s scowl deepened. “Why did you not confer with me before setting out with such a character?”

  Grace stuck out her chin, anger rising. “What do you mean, with such a character?”

  Matilda stacked her hands on her hips. “You know exactly what I mean. We have discussed this before. The Duke of Malford is at best an unknown, at worst a danger. He returns after having been presumed dead for years, without explanation? From Yorkshire? What could he have done to have been exiled for so long to Yorkshire?”

  A shiver went through Matilda at the mention of Yorkshire. To her mother, it might as well have been the bowels of Hell.

  “And his mannerisms!” Matilda went on. “Dressing all in black—”

  “—He is in mourning, Mother,” Rebecca put in.

  “—Engaging in a public dispute with his uncle—his highly respectable uncle, I might add—keeping to himself. And wearing skulls. Skulls!”

  “It is mourning jewelry,” Emmeline said. “I have seen the like.”

  “Ach, be gone with you!” Matilda waved toward them, and all three women turned to ascend the stairs.

  Thank goodness for the dismissal. With Grace’s blood boiling this much, she’d start a row with her mother if she remained.

  “Not you, Grace,” the dowager called as Grace made to leave the room. “Attend me in the parlor.”

  Grace wanted nothing
more than to ignore the order, for that’s what it was, but followed after her mother dutifully, a lifetime of training too hard to ignore. Once they had entered the parlor, Matilda shut the door behind her and then whirled on her daughter.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she bellowed, smacking her lips as she gestured toward Grace.

  “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, you don’t? Lady Gilderspoon was here not less than twenty minutes ago, having just returned from a drive through the park. Do you know what she told me?”

  Grace’s stomach flipped, and she pressed a hand to it to steady herself. Surely that old bat hadn’t witnessed the kisses she’d exchanged with Damon, had she?

  “I knew it! You know exactly to what I am referring! She saw you with your hand on Malford’s arm!”

  Grace’s shoulders relaxed. Thank God, that was all. Thank God.

  “He is not suitable for you, Grace,” her mother went on.

  Fire raced up Grace’s spine. “Why ever not?” she demanded. “You yourself have wanted me to marry for some time, to a man of appropriate station. I could hardly do better than a duke, now could I?”

  Matilda’s mouth dropped. “Tell me there has been no discussion of a betrothal.”

  “Of course not, Mother,” Grace snapped. “I have only known the man a very short time.”

  Matilda drew up her shoulders. “You may not speak to me thusly, Grace Lavinia Mattersley! A child respects their elders.”

  “I am sorry, Mother. But I am also no longer a child. Besides, did you not feel the same way about Eliza when she first appeared in our lives? You were determined she would never marry Deveric, and now look at you, besotted by your grandchildren and quite warm with Eliza herself.”