The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  He stepped back, separating them, his face shuttered. “That is something you have to decide for yourself. Whether the Demon Duke is worth the risk.”

  She jutted out her chin. “It’s not as if we are officially courting. There are no promises between us.”

  He closed the distance between them instantly, leaning his head down so that their lips were mere millimeters apart. No part of them touched.

  “Are there not?” His blue eyes trapped her brown ones. She dared not breathe. “Do you think I have ever pursued another woman the way I have pursued you? Do you think I have come calling on anyone else?” He scoffed. “Given my peculiarities, do you think I’ve ever dared to let anyone in, to share any of my secrets? Do you think I’ve risked that, or would risk that, with anyone else, Grace?”

  She swallowed. “No,” she whispered.

  “Say it again.”

  “No,” she said in a firmer voice.

  He heaved a heavy sigh. “I would like nothing else than to take you in my arms, right here and now, and show you just how much I am courting you.”

  His eyes dropped again to her lips and then lower. “I would kiss you, yes, but I want to do so much more. I want to run my fingers through your hair, that gorgeous mahogany mass. I want to undo the buttons on the back of your dress. Slowly. Very slowly. I want to kiss your spine after every inch revealed. I want to slide my hands in and around your sides, feel the smooth satin of your skin, feel your—”

  She put her hand to his lips, trying to stop him, trying to stop the flood of images and heat his words evoked. He licked her fingers, then pulled one into his mouth, sucking on it ever so lightly. The most curious current of sensation spread through her, down to her core. She gasped.

  He released her finger and stepped back, dazzling her with an absolutely devilish grin. “I do hope you are attending the Smythington ball. I look forward to dancing again with you. And you alone.” Turning, he strode out of the shop without a backward glance, leaving Grace standing, her mouth agape.

  “Lady Grace,” Bess called, hesitancy in her voice. “Are you ready, milady?”

  Had Bess been watching her with Damon? Hopefully if she had, she hadn’t seen anything untoward, with Damon’s back to her, blocking much of the view. But would Bess tell her sisters? Her mother?

  Grace squared her shoulders. As she’d insisted to her mother, she was no longer a child. She needed to stop acting like one. If Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford, wished to court her, the only sound reason for her to refuse him would be if she, not her family, didn’t wish him to.

  Did she wish him to? The purpose of courtship was to secure an engagement. An engagement which led to marriage. Marrying meant giving herself to a man, subjugating herself to his whims and desires. It meant loss of what little independence she had. Didn’t it?

  She’d thought so, until Eliza. Eliza and Deveric proved marriage could be a happy thing, a union of souls, each with their own freedom within the arrangement. A happy ever after not confined to the pages of a novel. But Eliza and Deveric loved each other. Mutual love was what made the difference between a happy marriage and one such as her parents had endured.

  Could Grace love the Duke of Malford? Could he love her?

  She was attracted to him, of that there was no doubt. But attraction was no basis for marriage. And their acquaintance had been of such limited duration, love was not yet part of the equation. It could be, however. Yes, given time to better know each other, time to form a true attachment, she might love Damon Blackbourne.

  She wouldn’t marry for anything less.

  But what of her sisters? As much as she’d like to dismiss her mother’s protestations out of hand, the harsh reality was, reputation mattered. If she were to marry the Duke of Malford, what further damage might it do to the Mattersley name? Or was it sullied enough that they needn’t give it further thought?

  Damon ought not to sully it, however. The Demon Duke, indeed. What rubbish. He was a fine man, a gentleman through and through—more so than many a peer of her acquaintance. People merely needed to see that, to see him in a new and different light. To give him a chance.

  Like the chance they never gave Amara?

  “Milady?” came Bess’s voice again, closer.

  “I am coming,” Grace called.

  How could she explain her length of time there, her dawdling, that she had no book in her hands? She looked to the nearest shelf. Damon had at some point set the Gibbon book on it. She took up the leather-bound volume. She would purchase the set for him and give it to him at the next opportunity. A single woman presenting an eligible man with a gift was unheard of, scandalous, even.

  Maybe her sister Amara wasn’t the only one capable of stirring things up in the Mattersley family.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Smythington Ball, London – Mid-May, 1814

  The following Saturday, Grace sat patiently in front of her dressing table as Bess styled her hair into an elaborate coiffure. Normally, she read as the maid worked, without a care as to what the final result would be. Today, though, she studied herself in the mirror. How did Damon see her? She’d never given her looks much thought before. She wasn’t unattractive, she supposed, but wasn’t as lovely as her sisters, either. How could brown hair and eyes compare to Emmeline’s lovely blonde and green? Or Rebecca’s ebony and bright blue? Grace had always felt the odd one out. Though her eldest sister Amara’s eyes were darker, like hers, they were shot through with a rich hazel green, and honeyed streaks laced Amara’s chestnut hair, streaks Grace’s tresses lacked.

  It was hard to believe her oldest sister was gone. Wherever you are, may it be a happier place, dearest sister. Life had never been the same for Amara since being caught half-naked with an engaged bounder who’d then fled to America.

  The scandal had devastated her mother, who’d vowed to do all she could to protect her daughters from anything like that again. Hence Matilda’s protests about Damon. But how could her mother give credence to Fillmore Blackbourne’s opinions, a disgruntled relative who insisted erroneously he’d been cheated out of a birthright that was never his?

  Bess fussed with attaching a simple string of pearls around Grace’s neck.

  “Do you have the earbobs?” Grace asked.

  The maid went to fetch them, an approving smile spreading across her face. Grace never wore earrings. She’d never seen the need. But tonight she wanted to look special. For Damon. And for herself.

  “Here they be, milady.” Bess helped affix them to her ears. “Do you wish a hint of Pear’s for the cheeks? Perhaps Rose’s lip rouge?”

  Grace nodded. “Why not?”

  Bess applied the cosmetics with a deft touch, so as not to make Grace appear a bird of paradise. Standing back, she let Grace examine herself in the mirror.

  A beautiful young woman stared back at her. The creamy ice blue of her gown enhanced her delicate complexion and made her brown eyes glow with rich warmth. Its bodice was lower than any she’d ever worn, her breasts rounding out of the top in a way her mother would no doubt disapprove of. The dress itself was quite simple in style, but the blue had been overlaid with a sheer fabric woven with silver thread throughout. When she moved in the candlelight, the dress sparkled.

  “Oh, milady, you shall be the belle of the ball! A true diamond of the first water.”

  Grace touched her neck self-consciously, smoothing a curl there. “I rather doubt that. But thank you, Bess. I appreciate your efforts.”

  Bess flushed and bobbed a curtsy. “Here is your wrap.” She settled a sapphire blue shawl over Grace’s bare shoulders before exiting the room.

  Grace gave herself one more look before heading to meet her sisters. Giddy butterflies flitted about her stomach, and for the first time, she understood what the fuss was all about.

  They arrived more than fashionably late. Emmeline had taken longer than usual to complete her toilette, and then a carriage accident had stalled them in the streets. The collision brought
to mind Damon’s father and brother, robbing Grace of some of the joy and anticipation of the evening. How she wished she could lay into the previous Duke of Malford for having treated a child that way, especially his own son.

  Then again, were it not for the deaths of his father and brother, she and Damon would never have met. He would still be roaming the moors of Yorkshire, and she’d be trapped in this hopeless cycle of Season events, but without the pleasure Damon Blackbourne had brought to them. Guilt picked at her over her momentary spot of gratitude for the Blackbourne family’s misfortune, but she brushed it away. Silas Blackbourne did not deserve her pity, not when he’d so misused his second born.

  The crush was thick when they entered. Emmeline and Rebecca disappeared into the crowd, leaving Grace standing with her friend, Miss Gwendolyn DeSeese, who’d come to town last week.

  “You look fetching tonight, dearest friend,” Gwen said. “Do you perhaps have your eye on a certain someone?”

  Grace’s skin betrayed her by flushing even as she deflected the question. “Unlike you, I have never been the type to seek a full dance card. With whom do you most hope to dance this evening?”

  “I would not mind if Lord Emerlin were to ask me. I met him this week at a dinner party. He has eyes to dream of. And have you seen that dimple when he smiles?” She sighed. “But alas, he is a marquess. Far out of the reach of someone like me, even if I weren’t already firmly on the shelf.”

  Grace batted Gwen’s arm. “You are hardly on the shelf, silly goose. You are scarcely two years my elder. And you outshine many a younger woman here. Enough to capture any man’s attention, marquess or not. Though I do believe he might have his eye on a particular lady already. I hope that shall not leave you too brokenhearted.”

  A pout soured Gwen’s face. “He does? Who? Oh, never mind. Don’t tell me. I do not want to know.”

  “And I shan’t tell you, as I am not quite sure. It is merely a suspicion.”

  Gwen tapped her fan to her chin. “Then it must be someone of your close acquaintance, to raise such a suspicion. Unless … ” She gasped and whirled toward Grace. “Are you saying you?”

  “Heavens, no.” She only had eyes—and feelings—for one black-haired, blue-eyed man. And Lord Emerlin, as kind as he was, was not him.

  A man of rather hefty stature but pleasing features approached the women and cleared his throat nervously before bowing. “Miss DeSeese, might I? I mean, would you? Dance with me, I mean?”

  Gwen hesitated. “I should be delighted, Mr. Foote, but I cannot abandon my friend.”

  “Nonsense! I am well enough here; please go ahead.”

  Gwen’s briefest of frowns told Grace she’d guessed wrongly. Her friend truly hadn’t wanted to dance with this gentleman, but Gwen gave the man a kind smile and set her small hand in his. Grace had always liked that about her; her friend had the kindest heart and would never slight anybody, no matter their position in society.

  Grace stood at the perimeter of the room as men and women glided by each other on the dance floor. Having partnered twice with Damon, she understood now: dancing was the art of flirtation. Partners approached each other and then parted. At times they touched—fingers to fingers, or arms to arms—then parted again. Eye contact dominated most of the ritual, but occasionally they neared each other enough to speak a few words before they had to move again, circling among the other dancers until they could return to the person whose company they most sought.

  At least that’s how it seemed between those couples smitten with one another. Others worked to impress the crowd more than their partner or executed the steps as part of the routine, without any emotion invested. She had always been among the latter. Tonight, if she were to dance again with Damon, she’d be fully in the first group, craving the nearness, wanting to touch in one of the few ways permissible in society.

  Where was he? She scanned the crush near the entrance, hoping to catch sight of him. He’d said he’d be here. After a few minutes, the music changed and a new dance began, an English country reel. A young gentleman neared her, but Grace gave a subtle shake of her head, and he moved off. She herself edged behind a large potted plant; the dancers remained visible through the leaves, but it gave her a bit of respite from the crowd.

  Gwen had not returned; she was, in fact, dancing with James Bradley, Duke of Arthington. Not Gwen’s original choice of peer, perhaps—Emerlin was dancing with Rebecca—but something in their expressions suggested potential attraction. Grace watched them a moment longer before a voice broke in from her side.

  “You look exquisite.”

  Goose bumps erupted as the deep timbre of his voice echoed in her ear. He was close, too close for propriety, though the plant shielded them somewhat from view. She turned and gave him her best smile.

  “Is it possible you attired yourself thusly in hopes of attracting a suitor?”

  She rolled her eyes. Fiddlesticks. Had she ruined the moment?

  He chuckled.

  “My mother would certainly hope so,” she said.

  “As long as it’s not me.”

  She grimaced.

  His lips curled into a sardonic smirk. “I hold no illusions of how I am viewed in society, Grace. I am tolerated, but barely, mostly for the sake of my title, but also because of my sisters, who’ve managed, in spite of me, to maintain excellent reputations. From what I hear, they are quite witty and often sought out for parties.”

  He took a step back and made a show of admiring her dress. “Really quite beautiful. Might the lady be willing to wear a favor, a token, as the ladies of yore did for their champion knights?”

  He pulled out a small brooch from a pocket in his ebony waistcoat, a delicate flower of sapphire with a diamond at its center.

  Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I couldn’t. You know I can’t. That is much too bold. And costly.”

  He grinned, that wolfish grin that rendered him far too alluring. “Would it help for you to know it isn’t new? It belonged to my grandmother. And consider it a loan, if you must.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she took the pin and tucked it inside her bodice. She couldn’t wear it openly; a man giving an unmarried woman a gift was highly improper. Well, who had to know? With Damon in front of her, his back to the dancers, and the plant to her side, she was pretty certain no one had noticed. She glanced down to ensure the piece was hidden.

  “Never before have I been jealous of a piece of jewelry. But I may start now.”

  Grace laughed. The man was incorrigible.

  “I do hope you have saved me a dance or two. Or all of them.”

  The power of his presence, of his focused attention overwhelmed her. How was it someone like her had managed to attract the notice of someone like him? He was so large, so masculine, so utterly, devastatingly handsome. And the way he made her insides feel! Memories of the kisses they’d shared spread a warm glow through her limbs.

  “Perhaps one, Your Grace.” From where had that sultry, teasing voice come?

  He gave a little bow. “I may be Your Grace to everyone else, but you are my Grace. I would hope you would call me Damon.”

  “Yes. Damon.”

  “Damon, excuse me!” Damon’s sister Cassie approached. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I cannot find Sephe. I am concerned that she wandered off with Lord DuBois.”

  “That man is a rogue of the worst sort,” Grace said. “He tried to foist himself on me at the Trahorn’s dinner a few weeks ago.”

  Damon scowled, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Excuse me, Grace,” he said, his voice calm, though his eyes were not. “I must find her. If you could wait here for a few minutes.”

  “Certainly.”

  He gave a crisp nod before walking off with his sister.

  After ten minutes or so, the heat from the numerous bodies began to get to Grace. She needed to step outside to garner some fresh air, but her sisters were busy dancing and her mother nowhere to be seen. Surely a moment alone on the ter
race but in full sight of the ballroom would not be a problem. Damon would no doubt return any moment.

  Grace threaded her way through the congested room, grateful once she reached the French doors. She waved briefly to Rebecca, who passed her on the arm of Lord Emerlin. A second dance this early in the evening? Grace’s mouth tipped up, her suspicions confirmed.

  Once outside, she drew in several breaths, appreciating the gentle May breeze. Several couples strolled or conversed at various places on the terrace, but she made sure to avoid contact, wanting to allow them privacy.

  Something caught the corner of her eye. Or someone, rather. A tall man garbed in black stood a short distance from her. Damon. What other man wore all black? It had to be him. Why was he standing in such a poorly lit area?

  Without giving it a thought, she raced to him. But as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, shock raised the hair on her skin. It was not Damon. This man was of similar height and frame, with black hair, but his eyes were all wrong. They were black. And sinister. Fear raced up her spine, and she whirled to go. The man’s arm snaked out and caught her around the waist, pulling her against him as his other hand clasped her mouth, keeping her from making a sound.

  “That’s right, lady. You keep quiet an’ I won’ be hurtin’ ya.” He started to back them both out of the dim light, into the gardens.

  Grace’s panic rose. Where was this man taking her? Did he intend to harm her? What should she do? Her hands flew up and she pulled at his arm clutched about her midsection. He moved it higher, clamping it over her chest.

  Damon’s brooch pressed painfully against her breast before suddenly springing from the garment. The man paid it no attention.

  Mortified this stranger was touching her in such an intimate way, she tried to open her mouth to bite his hand.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” the man hissed, yanking harder against her. Her teeth bit into her cheeks before both his arms suddenly loosened, sliding up to her throat, grasping firmly. She wanted to scream, to beg for help, but as his fingers pressed into either side of her neck, her mind spun and everything went dark.