The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  Grace looked down at her own lean frame. She rather envied Eliza’s curvier figure, truth be told, whereas Eliza often bemoaned her own proportions, stating on more than one occasion she wished for Grace’s willowiness. Did women always want what they didn’t have?

  “Too many more of these and Dev is never going to look at me again. I haven’t even lost the baby weight, and here I am, stuffing my face.”

  Grace snorted. “I cannot foresee any circumstances in which my brother would not be totally besotted with you, Eliza. The rest of us, either. Clarehaven hasn’t been the same since you arrived, and for that, I am eternally grateful.”

  It was hard to remember Deveric as he had once been: stoic, reserved, dedicated to duty but keeping people, including his own son, at arm’s length. He’d lost his first wife and infant daughter in childbirth, and his guilt over their deaths had nearly consumed him. Until Eliza. He’d fallen madly in love with her and the American had turned him around one hundred percent.

  No wonder. Eliza’s exuberant personality and sparkly wit, her entrancement with everything she saw, everything she experienced, as if it were all new to her, endeared her to all. Oh, to approach life with such curiosity and zest!

  It was Eliza, actually, who’d most encouraged Grace to write.

  “Mark my words,” she’d said. “Women writers are going to become more and more well-known. I have no doubt that authors such as Mary Wollenstonecraft, Fannie Burney, Ann Radcliffe, and Jane Austen will be remembered for generations to come. Your name could be among them!”

  It had been some time since their last visit to Chawton for tea with the Misses Austen, however. Since the autumn before last, in fact. When Deveric had learned Eliza was with child, he’d practically forbidden her to breathe, much less travel, so terrified was he of losing the baby and his wife with it. Eliza had grumbled but mostly acquiesced.

  “Though I don’t bow to all his demands, that one was a small price to pay for Dev’s peace of mind,” she’d said recently. “Besides, it gave me lots of time to spend with Frederick and Pirate.”

  Frederick was Deveric’s son, and Pirate the one-eyed puppy he’d adopted shortly after Eliza had come to Clarehaven. The boy and the dog were inseparable, and the same was now true for her nephew and his father, too. Eliza was to credit for that, the reconciliation between father and son. They owed her so much.

  Grace sipped the chocolate, its liquid deliciousness coating her parched throat. She was tired—exhausted, in truth—but she didn’t wish to be rude to her sister-in-law, especially considering Eliza was choosing to spend time with her, rather than Deveric or her own children.

  “Thank you, Eliza.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting Deveric come when baby Isabelle is so new and you wanted him here.”

  “Are you joking? You’re his sister. You’re my sister. We’d do anything for you.”

  Grace’s eyes welled up.

  “Oh! I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

  “No, no. It’s fine. I’m merely tired.”

  Eliza hopped up from her chair. “Absolutely right. How silly of me to keep you here after all you’ve been through. You go up to bed. We’ll talk again in the morning. Just know I’m here if you need anything.”

  Grace stood up, cup in her hand. “Thank you.” With a grateful nod, she headed to her chamber and hopefully for blessed sleep, where she could forget everything that had happened over the last two days. At least for a little while.

  What I need is love like you have found, dearest Eliza. Or the ability to forget Damon Blackbourne existed. For the Duke of Malford had seeped into her soul, and she feared no exorcism was strong enough to ever remove him.

  But half measures were not enough. A marriage of convenience, of distance, was no marriage. She wanted all of him, or nothing at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Clarehaven, Hampshire, England – Mid-May, 1814

  Grace woke late the next morning. Bright sunshine streamed through the window, but she had no clue as to the hour. She sat for a moment in the familiarity of her old chamber. How different everything felt from the last time she’d been here. Now she had met a man, the first man who’d made her insides flit about like feathers in the wind. Not only that, she’d spoken with him at length on a number of topics. Including her beloved books. She’d kissed him. She’d fallen in love with him. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d refused him.

  She pulled the covers over her head, burrowing into their warmth. Should she have said yes? Maybe he could learn to love her, to forge a true partnership. But she couldn’t predicate her life on a maybe. Her mother had done so in the hope her husband would come back to her, would love only her. Look where she ended up. The fairy tale had never come true. Grace refused to find herself in the same position, in love with a husband who never returned the feeling.

  But he did care for her. Valued her. He’d made that clear. Was it possible he loved her and didn’t know it? It wasn’t as if he’d had many examples of love in his life. Rejected by his father, torn from his mother, living the greater half of his life essentially alone—What man could know love from that?

  She groaned. Her mother, her sisters, even her brother would no doubt lament her turning Damon down. At least now, after recent events. Her mother may not be fond of Damon Blackbourne, but she was even less fond of scandal, and another slur on the family name might be too much for her mother to bear.

  A knock came at the door. Daisy poked her head in. “Milady?”

  Grace yawned. “I’m here.”

  “My apologies, milady. The Duchess wanted me to ensure you were all right.”

  “Yes, fine. Why?”

  “You’ve been sleeping for nearly fourteen hours.”

  At that, Grace sat up bed. “I have?”

  Daisy bobbed her head. “I am sorry for waking you. Lady Eliza would like you to know she is in the nursery, should you want to visit today.”

  Grace rubbed her eyes. That was Eliza’s way of saying she wished to continue their conversation from yesterday evening. Grace would much rather escape to the library for some much-needed solitude, but she didn’t wish to hurt her sister-in-law’s feelings. “Thank you.”

  Daisy helped her dress—a plain, unfussy morning gown that did nothing to accentuate any of her positive aspects, but she didn’t care. She needed to feel comfortable with herself again.

  Reluctantly, she made her way to the nursery. What was Damon doing? Was he still here? Would she run into him? Or would he have chosen to return to Thorne Hill—or London, to rejoin his sisters? Doubtful. In spite of her refusal, he’d insisted they weren’t finished. He would not have left.

  A tingle ran up her spine at the image of Damon as a black panther, pursuing his prey, prowling around her with that hypnotic gaze, waiting to pounce. She pressed her hand to her belly as she walked. The idea of being captured by Damon Blackbourne wasn’t unpleasant. To the contrary. But if he takes you, he will devour you. Consume you. And unless he loves you, you will find yourself spit out, unwhole.

  That was the kind of love she wanted, the kind that might bring Damon to declare, as Fitzwilliam Darcy had, “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

  She sighed, pausing outside of the nursery door. Behind it, children giggled and Eliza’s happy voice murmured. That was the kind of marriage Grace wanted, if she were to have one at all: a marriage built on love and respect. Not one cobbled together out of scandal and potential usefulness.

  Taking in a breath, she pushed open the door. Thoughts of Damon would have to wait; now she needed to spend time in the company of her delightful nieces and nephew.

  “Gway!” cried Rose, a charming, chubby little thing. Nearly two, she was quite precocious with an advanced vocabulary—when one could make out what she was trying to say. She ran over from her mother and threw her arms around her aunt’s legs, ca
using Grace to stumble, but not before she laughed at her niece’s exuberance.

  “Rose, one ought not to bowl over their elders,” spoke a rather serious voice from behind Eliza. Frederick, Deveric’s eight-year-old son from his first marriage, poked his head around Eliza’s side. “It isn’t done.”

  “It isn’t?” Eliza said. She carefully lay baby Isabelle in the cradle, then scooped Frederick up in a big bear hug, tickling his sides. “Is this done, then?”

  The boy whooped with delight. Eliza held him a moment longer before letting him go. He stood up and smoothed out his clothing, but gave his stepmother a mischievous grin.

  “Eight years old and he already thinks he’s in charge,” she said to Grace.

  “I can see that. He is the spitting image of my brother.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is.”

  Grace settled herself on the floor, Rose clambering onto her lap.

  “How are you?” Eliza asked.

  “I am well. Much refreshed. My apologies for oversleeping.”

  “Oversleeping? Don’t be silly. You needed the rest after that ordeal.” Casting her eyes toward her son, Eliza said, “Freddy, why don’t you take Rose to see the new puppies? Mr. Sayers said it would be all right today for a short while. Take Nurse Pritchett with you.”

  “Yes, Mama,” he replied in a dutiful voice, but his eagerness showed in his racing to grab Rose’s hand.

  “Bye Gway,” Rose called, waving her other chubby hand as they exited the room.

  Isabelle fussed in the crib, and Eliza scooped her back up. “Will it bother you if I nurse her?”

  “Not at all,” Grace said.

  “Plus, in here we have privacy; I doubt the men will wish to disturb us.” After she settled the baby to her breast, she reached over and clutched Grace’s hand, giving it a light squeeze.

  “So, tell me about this Damon Blackbourne. This Malford.”

  Grace bit her lip as blood rushed to her cheeks. “There’s, um, not much to tell.”

  Eliza hooted. “Given the color of your face, I doubt that to be true. Also, this Fillmore scoundrel would not have taken you if he thought you’d meant nothing to Malford. Right?”

  Grace fingered the lace at the edge of her sleeve, unsure how to respond.

  “So, did you kiss him yet?”

  At the unexpected question, Grace started, nearly falling backward.

  “Aha! So you have! Tell me, is he as good a kisser as he looks? A man like that, all lights and darks, all sensuality and shadows?” It was Eliza’s turn to flush. “Not that I am looking in that way,” she amended. “You know I only have eyes for Deveric.”

  Grace laughed. “We all know that.”

  “But you have to admit, Malford is something. Quite the brooding Adonis. If Adonis were dark, like Hades. I want details. Tell me all about your duke.”

  “He is not my duke.”

  Eliza’s eyebrows rose. “Do you usually go around kissing gentlemen? Do gentlemen usually race after you in the dead of night to rescue you from a precarious situation? No? Well, then. I would say he was yours.”

  “I rescued myself,” Grace muttered. “In a manner.”

  “Yes, I heard you were the one to conk Fillmore over the head with a fireplace poker. How perfectly Gothic.”

  “Conk?”

  “Sorry. Another American word. But stop trying to get me off of the subject. Did you enjoy kissing Malford?”

  Grace closed her eyes. “Most definitely,” she admitted.

  Eliza squealed, which caused Isabelle to stir. “Sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered before turning back to Grace. “So what’s next?”

  “He has asked me to marry him.” The shocked expression on Eliza’s face was comical. “But do not make too much of that; it is only because I am now the object of scandal, and he seeks to absolve my reputation.”

  Eliza’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure of that?”

  “Quite sure. He told me such. Offered a marriage in name only. He said he owed me that much for what his uncle put me through. He said I would undoubtedly make a good wife, having been trained as I have. I could help him as he learns the ins and outs of society, having been away from it so long himself.”

  Eliza’s jaw dropped. “He said that? In a marriage proposal?”

  Grace nodded glumly.

  “Well, I can see why you refused him. But lousy proposal aside, how do you feel about him?”

  Tears flooded Grace’s eyes. “I love him. With all my heart.”

  Eliza nearly dropped the baby. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I wish it weren’t so.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because … because he doesn’t return the sentiment. Because I thought I’d never find someone who would interest me, someone who had depth and character, who had concern for more than merely societal niceties and proper form. Someone who wanted to do more, be more.” She paused for a moment, considering. “He has been dealt much misfortune in his life, Eliza. He has struggled with things most of us have never had to face.”

  Should she tell Eliza of Damon’s tics, of the reason for the battles? No. It wasn’t her secret to tell. She wouldn’t dishonor him by doing so. “And he has persevered. Did you know he read the entire library of the abbey in which he grew up? Hundreds of books, Eliza. And he’s read them all. Because he wanted to educate himself!”

  Eliza chuckled. “Books, you say? I see why you fell madly in love. But Grace, my dear, why do you believe he’s not in love with you? His actions to me do not suggest a man who feels any other way.”

  “He has never said as much, never even hinted.”

  “Actions speak louder than words. Could he be afraid? From what you have told me, it does not sound as if he has had much acceptance in his life, much less love. It would be quite risky, especially for a man, a proud man, to express feelings he fears might not be returned. No wonder he offered you a marriage of convenience; it was a way of doing right without risking a greater rejection.”

  Grace stilled. She had thought the very same thing only an hour ago. Did Damon love her but was too scared to admit it?

  Or was she the one frightened? If she accepted his offer, even without professing her love for him, her life trajectory would change. Instead of the spinster aunt, living out her days at Clarehaven, writing stories, she’d be a duchess. Duchesses held a huge amount of responsibility in the home, in the management of estates, and in society. Could she handle that? Did she want to?

  If she did marry, she’d thought she’d be happiest the wife of a gentleman of lower rank, perhaps a member of the gentry. Were there not fewer obligations and restrictions for those not of the peerage?

  But Damon hadn’t wanted the dukedom either. It’d been thrust upon him by the family that had rejected him, and rather than abdicate his responsibilities, he had taken them up. Given his tics, his solitary tendencies, his isolated upbringing, and his strained relations with his family, it would have made more sense for him to refuse his mother’s summons and to have stayed in Yorkshire. Yet he hadn’t. That spoke volumes as to his good character. Not that she’d doubted it, given the way he’d behaved with her sisters, the way he’d rushed to her rescue, even the way he’d offered Daisy a position.

  “But if he truly loved me, if he truly wished to marry me, wouldn’t he have confessed his feelings after my refusal?”

  “Did you confess your feelings after his botched proposal?”

  Grace sucked in her cheeks in dismay.

  “Perhaps you should seek him out? It sounds like a frank conversation may be in order.”

  Grace’s heart leapt at the suggestion. “But what if you’re wrong? What if he doesn’t love me and is only trying to make the best of a bad situation?”

  Eliza gave her a tender smile. “But what if I’m right?”

  Damon had sought Grace out that morning intending to convince her the only course of action was to marry him. But she hadn’t been at breakfast—still sleeping, Eliza had sai
d. And then Deveric had invited him on a tour of Clarehaven. Damon hadn’t wanted to refuse his host. Indeed, he’d lost himself in Deveric’s able discussions of the estate and all that was required for its upkeep. He asked numerous questions, to which Deveric gave thorough responses. Now they’d ridden out to the lake.

  Grace had several times professed her love for this lake, for its waters. No wonder. It was a beautiful spot. He indulged in fantasies of bringing her here for a picnic. They would spread a blanket out under that huge weeping willow and dine to their hearts’ content on a fabulous spread of cold chicken and potatoes, green beans and apple dumplings. He would read to her, perhaps a volume of poetry, or a novel, using his voice to exaggerate each character’s actions. She would laugh in that pretty manner she had and lay her head in his lap as he read, his back against the willow tree. After a few pages, he would set the book aside. He’d look down into her spellbinding brown eyes, trace those delicately arched eyebrows with his finger, and touch the errant freckle on her cheek. He’d run his fingers through her hair, releasing the hairpins one by one to let the locks fan out over his legs.

  Her pulse would beat in her neck, the rhythm picking up speed as he stroked his fingers along her ear, down to her collarbone, then over her dress, tracing the shape of her through the layers of fabric. What would it be like to take her breast into his hand? She was rather small, but he’d never cared for buxom women anyway—a handful sufficed. He dreamt of rubbing his thumb over her nipple, of watching as the nub came to attention. He’d then dip his head and kiss those luscious lips of hers, stroking her with his tongue the way his fingers were stroking her breast…

  Deveric cleared his throat, snapping Damon back to reality. He shifted in his saddle, grateful Claremont was riding in front of him and thus spared the evidence of Damon’s imaginings about his sister. “It’s growing late. Shall we return to the house?”

  Damon nodded, struggling to clear his head of his lustful thoughts. He had to get her to marry him. He had to.