The Demon Duke

by Margaret Locke

  “Shall we, daughters?” Matilda ushered them into the ballroom.

  Only minutes thereafter, the first guests arrived. The room was more than half full and the dancing had commenced before Damon appeared, his sisters and Cousin Daphne in tow. His mother followed behind, wan in her gray gown, but her chin resolute.

  Grace only had eyes for Damon, however.

  He wore his traditional black coat and pantaloons, but had swapped out his ebony waistcoat for one of a rich, cardinal red lavishly embroidered with golden thread. The effect was intoxicating, as the red in the coat magnified the ice blue of his eyes. His shirt and cravat were of a crisp white instead of the black to which she’d grown accustomed, and they deepened the tawny richness of his skin. At least he had kept his signature skull-headed stickpin, though this one, of gold, held a rose between its teeth.

  A charming touch.

  His hair had been carefully styled. Though Grace preferred the tousled effect, it didn’t detract from his handsomeness. Her belly fluttered as he crossed the room. Reaching her, he executed a bow.

  “My lady.”

  Grace bobbed a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she said, enjoying the double meaning. For she was indeed his Grace.

  He took her gloved hand in his and pressed a kiss against its back, his eyes never leaving hers. A gasp rose from somewhere nearby and voices murmured around them, but she hardly noticed. Never had she wished her hands were bare so much as she did in that moment. Oh, to feel the caress of those lips again.

  “You look magnificent.” His eyes dropped to the roundness of her bosom.

  Her flesh tingled at the heat in his gaze. “Thank you. As do you.”

  Eliza sidled over to them. “Stop looking as if you’re going to ravish each other right here on the dance floor!” Her teasing eyes softened the words.

  Damon flashed Eliza a wicked grin. “Well, that would give people something to talk about, wouldn’t it?”

  “Other than my kidnapping, you mean.” An unwelcomed glumness enveloped Grace. No one had yet approached her, but she’d been on the receiving end of numerous curious glances. It was likely only a matter of time, or perhaps alcoholic spirits, before people commented directly.

  “Never you fear.” Eliza tucked her arm through Grace’s. “The only thing anyone will be discussing after your mother’s announcement is the marriage of the century.”

  At Grace’s wrinkled brow, Eliza giggled. “I mean yours, silly!”

  Across the room, the Dowager Duchess of Malford spoke to the musicians, and the music ceased. Matilda inclined her head toward Grace, indicating she and Damon should come to her. Damon extended an elbow to Grace. She took it as Eliza released her other arm and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  “It is my sincerest pleasure,” Matilda said, her voice commanding the room, “to announce the betrothal of my dear daughter Lady Grace to the Duke of Malford. We pray the union of our two families will only strengthen both, leading to many years of happiness—and many grandchildren.”

  A chuckle went through the crowd at Matilda’s words, but all eyes soon turned to Grace, and a rising tide of voices flooded the ballroom. If only the floor would open up and swallow her whole, like Jonah and that whale. The engagement wouldn’t be enough to stem the gossip.

  She looked to Damon. “I am sorry.”

  “None of it was your fault, Grace. I am to blame, not you.” His words were whispered, so that only she could hear.

  Turning to the crush, he addressed them in a firm, clear voice. “A familial dispute escalated, resulting in the unfortunate detainment of Lady Grace. While a lady’s maid was always in her presence and she remained unharmed and well cared for, I take full responsibility for my uncle’s actions.”

  He surveyed the room. “I am the luckiest man in the world to have secured this lady’s hand in marriage, but let no one ever say it was for any reason less than that I love her, body and soul.”

  Voices murmured at his declaration. It was unheard of for anyone, much less a man, to speak so publicly of emotion. Damon took that moment to step closer to Grace, tilt up her head, and press a quick but intense kiss to her lips.

  One of the young debutantes burst into nervous laughter as a smattering of applause filtered through the room. Damon stood inches from Grace, his eyes fastened on hers.

  “Well,” she said, her ears burning, “you do know how to switch the focus.”

  He gave a devilish chuckle.

  The music started up again on Matilda’s signal. Just as Damon extended his hand to Grace, a commotion at the edge of the room drew their attention.

  Fillmore Blackbourne stormed in, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his hair in disarray. His eyes were wild as he stomped his way toward Damon and Grace.

  How had he gotten in here?

  All other thoughts fled as the man pulled out a pistol. He raised his right arm and aimed directly at Damon’s heart. Fillmore’s arm shook, and the reek of alcohol emanated from his person.

  “You!” Fillmore roared.

  The musicians fell silent. Nobody spoke.

  Damon said nothing, staring his uncle down.

  “You should not be here! You should not be alive. It should be me. I should have been Duke. Not this miserable wretch of a human. Infested by demons, he is!” Fillmore shouted to the crowd, even as he kept his eyes, and the weapon, trained on Damon.

  “Uncle.” Damon’s voice was measured, but a muscle spasmed in his jaw and his head jerked. Once, nearly imperceptibly. Had Fillmore noticed? “Put down the gun, Uncle. There are ladies present.”

  “Do not tell me what to do!” the man screeched, his eyes bulging.

  He took a step toward Damon. Grace held her breath, her heart pounding against her rib cage. The gun was now only a few feet from Damon’s face.

  Damon inched sideways, putting more space between him and Grace. He held up his hands in an apparent effort to diffuse his uncle’s temper. It didn’t work.

  “I have nothing. Nothing! Because of you. You should have died. I should have killed you then.”

  “Like you killed my father and brother?”

  Grace bit her lip so hard she drew blood. Why was he antagonizing him? Stop, Damon.

  Fillmore blinked his eyes, as if not believing Damon had said what he’d said. “I had to.” His voice squeaked eerily, more child-like than adult. “I had debts. And I was owed it.”

  Silence reigned.

  He lowered the gun a few inches, his face falling. “I’ve failed,” he said. “Failed. I have nothing left.”

  He scanned the room and then addressed Daphne, who stood to the side, her face ashen, her eyes pleading. “I have nothing for you, daughter. I’ve gambled it all away.”

  Damon took a step forward, but Fillmore instantly swung his gaze around, his arm popping up as his eyes narrowed. “I should have killed her when I had the chance,” he sneered, flicking the pistol’s barrel toward Grace. “Robbed you of any chance at happiness. Just as you have robbed me.”

  His eyes narrowed even further, into snake-like slits, and he moved the weapon up to Damon’s face. His arm grew chillingly calm, no longer shaking. “No. It is you who must pay.”

  His shoulders drooped and in that moment, Grace knew. He was going to shoot.

  She leapt toward Damon, shouting “No!” as the retort of the gun echoed through the room. They crashed to the floor in a jumbled pile, the gunshot ringing in her ears.

  Oh my God. Damon. Oh my God. Did he hit you? Did he hit me? Damon. Oh no. Oh no.

  She pushed herself up. Damon lay beneath her, unnaturally still. Copious amounts of blood flowed from the side of his head.

  “Oh no! No!” she screamed, pressing her hand to the wound. The world faded away, nothing audible, nothing visible except the sight of Damon’s blood flowing through her fingers. And those eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, closed.

  Chaos erupted around her. Eliza fell to her knees beside Grace as Deveric ran to her side.

  “N
o, no, no. He can’t die. He can’t die!”

  “Let me see, Grace,” Deveric commanded, his hand prying hers from Damon’s temple. Blood still gushed from the wound.

  Grace closed her eyes, nausea ripping through her stomach.

  Eliza flung her arms around her. “It’s going to be all right, Grace. It’s going to be all right,” she whispered over and over.

  If Damon were dead, nothing would ever be all right again.

  “The bullet grazed him,” Deveric announced. He ripped off his evening jacket and wadded it up, holding it against Damon’s head to stem the flow of blood. “It looks worse than it is, Grace. Head wounds bleed a lot.”

  “He’s not … he’s not dead?”

  “No. Thanks to you.” Deveric gestured toward the wall behind them, where a bullet hole marred the flowered paper. “Had you not pushed him, Lord Fillmore’s shot would have been dead center.”

  The Mattersley clan hovered around them, as did Damon’s sisters Cassie and Sephe and their cousin Daphne. The ladies moved to form a barrier against the prying eyes of fellow ballgoers. Felicity fell to her knees next to Grace, her eyes locked on her son’s still frame.

  “I have sent for a doctor,” Matilda announced. “Come, let us get him to a bedchamber. And Watson,” she motioned toward the pencil-thin butler, “ensure our guests depart in orderly fashion.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Watson nodded solemnly, gesturing to the footmen.

  Thank heavens for her mother’s military-style approach to the situation, for blackness swam before Grace’s eyes. She might faint. Servants ushered guests out while several strapping footmen carefully lifted Damon and bore him out the side door.

  “Where is Fillmore?” Deveric asked.

  “I don’t know,” Eliza answered. “He ran right after he shot. In the commotion, I think he got away.”

  Deveric cursed under his breath.

  “Emerlin,” interjected Rebecca in a thready voice, her fingers clutching her skirts. “Lord Emerlin went after him. I saw him race from the room in pursuit.”

  “I need to be with him. With Damon,” Grace said, struggling to rise. Eliza braced her at one elbow, and Cassie ran forward to hold the other. Together, the women helped her from the room.

  It took the doctor less than fifteen minutes to arrive. Thankfully, the blood flow had lessened considerably in that time. Deveric had checked only briefly, maintaining pressure with his coat against the wound.

  The doctor hurried him out of the way and leaned over to examine the patient.

  “It is as you said, Your Grace,” the man said as he fiddled in his bag. “A flesh wound. He should be fine once we stitch this up.” He pulled out a needle and thread. “Did he hit his head when he fell?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace whispered, her eyes on the needle.

  “Wait!” Eliza cried. All heads turned toward her. “Is that needle clean?” She wrung her hands.

  The doctor frowned.

  “Please,” she insisted. “If a short delay won’t hurt him, I’d like you to boil the needle—and the thread—before you use it. And wash your hands thoroughly with soap. And maybe some brandy.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows flew up at her words.

  “Our American doctors believe it helps lessen the chances of fever,” Eliza explained.

  Deveric nodded his agreement.

  The doctor shrugged. “As you wish, Your Graces.”

  He handed the needle and thread to Eliza, who rushed out the door.

  Deveric turned to Grace. “Are you all right?”

  Grace shook her head. “No. But I will be, once he is.”

  After a short time, Eliza returned, the needle and thread held on a clean cloth. The doctor scrubbed his hands in the water she’d brought in a pail, wincing at its heat but not complaining. He set to work.

  “Perhaps you should go lie down,” Deveric said to Grace.

  “I’m staying with him.”

  “Damon will be well taken care of, Grace.”

  “Would you leave Eliza?” she asked, her chin jutting out.

  “Understood,” was all Deveric said.

  The doctor checked the stitches and left laudanum for when Damon regained consciousness. “If he does,” he muttered under his breath, but Grace heard, and her stomach climbed into her throat.

  “Thank you for your services,” Eliza chirped as she ushered the doctor out before she, too, moved to exit the bedchamber, dragging Deveric with her. “Call for us if you need us.”

  Grace merely nodded, taking a seat at Damon’s side. Voices echoed in the hallway, but blessedly, no one disturbed them. Pulling off her gloves, she smoothed his hair, that beautiful mass of hair, with her fingers. His face was still unnaturally pale, but his chest rose and fell evenly. Thank God. She set her hand to his heart, burrowing in under his shirt, desperate to feel his flesh directly. Its warmth soothed her, as did the steady thump-thump beneath it.

  “Wake up, Damon. Please, wake up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Claremont House, London – Early June, 1814

  How his head pounded. It throbbed in rhythm with the beat of his heart, which, for some reason, was extra strong. He wiggled his fingers. Ah. They were resting on his chest. No wonder every heartbeat was palpable. But why did his head hurt so?

  Frenzied images rushed at him. Fillmore. A gun. Grace. Grace. He remembered her crashing into him, the report of the pistol, then falling. Good God. Had Fillmore killed him? Had Fillmore killed Grace?

  His eyes flew open. Everything blurred at first, but came into focus after a moment and he found himself gazing into the most delicious chocolate eyes he’d ever seen. Even if they were currently rimmed with red.

  “Damon?” Her voice croaked.

  He said nothing, drinking in the beauty of her face. The finely arched brows, the long lashes, pert nose, and the most tempting mouth. Perhaps he was dead. It would make sense, with this divine angel floating near him.

  A smile split the angel’s face. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered.

  He felt the same way. Thank God for the perfection before him.

  Her fingers stroked his brow. She leaned in and kissed his forehead, then turned to the side table. She picked something up. A cup. Thank goodness. He was so very thirsty.

  He took a few sips as she held the cup to his lips.

  “What happened?” His gravelly voice echoed in his ears, increasing the pounding at his temples.

  “Your uncle shot you.” She swallowed, tears welling in her eyes. “I pushed you and the bullet grazed your head.”

  He raised his fingers to the left side of his head, testing the bandage there. He grinned ruefully. “I don’t suppose this adds to my devilishly good looks.”

  Grace half laughed, half sobbed. “I was worried you would never wake up. The doctor didn’t know why you were out for so long.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Nearly a day.”

  A day? Yet she was still in her ball gown? He frowned.

  A knock came at the door. Grace looked to him and he nodded. She rose and crossed the room to answer it.

  “How is he?”

  Claremont.

  “Oh, Dev, he’s woken up! Come see. He has returned to me!”

  Deveric strode into the room. “About time, Malford,” he chided. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to beat you back into consciousness.”

  Damon arched an eyebrow, wincing when it pulled at his bandage.

  “Grace has been so worried, she hasn’t left your side.”

  Damon reached out a hand for Grace’s, and she caught it immediately, intertwining her fingers with his.

  “My uncle?”

  Deveric grimaced. “He is dead, Damon. Emerlin found him in the garden. Lord Fillmore had put the gun to his head and taken his own life.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry,” Damon said after a moment. “Given what he did to Grace. To my family.”

  Grace squeezed his ha
nd.

  “How is Daphne?” he asked.

  Deveric and Grace exchanged a glance. “Overset, certainly. But I think she will be fine. She and her aunt have returned to Bath.”

  Not surprising. Daphne would want to escape the gossip and the scandal as much as she could. The poor girl. Fillmore had likely irretrievably damaged her prospects. He and Grace would support the young woman in whatever way they could.

  “My mother? Sisters?”

  “In the hall. Anxious to see you when you are ready.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment, then moaned at the pain the motion wrought.

  “The bullet wound itself is not deep,” Deveric assured him. “Though if Grace had not knocked you off balance, it’s likely you would be dead. As it is, you’ll have a scar. Probably make you that much more irresistible to the ladies.”

  “There’s only one I care about.” Damon looked over at Grace. “Grace Mattersley, as soon as I’m up and out of this bed—which will be immediately, if I have anything to say about it—I’m marrying you. After enduring your kidnapping and my being shot, I don’t want to risk anything else happening before I can make you my wife.”

  She laughed, and the delightful sound warmed him to the core. “As you wish, my love. As you wish.”

  Deveric cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but shall I let in the other women now? Before my sister decides to join you in that bed?”

  Grace’s cheeks burst into delicious color. Damon merely grinned.

  The door had barely been opened when the three Blackbourne women swarmed through it. Grace stepped away so the women could approach Damon.

  Felicity, her hair mussed and likewise still clad in her now-wrinkled ball gown, dropped to her knees at his side. “Oh, Damon. My son. Thank heavens you are all right. Thank God!”

  Tears streamed down her face. “I knew,” she went on. “I knew he was dangerous. It’s why your father never told him we’d sent you away; we both feared for your safety, even then. And to know now he was the cause—” A sob caught in her throat, cutting off her words.