Grace squeezed nearer to the wall, surveying the crowded room from her cramped corner. Bodies moved past and around each other as everyone jockeyed for position. It was the first grand ball of the Season, a mad crush at the Marquess of Rexborough’s expansive London estate, and there was hardly space for dancing, although the orchestra played gaily across the floor.
If only she could go home. Her sister Emmeline danced by with Lord Everton, a vivacious smile lighting her face. Even Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she carefully executed her steps opposite the handsome Marquess of Emerlin.
Why could Grace not feel the same excitement?
Matilda, standing next to Grace, beamed at her other two daughters, delighting in their successes in snagging eligible men so early in the evening.
“They’re merely dancing, Mother. No need to plan the weddings.”
The dowager duchess sniffed. “At least they’re dancing. You have begged off three invitations so far.”
“Lord Oglesby has two left feet, quite possibly three, if my toes have any say. Lord Featherstone is old enough to be my grandfather. And Lord Emerlin only asked because you wished him to. You know he’s had his sights on Becca for waltzing.”
Her mother aired her face with the elaborate fan in her right hand. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad match. Though he is so much her elder.”
“A marquess and the eventual heir to a dukedom. Not such a bad match, indeed. And ten is not so many years. Many a young lady has married a far older gentleman.”
Matilda Mattersley opened her mouth as if to respond when a commotion started amongst the ball goers. They gave a collective gasp as a man entered the room. He was clad entirely in black—black pantaloons, black coat and waistcoat, even an ebony shirt and cravat. Thick black hair tousled wildly over his forehead. Two young ladies next to Grace tittered.
“He is of fine countenance,” one gushed.
“Who is he?” said the other.
A matron broke in, speaking sharply. “Did you not hear him announced? That’s the Duke of Malford.” She made the sign of the cross. “They say he is a devil. They call him the Demon Duke.”
“Really?” the first girl exclaimed.
The older woman slapped the girl’s knuckles with her fan. “Don’t even think about it, Alice. Come, let us seek some lemonade.”
The girl obediently followed the matron, no doubt her mother, through the mass of people.
“The Demon Duke,” Grace murmured.
The man moved farther into the room. His grin was wicked, but his shoulders tight, his eyes … sad. Did he notice how people edged away? How whispers raced across the room? How eyes peeped at him while pretending not to do so?
How could he not?
Sympathy flooded through Grace. “He doesn’t look devilish to me,” she said to her mother. “He looks uncomfortable. Like he wishes he were anywhere else but here.” How she could relate.
Matilda sucked in her breath. “However he looks is not your concern. The Duke of Malford is not an option.”
“I do not think you have anything to fear, Mother. A man such as that would never be interested in a mouse such as me.”
A smile leaked through the dowager duchess’s pursed lips. “A mouse, indeed. It’s good to see this mouse knows to stay away from a cat such as that. He looks rather feral.”
He is a panther, sleek and black. With the mien of a lion.
“If you’ll pardon me, Mama, I am in need of the retiring room.”
Grace slipped from the room. With everyone’s attention on the Duke, this was a good time to sneak away to the library, as she’d done at Rexborough balls a time or two before.
She pulled a book from the shelf. Ah yes. Aesop’s fables. She settled in near a window, her thoughts on the man in the ballroom.
Hadn’t Aesop said it was the mouse who saved the lion?
Though he affected an air of nonchalance, Damon’s cravat dug into his neck, his hands itched inside his gloves, and as gasps echoed through the room and the weight of what seemed a million eyes fell on him, he wanted nothing more than to leave. Especially since it was not his lovely sisters at his side, but his appearance that had them tittering.
They’d all thought him dead.
“Your father told everyone you’d passed away,” his mother had confessed, shame wringing tears from her eyes. “I’ve had to admit it wasn’t the case—but one look at you and they’ll know. They’ll know you are a true Blackbourne.”
So he’d died all those years ago—and now had come back to life. At least in the eyes of the ton. A sneer slipped across his face. Let them think that. Let them call him the Demon Duke. He knew the talk. He knew his return to London had set the gossip mill grinding, that the very mystery of him had sparked numerous rumors since the family’s arrival in London last week.
Cassie tutted at a wide-eyed debutante who stood as if transfixed in front of Damon. “He doesn’t bite.”
The young woman skittered off, her eyes bulging, though whether in response to him or his sister’s rather rude comment was unclear.
His eyes flashed in amusement. “You needn’t defend me.”
“It’s just silly, all these people acting as if you’re some kind of ghost.”
“Or monster,” he said.
Sephe snickered from his other side. “Monster. Posh. You are perfectly delightful, as the last several months have proven.” She linked her arm through his. “Although I am sorry for this attention, Damon. I’m sure you can’t enjoy it. If only Mother—”
“Our mother cannot be here because she is still in mourning. I know. That is why it has fallen to me to escort you through the Season.”
“Well, it’s possible Aunt Martha could have done that,” Cassie admitted. “I think Mother wanted to make it up to you by letting you take your rightful position in society, wanted to show that we as a family accept you.”
Damon’s jaw clenched. Fury snaked up his back. He didn’t have to be here? He could be home, in solitude, instead of at the center of attention amongst people he didn’t know, people who gaped at him as if he were Lucifer himself?
“Though likely she would rue the current level of attention,” Sephe said. “I doubt it shall last long, however.” She raised her chin as if to bolster her assertion.
It was true the tittering had died down somewhat. Several young dandies eyed the sisters appreciatively. No one could deny the Blackbourne ladies cut fine figures. Cassie, her coloring so similar to Damon’s, was clad in a cream gown trimmed in black (fitting for half-mourning, or so he was told) that enhanced the blue of her eyes. Sephe had opted for a lavender confection that made her complexion shine and complemented her nearly white-blonde hair to perfection.
“Do I need to stay by your sides the entire evening?” Damon muttered, hot under the gazes of the people around him. Or perhaps it was the numerous candles ablaze above them. The room was overly warm, but that was no surprise considering how many people occupied it.
“I see Cousin Daphne,” Sephe cried out. “I didn’t know she would be here. I thought she was still in Bath!”
A tiny young woman with dark hair smiled from across the room as she gave Sephe a wave. The older man standing next to her, however, was not smiling. He fixed his eyes on Damon, scowling fiercely. The longer the man stared, the ruddier his complexion grew.
“That’s Uncle Fillmore,” Cassie said.
“I know.” Damon grimaced. The man looked so much like his father it was like seeing a ghost. Ironic, perhaps, considering it was Damon who’d allegedly returned from the dead. His whole body went rigid as his uncle approached. Though shorter and smaller than Damon, the man’s demeanor radiated hostility. Did his uncle mean to do him bodily harm?
It wouldn’t have been the first time. Fillmore, in fact, was the one who’d encouraged Silas to send Damon away. Damon had overheard them arguing about it in his father’s study, years ago.
“The boy is a menace,” his uncle had insisted. “A plague upon this family. You do not want his like contaminating us.”
His father’s response had been inaudible.
“He must go,” his uncle had persisted. “Perhaps … an accident. With his rages and afflictions, no one would question that.”
“Are you telling me to murder my own son?” Damon’s father had roared.
Apparently whipping me within inches of my life is acceptable, but killing me is not, Damon had thought. I suppose I should be grateful you draw the line somewhere, Father.
He had sat, shaking, in the hallway. Surely the jerking of his head, the clearing of his throat, the occasional noises he emitted without his knowledge weren’t enough to damn him as unfit to live. Were they? Was he truly so evil his own family would rid themselves of him?
Damon stared at the man in front of him. His hands itched to close around Fillmore Blackbourne’s throat, to take out all of his anger and hurt and disgust on this shadow of his father before him. He clenched his fists, his teeth grinding as he willed control to return.
“Damon,” his uncle bit out with a terse nod.
“I believe you should address me as Your Grace,” Damon responded evenly.
Fillmore’s face reddened even further. Perhaps he would succumb to an apoplectic fit and spare Damon this unpleasant interaction.
“You shouldn’t be here,” his uncle growled in a low voice. “You shouldn’t exist.”
Daphne put a hand on her father’s arm. “Father,” she chided, casting apologetic eyes toward Damon.
Sephe and Cassie moved between their brother and their uncle at the same time, forming a wall.
“Uncle Fillmore,” Cassie said quietly but firmly. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a public display. And any disparaging words you say to your nephew—our brother—cast aspersions on us all and reflect most poorly on you.”
What backbone his sister possessed to face down this man a good thirty years her senior. Her ardent defense touched him. He had endured such castigation before; his sisters most certainly had not. Had they decided to distance themselves, he’d have understood.
Fillmore ignored them, leaning around Sephe as he addressed Damon, icy daggers emanating from his eyes. “You should not be Duke,” he hissed. “You are not a Malford.”
Damon’s brow rose. “Why, dear Uncle—are you suggesting my mother cuckolded my father?” The corner of his cheek slid up into a sardonic grin. “I would be careful what you say. Men have called each other out over lesser offenses. And not that you would know, but I am a crack shot. I’ve had lots of time to practice.”
His uncle’s face paled. He dusted off invisible flecks from his coat before nodding at Damon, as if that would put the bad blood of the past few moments—or past decades—behind them.
“I am thirsty, Father,” Daphne said in a calming voice. “Shall we find some refreshment?” She looked to Cassie and Sephe. “Perhaps you would like to accompany us?”
Damon breathed a sigh of relief. He needed a chance to escape, to be alone.
“By all means,” he said to his sisters. “I would like to explore the gardens as it is. I have heard they are among the finest in London.”
With that, he excused himself. His insides shook, but his outward demeanor revealed nothing. He tipped his head politely to the various matrons and young debutantes who gaped at him and nodded to several gentlemen. All the while, his mind screamed: Get out. Find some space. You’re going to start again. You’re going to start.
A peek through the windows showed the gardens ablaze with lantern lights. A number of couples strolled along the paths. No good. Run. Flee. Don’t show them. Don’t show them.
As quickly as he could, he raced down the nearest hallway, seeking a place of respite. He tried the nearest door, hoping not to surprise a couple in flagrante delicto or disturb his host. To his delight and relief, the door swung open to reveal a rather expansive library, numerous wooden bookshelves covering the walls, each crammed full of titles. Thank God. He slammed the door behind him and stood, trying to catch his breath.
The tics exploded with a ferocity he’d not felt in years. His head jerked repeatedly to the side and his nose twitched uncontrollably. It had been ages since his body had reacted in such a manner, but he gave it free rein. Any more suppression would make it worse. He flexed his hands, waiting for the surge of adrenaline to work its way through his body.
Years of practice had given him mastery over the tics, for the most part. The urge to move in such random ways rarely struck. In fact, the compulsion to repeat the odd mannerisms only reared its head in times of great stress. Such times had been rare at the abbey, so much so that he’d truly believed the tics gone.
No such luck. During the first few weeks at Thorne Hill, as he’d worked to assimilate with his family and master the running of the duchy, the old feelings had returned. Not often, but enough. He’d hoped it was merely a reaction to being back in that space, in those rooms in which he’d been beaten and shamed so many years ago.
Apparently not.
He stared into the flames of the large fire blazing in the fireplace. At least the fire was oblivious to the battle raging within him. He paced, body spasming, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the anger to dissipate.
After a few minutes, the tension eased. He breathed slowly, deep breaths in and out, like he’d taught himself years ago. Just when he thought he had complete control again, a soft voice spoke from behind him.
“I’m sorry. I thought you should know you’re not alone in the room.”