Grace rode home in the carriage in complete silence. Not that her sisters were quiet; they chatted gaily, exchanging notes on rumors they’d heard and social events for the next week. Grace said not a word, but nobody questioned it; they were quite used to her silences.
What they didn’t know was that she was angry. Angrier than she’d been in a long time, as a matter of fact.
How dare he? How dare that oaf dive in and out of her life, pulling her in like a fish on a hook, only to toss her back at random moments? That wasn’t how a suitor ought to go about things. Not that Damon was her suitor; he’d made it quite clear he wanted to be anything but.
She clutched at her pelisse as she descended from the carriage, using every bit of restraint not to stomp up the stairs and thereby command unwanted attention. She ground her teeth as she entered her bedroom and as Bess helped her out of her dress. She narrowed her eyes as she put on her nightgown, used the tooth paper, and brushed out her hair. And she fumed as she crawled under the blankets.
She stared at the ceiling. One small tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. She’d had enough of Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford, and his rude behavior. She wasn’t going to attend to him ever again.
No, the Demon Duke was not for her.
“Milady, you have a caller,” the butler announced at breakfast the next morning. What? Grace normally eschewed morning calls, preferring to use the time to read or write. Occasionally, she met with friends for visits to the Royal Academy or to take tea or to stroll through one of the pleasure gardens. But she far preferred the east-facing seat in the library, where she could bask in the sun’s warmth while immersing herself in what she loved most: words.
Emmeline and Rebecca looked at her, questions in their eyes. Before they could comment, before she could fret she was only in morning dress, the butler called out rather frantically, “His Grace the Duke of Malford,” as Damon sailed into the room, a single white rose in his hand.
Emmeline’s eyes widened into huge circles. Rebecca broke out into a toothy grin before Emmeline yanked her by the hand toward the door. Both women curtsied quickly to Malford, murmuring greetings before racing out, claiming they had a social call across town.
Traitors.
Grace glanced at him, coolness in her eyes. She said nothing.
Da—Malford; she would not think of him by his Christian name—approached her, his expression turning from confident and eager to uncertain in the space of a few seconds. Good. He could at least sense she was less than thrilled to see him.
“Grace?” He handed the rose to her.
She took it, but commented, “The correct way to address me would be as Lady Grace Mattersley, Your Grace.”
He stepped back, his head snapping up, visibly stung. Now he knew what it felt like to receive the hot and cold treatment.
“I beg pardon, Lady Grace.” He paused, as if debating his next move. “I wanted a chance to explain my erratic behavior toward you. I was hoping you might consent to a ride with me through Hyde Park?” He gestured toward the door. “My barouche is waiting outside.”
“I could not possibly go for a ride with you alone, Your Grace.”
“Indeed not. The carriage is spacious enough for a maid to accompany you. Or your sisters, if you would like.”
At that, her mouth dropped open. He was willing to discuss his behavior in front of her sisters? What was he about?
She should decline. Truly, she should. Had she not vowed just yesterday evening to have nothing again to do with the Duke of Malford? And yet, her curiosity drove her to say, “Very well. I’m sure Emmeline and Rebecca would be most pleased to visit the Park. Once we have all changed for such an outing.”
“If they haven’t already departed, that is.”
Her eyebrow rose.
“Since they had a previous engagement. The one that caused them to run out of the room upon my appearance.”
Grace couldn’t help but laugh. “I have no doubt, Your Grace, that my sisters are right outside that door, listening to our every word.”
A scuffling noise and the sound of swishing skirts proved she was right. She stood, her chin firm, her resolve set. “Perhaps once in the park, we might let my sisters take in the air for a while. On their own. A maid shall come along, naturally, but she may sit up with the driver.”
Mother would never approve. I shall do it, anyway. I must solve the puzzle of this Demon Duke, must know what demons chase him so.
A smile crossed his face.
“Surely riding with you in the middle of Rotten Row in an open-air barouche with a driver and a maid would not be objectionable,” she continued. “But rest assured: I want answers.” She gave him a mischievous grin before pointedly adding, “Damon.”
Emmeline attempted to engage Damon in polite conversation as they rode to the park an hour later. His curt answers, while not impolite, soon dissuaded her and she turned instead to Rebecca, commenting on the fashions worn by the people riding or strolling past.
Damon rubbed his hands along his black breeches, his pulse racing. Nerves. Grace sat next to him, garbed now in a simple dress of a peach hue so luscious, it made him want to nibble on her, but she remained quiet, looking out at the scenery as it flew past. Other than the small smile she initially gave him, her focus remained outside of the barouche. So much for his ability to charm.
What was he doing? Why had he decided he needed to court Grace Mattersley? Not that one carriage ride meant a betrothal, but that was the direction in which he was headed if he continued to single her out. Which, undeniably, had been his intention when he’d arrived at Claremont House. Now, sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands itched to move. He couldn’t possibly want to offer for Grace, could he? He, who’d sworn never to marry because he’d be an unfair burden on any woman?
That’s what you mean to determine: whether or not you even like her, whether she’s suited to you. He was attracted to her, no doubt about it. Just being near her and inhaling her light scent, a subtle floral, perhaps violet—much less intrusive than the perfumes many other women layered on—had him wanting to bury his face in her hair, to pull the pins out and let those glorious mahogany tresses flow down over her shoulders. He wanted to nibble the length of her neck from her shoulder to her ear and then capture those succulent lips with his. His loins tightened at the thought, and he turned back to the conversation between Emmeline and Rebecca, desperate to keep his physical desires under control.
“I don’t see why Mama won’t let me ride my own horse alone in Hyde Park,” Rebecca lamented with a pout.
“It’s not seemly, and you know it, Becca.”
Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Then I cannot wait to get back to Clarehaven. At least there I have some freedom.”
Grace made a noise at that. “I thought you were enjoying the attention from eligible suitors? Especially a certain Lord—”
“I am,” Rebecca broke in, before her sister could finish the name. Flushing, she cast a quick glance at Damon. “I simply miss my horses.”
“You should come to Tattersall’s,” Damon said. “I am sure you are a better judge of horseflesh than many men.”
Emmeline’s brow puckered. “Surely, Your Grace, you know Tattersall’s is an unacceptable place for a woman to visit?”
Rebecca elbowed her.
Damon grimaced. Lady Emmeline was correct, naturally. He’d never given much thought to the restrictions placed on ladies. He had enjoyed an unprecedented amount of freedom, growing up without the constraints of going away to school, much less the judgment of peers. He’d thought he’d missed out, but there had been benefits to his youth that had been denied to others, particularly those of the female sex. What a misfortune to live constantly under such strict societal dictates. His fingertips dug into his thigh. He was subject to those dictates now, as well.
“You are right, Lady Emmeline. Forgive me, Lady Rebecca. I am not yet well versed in the ways of city life.”
“City living and its restrictions have never appealed to me,” Grace interjected. “All these silly rules.”
Lady Emmeline gaped at her sister before quickly shutting her mouth, clapping with excitement as they entered the southeast gate of Hyde Park. “I do so adore strolling through the park. It is such a beautiful place.”
“With that I agree,” Damon said. He had run here every morning since the encounter with his uncle at White’s. It had done wonders for his physical and mental well-being. Not that these ladies needed to know his secrets. Grace turned and gave him a nod. Could she, too, be remembering their private encounter here?
“Ooh! Ooh!” Lady Emmeline exclaimed. “I see Lady Adelaide! Look, Rebecca. And Lady Jane Marlowe is with her.” She waved at her friend. “Would you mind very much if Rebecca and I walked a stretch, so that we might spend time with our friends? Not that we don’t enjoy your company.”
Grace pressed her lips together to contain her amusement. “Go ahead, dearest sister. I do not claim to be the best companion. Nor does His Grace seem the type to bend one’s ear with mindless chatter.”
Damon chuckled at her statement. “Please,” he said to Emmeline and Rebecca as he signaled for the driver to stop. “I would not wish to deprive you of superior company.”
As Emmeline and Rebecca exited the carriage, helped by the driver, Damon looked to Grace.
“We didn’t even have to find a reason to get them to leave,” she said.
The driver returned to his perch next to the maid, Dora, and set the horses into a slow walk. As the carriage rumbled down Rotten Row, Damon pulled at his gloves. Uncomfortable things. What to do? What to say? How did one go about courting? Or whatever he was to call this.
“Thank you for accompanying me today,” he offered. “You look quite lovely.”
Grace’s cheeks pinked and she turned away, watching the trees for a few moments. When he said nothing else, she gave a loud sigh. “You promised to explain.”
“Explain?”
“Yes, explain! You promised to tell me why you seek me out, but then once you find me, you do all you can to get away. It’s as if you’re playing a game of cat and mouse, and I can’t say that I care for it.” The words came out a whisper, but steel undergirded them.
Damon sat, nonplussed by her frank assessment. It was refreshing to hear her speak so plainly, rather than having to wade through layers of correct behavior to determine her true feelings. Cat and mouse, she’d said. When he’d first seen her, he’d thought her a mouse. Not today. She looked him straight in the eye, no demurring miss. Beneath her shy manner lay a backbone of iron.
“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!”