Damon paced the front parlor of Claremont House, waiting impatiently for Claremont. It was a good fifty miles to Clarehaven. Though the messenger had set out yesterday night, the time it would take for him to arrive and then for Claremont to make it back to London was not insignificant. The waiting chafed.
Emmeline and Rebecca took turns looking out of the window. The dowager duchess sat in an uncomfortable-looking chair, never once moving a muscle. She’d not said much to Damon, but she watched him like a hawk did its prey. Or a dragon.
Was she waiting for him to break out into convulsions, to explode into flames, to do something to show he was the demon his uncle claimed him to be? Was she merely thinking of her daughter, determining the odds as to whether Damon and her son could bring her back? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All of his thoughts were on Grace.
Matilda had initially protested Fillmore Blackbourne could not have done this. “Though not a peer, he is a man of honor. We have been long acquainted. My brother and he attended Oxford together.”
However, after perusing the crumpled note Damon had brought with him from his own residence, she said no more.
Emmeline and Rebecca vacillated between talking of Grace and chatting about more mundane matters. He didn’t blame them. If his mind could go to anything else, he would let it, just to ease the pain. Controlling his body gave him something on which to focus; the urge was still strong to move, to tic, as if somehow his mind thought that would give him release. He longed to run. Even running in circles would be better than nothing, and the room was large. But that would raise eyebrows even further, so he settled for pacing.
Suddenly, a door burst open. Seconds later, a tall, imposing figure strode into the parlor, marching like a man on a mission.
“Mother,” he said, nodding in greeting to the dowager before turning to Emmeline and Rebecca. “Sisters.”
Familial greetings out of the way, he walked over to Damon. “You must be Malford,” the Duke of Claremont said, extending a hand. “I would say it is a pleasure, but under these circumstances...”
Damon eyed the proffered hand warily. He’d half expected Claremont to club him. It was Damon’s fault, after all, that the man’s sister was missing. Kidnapped. He shook hands, then pulled the crumpled note once more out of his pocket and handed it to Claremont.
Claremont scanned the missive, then raised startlingly green eyes to Damon. “I never cared for your uncle,” he said. “There was always something … not right … about him.”
“Agreed. And now the man has clearly gone insane.” Damon cleared his throat. “I had feared you would shoot me on the spot. I am to blame, after all.”
“Nonsense. The fault lies entirely with your uncle.” Claremont chuckled, a caustic sound. “In truth, I think he shall quickly come to rue this decision. Not because we’re coming after him, but because of my sister. She may act the quiet lady, but I know within lies the ferocity of a lion.”
An unexpected laugh erupted from Damon. “Did you know,” he said, “I have had that very thought about her?”
Claremont grinned. “Come. I’ve had the horses switched on my coach. Let us go.”
Damon nodded. The men bid adieu to the women and headed out the front door. Hobbes was waiting on the step. Damon sent him back to Blackbourne House, despite many a protestation from the valet-turned-friend.
The two dukes launched themselves up into the coach, and Claremont tapped on the roof. The conveyance took off.
For a few moments, neither man said anything. Damon ran his fingers through his hair, glad to finally be moving, to be doing something, even if it would be some time before they reached Bath.
Claremont settled back in his seat, extending his long legs to the side of Damon’s and loosening his cravat. “So, tell me,” he said. “What has your uncle got against you?” His green eyes bore into Damon’s blue ones.
“He wants me dead.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Damon’s chest constricted. It was too soon. Perhaps after knowing each other a while, perhaps if they had been true friends, he would have willingly told Claremont of his deficits. But now it was as if he were being asked to lay his soul open to a stranger. A stranger who might bear great influence on his future relationship with Grace.
It was a risk Damon would have to take. He started again. “Because I am not … normal. I have this compulsion to move, to shake my head, or other parts of my body, for no good reason.” He didn’t meet Claremont’s eye, but rather gazed out the window as he spoke. “It’s better than it used to be; now I only do it under times of extreme duress.” He broke off with a bitter laugh. “Like this situation, I suppose.”
Claremont studied him. “I don’t see you moving.”
“I can control it. Sometimes. For periods of time.”
“Do you need to do it presently?”
Damon took a deep breath. “No, strangely enough, I don’t. Now that we’re on the way, now that I know we’re going to get Grace back, I feel better. More in control.”
Claremont nodded. “Are there other elements to this compulsion?”
He seemed genuinely curious, no judgment or derision in his voice.
“My temper. It flares up quickly and can linger. Though I have never physically harmed anyone. Just an old chair or two. Age has helped with this; I am happy to say it’s been years since furnishings have been in any immediate danger.”
When Claremont remained silent, his fingers calmly resting on his thighs, Damon added, “Occasionally, I find myself counting in rhythms, whether walking, or playing cards, or running. I don’t know if there is a connection. Mostly it feels as if I have no control over my own body. So I have worked to instill order in my life.”
“And this compulsion, as you call it; this is why your father sent you away?”
Damon’s lips pressed into a line. “Yes. When he could not beat it out of me, he got rid of me. At least he didn’t murder me, as my uncle encouraged him to do.”
Claremont let out a low whistle. “I cannot imagine any father treating his child that way. Though my own father did not always stay his hand, either.”
Silence enveloped the coach for a few moments.
“I am sorry to have pulled you away from your wife and family,” Damon offered at length. “Grace said you are father to a new daughter. Congratulations.”
Claremont’s face softened at the mention of his wife. “Eliza will be fine; she, too, wants Grace home safely.”
“Tell me about her,” Damon invited, wanting to turn the conversation away from himself.
Claremont smoothed the edges of his waistcoat. “Eliza is like no one else I’ve ever met, or ever will. She is American, as you might know, and has quite a unique take on the world. We grew up in vastly different circumstances.” His lips winged up in a smirk at that last sentence.
Damon got the sense he was missing part of the story.
“She saved my life,” Claremont added. “Not literally. But before Eliza, I was merely going through the motions. I was dead inside in so many ways and I didn’t even know it. She brought me back. She helped me to live again, to love again.”
If Claremont felt embarrassed at admitting such strong feelings to a virtual stranger, he didn’t show it. Perhaps this intimate exchange was a way of acknowledging the innermost pain Damon had just shared.
The men lapsed into an easy conversation, sharing tidbits of their formative years, of their likes and dislikes, even discussing estate management for some time. Claremont spoke of his sisters, describing each one, including Grace, and Damon soaked up tales of her antics when she was a child. For his part, he shared about life at the abbey and of his sisters. Soon, the men were on a first name basis. It was as if they had known each other for years rather than mere hours.
“It doesn’t bother you?” Damon finally spit out the question that had been on his mind.
“What?”
“That I’m … not fully right?”
Deveric considered his words. “I don’t see a thing wrong with you, Damon. What I’ve experienced so far is a gentleman quite to my liking. I suppose were I to witness these movements, I might at first be startled. But I don’t get the sense they have anything to do with your intellect. It is clear you have a sharp mind.”
Damon sucked in a deep breath. “I appreciate your honesty.” After a moment, he admitted, “It was one of the first things that drew me to Grace. She witnessed a fit and yet never once did she seem to give it a second thought.”
Hours and miles passed by as the two men discussed various options for dealing with Damon’s uncle once they arrived in Bath.
“I don’t know what he is thinking. He might intend to kill me when I arrive. I hope he still has enough honor—and sense—not to harm Grace. I don’t see how he thinks this could possibly end well, this scheme to extort money from me.”
“My guess is he isn’t. Thinking, that is. But he will regret the day he took my sister.”
Grace paced the confines of the chamber in which she’d been kept since they’d arrived late the previous evening. Its contents indicated a lady’s bedchamber, perhaps Daphne’s. It was a lovely room, with delicate furnishings in deep shades of rose and brown. Nothing in it indicated a mad person lived here. Though it wasn’t Daphne who was mad; it was her father.
The single window looked out onto the rear lawn of the townhome. There was little to see and no way of drawing attention to herself, locked away upstairs. She searched the room again, seeking anything that could be used as a weapon, if need be. The writing desk held a quite heavy candelabrum that could serve in a pinch. Too bad there wasn’t a dagger lying about.
A giggle escaped her. Perhaps she’d been reading too many gothic novels, to be imagining such things. At least now she had her own experience on which to base such a novel. She passed the time sketching out the story in her head of the dastardly uncle who sought revenge against his nephew by killing the woman the nephew loved.
Though I’d rather survive this whole ordeal.
As to Damon loving her, dare she hope for such a level of attachment? He’d never said the words, never even come close to expressing such a sentiment. His kisses proved he desired her, but the two were not one and the same. Amara’s experiences showed that. Still, Damon must have feelings of a stronger nature, given his decision to court her.
Then again, love and marriage did not necessarily go hand in hand, as many a noble match proved.
She loved him, though. She did. Such a thing should have been impossible, given the brevity of their acquaintance. The depth of her affection had burst upon her in the carriage, however, when the chance of never seeing Damon again became a very real possibility in the face of Blackbourne’s wavering pistol.
Yes, she loved Damon Blackbourne. His raw intensity, the ferocity of his emotions; here was someone who did not experience life in half measures. She’d never been prone to outward displays, preferring instead to keep her emotions well hidden. Seeing someone express themselves so openly, and a man at that, had stirred a great admiration.
She loved his concern for his sisters and his mother, his willingness to risk ridicule to do what was right by them in spite of all he’d been through. She loved that he had survived so much, been through so much, and yet wasn’t a permanently embittered soul; she’d seen too many of those. Yes, he still struggled, but she admired that, too—a man willing to admit he wasn’t perfect. So different from her own father.
She loved his intelligence. He’d confessed in Hyde Park that never having attended Eton or Oxford bothered him; in his eyes, it rendered him inferior to other men of his standing. But he was better read than most peers she’d met, able to converse easily on numerous subjects. What other man could discuss equally the writings of Plato and the best growing methods of the potato? Or knew Indian herbs as well as English ones without ever having stepped foot on Indian soil? His tutor, his library, and his own passionate thirst for knowledge had served him well.
She even loved his awkwardness in polite society. Given he’d spent so many of his formative years alone, it made sense he hadn’t learned the social niceties and mannerisms others took for granted. Many of the expectations and rituals were silly and she herself had erred on more than one occasion. His disinterest in formalities, in polite talk over more serious conversation, endeared him to her from the start.
Then there was the way in which he said her name. Grace. Sensual and reverent at the same time, as if she were a most delectable gift.
She sat on the bed with a sigh. As she smoothed her hand over the faded quilt, an image rose, unbidden, of Damon and her on the bed, locked in a torrid embrace. Her skin tingled, half in embarrassment, half excitement, at the idea of his fingers skimming over her skin, stroking her cheeks, of him pressing kisses along her neck. Of her weaving her hands through his hair as she sank into the icy blue depths of his eyes.
She bit her lip. Never had she lost herself in fantasies over a man. Indeed, like anyone, she admired physical handsomeness, but picturing herself intimately engaged with a man was a foreign experience. She pressed her hand against her stomach.
This wasn’t just any man, however. This was Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford.
And she knew without a doubt he was coming for her.