CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LAMSHILL BALL, LONDON – EARLY MAY, 1814
“H-hello,” she stammered. “I was … I was enjoying the beautiful music.”
“Yes. Beautiful.” His stare was intense, not acknowledging the musicians in the least.
Her cheeks burned. If only her skin wouldn’t betray her every time he was in the vicinity!
He bowed formally and extended a hand. “May I have the pleasure?”
A noise came from Rebecca, still at Grace’s side. Of course she remembered Grace had danced with Malford once before, at the ball a few weeks ago. Glances from those around ensured others had not forgotten, either.
It was not unseemly, however, to dance with him again. It had been only the once, sometime distant, and now once more. Emmeline’s eyes flashed to hers, as if to say, It’s not the number of times. It’s that you’re the only one with whom he dances. And only the waltz.
Was that true? Had he not danced with other debutantes at events she hadn’t attended? Were there any events she had not attended, given how many invitations her mama and sisters had accepted on her behalf?
Thank goodness her mother was not here tonight; Matilda had caught a cold and had chosen to remain at home to rest. That was a good thing, as Grace engaging with Malford for a second time would likely have sent her mother into full pneumonia.
“You are not to associate with him, Grace,” her mother had commanded after the Rexborough ball. “We need no further scandal to taint this family, and Malford is nothing but scandal. Those eyes. That devilishly black form.” A sharp exhalation followed the words. “No, he will not do, duke or not!”
Matilda Mattersley’s words echoed in Grace’s mind, but they produced not the usual acquiescence, the normal retreat on her part, but rather, rebellion. Defiance. She’d spent much of her life as the dutiful daughter, a model of propriety and obedience. It’d been expected. It’d been needed, for Amara’s sake and that of the entire family.
But Amara was gone. And Grace no longer wanted to serve everybody else. She wanted to please herself.
Nodding at Malford, she let him pull her onto the dance floor. Once there, he assumed the waltz position, settling himself an appropriate, perfectly decorous distance from her, and lightly positioned one hand at her waist, the other clasping her hand loosely. It was everything that was proper.
As proper as this new dance could be, at least. Many matrons still clucked about the waltz, deeming it unseemly. But more and more balls included at least one or two. Even Almack’s had recently approved it.
They began moving to the music. Neither spoke a word. Grace stared at his chest, her eyes following the intricate weaving of his black cravat, the startling specter of the skull pin holding it in place. What should she say? So many times since that morning in Hyde Park, she had wanted to see him, to assure him he’d done nothing wrong. So many times she’d wanted to assure herself.
She peeked up. His eyes, bluer than the heavens, fixed on her face. He wasn’t smiling. She inhaled sharply.
“I can’t seem to stay away from you, Lady Grace,” he finally said. His nostrils flared. She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. He watched her, devoured her, like a lion with its prey.
“I-I …” She swallowed. Who was this simpering miss? She may not be the most comfortable in mixed society, she may be a wallflower, but it was by choice, not because of lack of backbone. She straightened her shoulders and tried again. “I see no reason for you to do so.”
The hand on her back pulled her in closer, not enough to raise eyebrows, but enough that the heat radiating off of his body enveloped her.
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I haven’t had much practice in dealing with the fairer sex, I admit.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I shall work harder to behave like a proper gentleman in your presence.”
But I don’t want you to! I want you to pull me closer, to kiss me, to never let me go. Grace gasped at her own thoughts. Damon’s face blanched at the noise and he loosened his grip.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, clasping his hand tightly. “It was something I was thinking, Your Grace. Not you, my lor—Damon.”
Hearing his name on her lips, his grip on her waist tightened again and he drew her in until their bodies nearly touched, whirling her around the floor. Anyone paying attention now would consider his closeness unseemly. But she couldn’t bring herself to restore the appropriate amount of space between them. No, not when his nearness did such queer things to her insides.
What was it about this man?
“I have missed seeing you,” he whispered in her ear. “Everywhere I go, I look for you, even though I know I shouldn’t. I fear you have bewitched me.”
She stumbled, caught off guard by his words. Her eyes flew to his, which were hungry, wanting. Would he kiss her? Would she let him? Here in the middle of the ballroom?
He didn’t. His eyes darkened, and he took a noticeable step back, restoring the proper distance between them. As the music came to an end, he muttered, “But I am not good for you. No one needs to be subjected to my demons, least of all you.”
With a stiff bow, he nodded to her and walked off without another word out of the ballroom. All eyes followed him before returning to her, curiosity, pity, and judgment radiating from faces everywhere.
Grace stood rooted to the floor. What had just happened?
DAMON BRACED himself against a balustrade outside the entranceway to the garden, breathing in the cool night air. He fought the tumultuous emotions rocking through his body. He’d sworn he was going to leave her alone. He was right; he was no good for her, not with his obnoxious behavior during their previous encounters. And yet he couldn’t help it. He was like the proverbial moth to the flame, though she was the one who was going to get burned.
He longed to turn around and walk back in, sweep her in his arms, and dance with her again. Or better yet, spirit her away down a dark hallway, find a room, perhaps a library, and share a stolen kiss or two. Or more. His body tightened at the thought of Grace in his arms, her dress undone, her head thrown back in pleasure. He groaned.
“Malford. Is that you?”
Damon willed his body under control. Hopefully it was dark enough in the gardens that whoever was speaking wouldn’t notice the billowing of his pantaloons. He turned toward the voice. Oh, thank God, a familiar face. “Lord Emerlin. A pleasure.”
Morgan Collinswood, Marquess of Emerlin, gestured toward the ballroom. “Too crowded for you?”
“Something like that.”
Damon’s cryptic answer elicited a laugh from the fellow peer, whose dark hair and light eyes reminded Damon a little of Adam. And himself. “And you?”
“A certain female is determined to secure another dance with me. As we’ve already danced twice together, it’s best we not engage in a third. And since no doesn’t seem to be in her vocabulary, I opted for the coward’s route: escape.”
A bush rustled nearby as a couple emerged from one of the garden walks. The woman’s face radiated happiness, the man’s complete bliss.
“I do believe we’ve just witnessed the betrothal of the Earl of Esslington and the Lady Beatrice d’Avignon,” Emerlin whispered.
A fierce longing swept through Damon, so powerful it was as if he’d been knocked from a horse. If only it had been he and Lady Grace in that garden, he and Grace about to share the happy news.
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. He hardly knew her. So why was every fiber of his body drawn to her, as if she were the puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing?
Because she had seen him. Truly seen him. And she had not rejected him—not in the library, not at the ball, not in the bookstore, not this evening, though every eye was on them. He’d never experienced such open acceptance in his life. How could he let that go?
He knew suddenly what he must do. The answer was painstakingly obvious. And terrifying. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.
Demons be damned.
Fear be damned. There was only one logical solution.
Damon Blackbourne, the Duke of Malford, must go courting.