CHAPTER NINE
CLAREMONT HOUSE, LONDON – APRIL, 1814
Had it truly been a week since the Rexborough ball? A week since Grace had kissed a man—and not any man, but the Demon Duke himself, Damon Blackbourne, Duke of Malford?
Not that he was any sort of demon. She knew better than that. All week long, her sisters had discussed the gossip around him, tidbits they’d gleaned from the papers or from their morning calls. Some said he’d killed a man as a boy and that’s why he’d been banished. Others claimed his mother had cuckolded his father, who couldn’t bear the sight of her bastard son, so he’d sent him away. Far-fetched rumors insisted he turned into a bat at night and stole the souls of young virgins. She had struggled to hold her tongue at such tripe.
But hold her tongue she had. Her family would take immediate notice if she talked about Malford at all. They’d questioned her enough after the ball. How had she known him? Why had he wanted to dance with her? About what had they conversed?
She’d simply shrugged, ignoring the first two questions. “We talked of the mundane things everyone speaks about: the London weather, the health of the King, the theater.”
None of that was true, of course. Thoughts of the duke streamed through her mind at inopportune times, but she had revealed nothing in the days since. Her sisters would mock her mercilessly, given how often she teased them about pining over potential suitors.
“Do you not know?” her mother had cried the morning after the grand event. “Do you not understand the scandal this could cause? What notion did you take into your head to accept him after refusing all others? You must not do so again. Indeed, no, you must avoid the Duke of Malford at all costs, for your sake as well as the family’s. Think of your reputation. Of our reputation.”
Grace’s mother had carried on for another several minutes, though Grace had ceased listening.
She adjusted the bonnet on her head, shaking off remembrances of her mother’s endless chastisements. She took great pleasure in reliving that evening as often as she could in her mind. Surely that was typical behavior for someone who’d experienced such a kiss? She was allowed ruminations, wasn’t she?
It was a fruitless yearning, however. As exciting and, yes, handsome as the man was, he was not suitable. Of that she was well aware, especially given her mother’s lecture after the ball. Her family would never approve of such a fellow—he was too unknown, too wild, too much of a black sheep.
Perhaps that’s why you keep thinking about him, silly goose; he’s exactly what you could never have, so it’s easy to let your fancy run free. There’s no possibility of anything becoming real.
It wasn’t as if her family couldn’t endure scandal. Her eldest sister, Amara, had suffered greatly for her illicit tryst in a garden with an engaged gentleman. But she and the family had weathered the storm, Deveric having done his best to minimize the damage. Then Amara had run off with a sea captain last summer, to everyone’s dismay. Yet the Mattersleys had carried on, though Matilda was quick this time to lay all blame at the absent Amara’s feet, lest her actions taint her sisters’ prospects.
Had it worked? The only one of her sisters who’d married was Cecilia, a number of years ago, though even the youngest, Rebecca, had been out for two years already. Rebecca, like Grace, professed no rushed desire to marry—but what of Emmeline? She, at least, made no bones about desiring a match.
“I haven’t found anyone to my liking,” Emmeline had declared with a toss of her head at the end of last Season, but a touch of sadness had lingered in her eyes.
Both of her sisters had had a steady number of dance partners at the Rexborough ball, however, much to her mother’s visible relief; if gossip still abounded about the Mattersley family, it seemed not to have dimmed the women’s prospects. Not that a dance a marriage proposal made.
When Grace’s eldest brother had married their distant American cousin Eliza two years ago, there’d also been talk. No one had known of Claremont cousins in America, and Eliza’s mannerisms and way of speaking were considered odd. But with her bright, happy personality, she’d quickly endeared herself to everyone who met her. It hadn’t taken long for Deveric to fall deeply in love with her.
The match had delighted Grace and her sisters. Deveric had suffered much during and after his first marriage. Their mother, however, had not approved.
At least at first. Matilda Mattersley may not have accepted the American upstart right away, but they’d reached peace with each other, especially given the changes in Deveric. He was no longer the overly solemn, rigid man he had been. For that Grace was also thankful.
She missed Eliza. If only the American were here in London. But Eliza hadn’t wanted to subject Isabelle and her older siblings, Frederick and Rose, to the London air or the bitterly cold weather that had enveloped the country.
Eliza staunchly defended Grace’s love of books and her desire to write, and for that reason and many more, Grace loved her. Eliza was as much a fan of novels as Grace and they often discussed Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, two most excellent works Grace herself had read countless times.
Eliza had met the author, a Miss Jane Austen, in London some time ago. Although Miss Jane did not wish it widely known she’d penned those works, preferring instead to publish them as being written by “a Lady,” she’d welcomed both Eliza and Grace into her home at Chawton. They’d spent several comfortable afternoons chatting with each other.
Someday Grace, too, wanted to write novels. Oh, she couldn’t match the wit of Miss Jane Austen, but to put pen to paper, to create characters so intimately familiar and yet so different, to control the happenings and morals of her own tales? Nothing sounded more thrilling.
“Are you ready?” broke in an eager voice from behind her.
Grace turned to find Emmeline hopping down the stairs, her cheeks already ruddy despite the fact they hadn’t yet stepped foot outside.
“I am so excited,” Emmeline continued, without waiting for Grace to answer. “Aren’t you excited? I so love visiting the Egyptian Hall!”
“Even though you were there just last Season?”
“Indeed! I am sure there are many new things.” Emmeline’s expression grew dreamy. “Can you imagine? Visiting Egypt? La, everything there is so exotic.”
Grace pursed her lips. “I suppose. But did you ever consider that to the Egyptians, we might be the exotic ones?”
“That’s silly. We are the most civilized society on the planet.”
“Tell that to the ancient Romans.”
Emmeline batted her on the arm with her gloves as Rebecca entered the room.
“I don’t suppose we could ride horses in Hyde Park?” their youngest sister asked in a wistful voice.
“Tomorrow,” Emmeline said. “You’ve promised all week to accompany me, and so you shall!”
AFTER AN HOUR LOOKING at Bullock’s curiosities, Grace wished to return home. Not that the objects and the animals weren’t intriguing, but her head ached and she relished the idea of a short lie-in. With a good book. A new book, perhaps. They were close enough to Hatchard’s; surely her sisters wouldn’t mind if she disappeared down the street for a few minutes.
“I shan’t be gone long,” Grace insisted.
Emmeline frowned. “At least take Mary; you know very well you cannot go alone.” Mary was Rebecca’s personal maid, who had accompanied the women to the Hall as per their mother’s request.
“Then you shall be without a maid,” Grace protested.
“Yes, but Rebecca and I shall still be together, safely in this Hall, whereas you cannot possibly venture out onto London streets unaccompanied. It isn’t done.”
Grace sighed as she headed out the door, Mary close behind her. It wasn’t done. It wasn’t done. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be a man sometimes. Men could go where they wanted when they wanted, instead of following such silly rules of convention. Grace knew the rules were there to keep women safe—unsavory types occasionally preyed upon ladies in town, even ladies of good repute, if they were on their own. But from here to Hatchard’s, in the middle of the day? Mary, at least, was wise enough to follow at a short distance behind as Grace moved at a rapid, angry pace, no doubt not wishing to disturb the Mattersley daughter’s fit of pique.
Upon entering the beloved bookstore, Grace paused to inhale the smell of the books. Her eyes feasted on the shop’s rich offerings, the sumptuous leather-bound volumes, the plainer pamphlets, the maps. Mr. Hatchard nodded in greeting; Grace was a familiar presence in his shop.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hatchard,” she called out, her good mood restored now that she was among the rows of books. “Have you got anything new for me today?”
Mr. Hatchard smiled. “Yes, Lady Grace, I believe I do. Have you read Frances Burney’s new novel, The Wanderer?”
Grace clapped her hands in excitement. “No, indeed, but I would surely like to. I did so enjoy Camilla.” She raced toward the volume the shop’s proprietor extended to her. As she reached for it, she stopped, hand in mid-air.
A gentleman stood in the back of the shop, dressed head-to-toe in black, his finely tailored coat enhancing the breadth of his shoulders, the leanness of his middle. She swallowed. Surely it couldn’t be?
The Duke of Malford looked up from the book in his hand and tipped his hat in Grace’s direction.
“Good afternoon, Lady Grace.” He flashed her a devilish grin.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she responded automatically, though her heart began to race. What was he doing here? Did he know? Did he know how he had affected her? How she had thought of him every day—and night—since the ball? How she had thought of that kiss?
She was as moonstruck as Emmeline’s friend Lady Adelaide Guernsey over a man. And oh, how she hated it. Heat rushed to her cheeks even as she broke off her gaze, looking fixedly at Mr. Hatchard. Thankfully, the bookshop owner made no comment regarding her flustered behavior.
Malford sauntered over to her. “What have you chosen, if I may ask?”
Surely he’d heard Mr. Hatchard? Why was he asking such an obvious question? “Um, the latest by Frances Burney. I doubt you would know of her.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Why ever not?”
Grace gulped. He could and most likely had misconstrued her comment as an attack on his education. Having grown up in Yorkshire, he’d not attended Eton, much less Oxford, as most noble sons did. Why did she continually make such faux pas in his company? “Because her stories mostly appeal to women, I think.”
“Tsk tsk, Lady Mattersley,” he responded, a gleam again entering his eyes. “I greatly enjoyed her Camilla, although I rather preferred Cecilia, to be honest.”
“You’ve read Fanny Burney?” Grace wanted to bite her lip over the inanity of that comment. What was wrong with her?
Mary moved into her line of sight, the maid’s curious eyes watching the exchange. If only Grace could send the girl away. She did not want anyone observing her reactions to the Duke of Malford, spots of pink no doubt illuminating her cheeks, considering how they burned; the flustered movements of her fingers as she clutched the book in her hands; the way her breathing had accelerated to the point where it must be noticeable.
Drat it all, why must Mary and Mr. Hatchard be here? Or perhaps the better question was, why must Malford? The feelings he aroused in her were nothing like she’d ever felt before—and quite a bother, truth be told.
Mary moved several inches closer.
Malford ignored the maid, his sole focus on Grace.
“There wasn’t all that much to do at Blackwood Abbey,” he confessed, looking directly in her eyes. “At least it had an excellent library.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful.”
His brilliant blue eyes lulled her, mesmerized her.
“It is. Rows upon rows of books of every sort, fiction, history, economics, law. I daresay it could rival Hatchard’s. No offense intended, sir,” he added, nodding toward the shop’s proprietor.
“None taken, Your Grace. It was always my honor to serve your mother when she frequented the shop.”
“That explains the trunks of books which made their appearance twice a year. I suppose I should thank her for that, at least.” His smile did not reach his eyes.
Mary stepped forward. “Mi—milady. Perhaps we ought to return to the Hall?”
“Ah, the faithful maid here to rescue her lady from the evil wolf.” He grinned so widely that his incisors did, in fact, render him rather wolfish.
He tipped his hat to them both. “It was a pleasure, Lady Grace. I myself am off to read Lord Byron’s Corsair. I hear it is quite the tale. A youth rejected by society because of his actions.”
His grin faltered ever so slightly. His eyes looked sorrowful. Grace longed to comfort him, but any action on her part in front of Mary and Mr. Hatchard would most definitely be noted. She didn’t need stories making their way back to her family.
“Indeed,” was all she could think to say. “I should be going. Good day to you, Da—Your Grace.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth for a second before he passed by and walked out the door.
“It is now,” he called over his shoulder. “A good day indeed.”