CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CLAREMONT HOUSE, LONDON – EARLY MAY, 1814
“Where have you been?” Matilda Mattersley, Dowager Duchess of Claremont, stalked her way toward her three daughters, a scowl on her face.
“We were riding with the Duke of Malford, Mama,” Emmeline offered.
Matilda’s scowl deepened. “Why did you not confer with me before setting out with such a character?”
Grace stuck out her chin, anger rising. “What do you mean, with such a character?”
Matilda stacked her hands on her hips. “You know exactly what I mean. We have discussed this before. The Duke of Malford is at best an unknown, at worst a danger. He returns after having been presumed dead for years, without explanation? From Yorkshire? What could he have done to have been exiled for so long to Yorkshire?”
A shiver went through Matilda at the mention of Yorkshire. To her mother, it might as well have been the bowels of Hell.
“And his mannerisms!” Matilda went on. “Dressing all in black—”
“—He is in mourning, Mother,” Rebecca put in.
“—Engaging in a public dispute with his uncle—his highly respectable uncle, I might add—keeping to himself. And wearing skulls. Skulls!”
“It is mourning jewelry,” Emmeline said. “I have seen the like.”
“Ach, be gone with you!” Matilda waved toward them, and all three women turned to ascend the stairs.
Thank goodness for the dismissal. With Grace’s blood boiling this much, she’d start a row with her mother if she remained.
“Not you, Grace,” the dowager called as Grace made to leave the room. “Attend me in the parlor.”
Grace wanted nothing more than to ignore the order, for that’s what it was, but followed after her mother dutifully, a lifetime of training too hard to ignore. Once they had entered the parlor, Matilda shut the door behind her and then whirled on her daughter.
“What is the meaning of this?” she bellowed, smacking her lips as she gestured toward Grace.
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, you don’t? Lady Gilderspoon was here not less than twenty minutes ago, having just returned from a drive through the park. Do you know what she told me?”
Grace’s stomach flipped, and she pressed a hand to it to steady herself. Surely that old bat hadn’t witnessed the kisses she’d exchanged with Damon, had she?
“I knew it! You know exactly to what I am referring! She saw you with your hand on Malford’s arm!”
Grace’s shoulders relaxed. Thank God, that was all. Thank God.
“He is not suitable for you, Grace,” her mother went on.
Fire raced up Grace’s spine. “Why ever not?” she demanded. “You yourself have wanted me to marry for some time, to a man of appropriate station. I could hardly do better than a duke, now could I?”
Matilda’s mouth dropped. “Tell me there has been no discussion of a betrothal.”
“Of course not, Mother,” Grace snapped. “I have only known the man a very short time.”
Matilda drew up her shoulders. “You may not speak to me thusly, Grace Lavinia Mattersley! A child respects their elders.”
“I am sorry, Mother. But I am also no longer a child. Besides, did you not feel the same way about Eliza when she first appeared in our lives? You were determined she would never marry Deveric, and now look at you, besotted by your grandchildren and quite warm with Eliza herself.”
Matilda’s face softened at the mention of her grandchildren. “That is true,” she conceded. “But also different. Deveric is a man and whether we like it or not, men weather scandal better than women. Also, Eliza was a blank slate, an American with no known background. Malford, on the other hand, has quite the reputation, and none of it favorable.”
“None of it? With whom have you been speaking, Mother? I have not observed anything untoward in his behavior.” Besides those two kisses. But she would not mention those.
Matilda sniffed. “I am of old acquaintance with Lord Fillmore Blackbourne, Damon’s uncle. He has told me of Malford’s wild behavior as a child, of his unpredictable temper and physical … difficulties.”
Grace folded her arms over her chest and huffed. “And you believe the word of a man who’s just learned he’s no longer heir to the title and its wealth? A man who would accost another in such a public setting as a ball?”
“Fillmore Blackbourne has no need of wealth, I am sure. The whole family is well off. Not that we should be speaking of such matters. It isn’t proper.” Matilda studied her daughter for a long while.
Grace returned the stare, refusing to be cowed.
“Who have you become?” her mother said at length. “You are not the Grace I know.”
Grace walked over to the window, looking out at the street below. “Because I am not being docile and quiet, do you mean, Mama? Because I dare to speak out on behalf of something, someone, I believe in?”
Silence echoed behind her.
“I cannot countenance your acquaintance with him, Grace,” Matilda finally said.
“You do not know him.”
“Nor do you. I ask that you think of the family, of your sisters who are seeking suitable partners. Amara did enough damage.”
Grace snorted. “What about Chance? He cut a wide swath through London society before taking a commission to fight Napoleon.”
“Again, he is a man. Some things we can change, but how we were born is not one of them.”
Matilda’s footsteps echoed as she exited the room. Grace remained where she was for a long while, watching the carriages move along the street, men and women making their way toward whatever afternoon pursuits they sought.
“Exactly, Mother,” she whispered. “Exactly.”
DAMON RODE HOME, at peace for the first time in a long while. He’d truly enjoyed the ride with Grace’s sisters, who were both delightfully charming in different ways. But Grace—Grace was special. Was it possible he’d found someone who could accept him for who he was? His mother and his siblings cared for him, but they were family. Blood relations. Not that the blood connection had mattered to his father.
It was too early to know for sure if he and Grace were a match, wasn’t it? But they’d forged a connection in the carriage and not merely in the physical sense, although his desire for her was nearly overpowering. Her lustrous brown hair, her intoxicating eyes, that dimple when she smiled. How were suitors not beating down her door?
On the other hand, she was rather unconventional. Not that he had much experience with ladies, but she certainly wasn’t like any other society miss he had met in his month here in London. Thank God. Other women looked at him with fear.
Or desire. A few widows and even one married woman had made overtures at several points. A casual fling would not offend their sensibilities, they’d intimated, so long as it was kept private. He had declined each offer. He was not interested in being something someone had to hide. He’d had enough of that already.
Grace was different. She had no use for the conventions and restrictions accepted by everyone else. Not that she showed that outwardly. Her behavior was impeccable, so much so that at first she blended into the background. The perfect mouse. Now he understood that was intentional; she’d rather observe than be observed, rather have the freedom to be with her own thoughts than deal with the demands of others.
How admirable that she’d found a way to be herself in such a restrictive setting as the aristocracy. Her path wasn’t completely clear, however.
“I long to publish a novel,” she’d confessed, “but my mother will not hear of it. She insists it isn’t to be borne, a Mattersley publishing a novel, though many English women, even those from titled families, have done so.”
If Grace were his, he’d let her write to her heart’s content.
If she were mine.
The once-radical notion that he could form a true connection with someone and be accepted for exactly who he was no longer seemed an impossible dream. But what were Grace’s thoughts on an attachment? She hadn’t spoken against marriage, yet from listening to her this afternoon, it was clear she viewed it as one more restriction. Could he convince her otherwise? Did he want to?
After arriving home and leaving the carriage and horses to the care of the stable hands, Damon entered the foyer, satisfaction bringing a lightness to his step. He was almost looking forward to the dinner at the Marquess and Marchioness of Framington’s tonight. Would Grace be there? Why hadn’t he asked?
The lightness lasted until he rounded the corner into the library. His uncle sat in Damon’s favorite chair near the window, hands on his cane, the blackest expression on his face.
“Uncle,” Damon said in curt greeting. He strode to the desk and removed his gloves, pouring himself a tumbler of whiskey. He took a sip.
Fillmore gave him a baleful stare.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No.” His uncle shifted in his seat, careful to keep his foot elevated on the small stool in front of him. Too bad his gout hadn’t incapacitated the man more fully.
Damon sat in the grand chair behind the desk and propped his feet on its edge, knowing full well that was likely to set off his uncle. Fillmore Blackbourne had never approved of such casual behavior. Damon sipped again at the whiskey and waited.
“How dare you?” Fillmore roared. “How dare you?”
“How dare I what? Exist? I suppose you should take that up with my mother and father. Oh, wait. He’s dead.”
Fillmore’s face reddened to the point Damon seriously wondered if his uncle’s head were about to explode. “How dare you cut off my funds?”
“Oh, that.”
His uncle, he’d recently learned from his solicitors, had long received a sizable number of pounds from Silas annually as a form of allowance. With Fillmore owning the smaller but well-producing Arbour Manor near Bath, Damon saw no reason for his uncle to continue to need such a hefty sum. It was a drain on the Malford coffers. Plus, there was the matter of Fillmore’s treatment of Damon, both then and now. It’d not only been easy to cut off the funds, he’d relished it.
Fillmore pushed himself to his feet and hobbled over to stand in front of Damon, spittle flying from his mouth as he addressed his nephew.
“I am a Blackbourne!” he cried. “More Blackbourne than you have ever been or ever shall be. It should be me managing the estates, not you, you rotten excuse for a human being!”
Damon’s blood boiled. It took all he had not to rise and strike the man. “Indeed. But you are not Duke; I am. I make the decisions. And the sums you’ve required, especially in the last year, far exceed what could possibly be necessity. I don’t know why my mother put up with the increase. I’m assuming, rather, she didn’t know.”
Fillmore snarled. “I am a man of honor. I settle my debts.”
“Ah, so that is it. You have run up gambling losses?”
His uncle blanched. “A bad run at the tables, but my luck will turn. It always does.” He leaned onto the desk, propping himself up on one hand. “I am the rightful Malford heir. Not you. You low-down bastard. I will have what is mine.”
Damon swung his feet down and stood up, bracing his fists on the desk and leaning forward so that his face was mere inches from his uncle’s. “You may think whatever you wish about me, dearest Uncle, but mind my words: slur my mother’s name by calling me such again, and you will be dead at dawn.”
A cry from the entryway alerted Damon and Fillmore to his mother’s presence.
“Damon,” she said, her eyes beseeching.
Damon’s fingers itched to close around his uncle’s throat, but instead he gave his mother a stiff nod.
Fillmore backed off a step, his face paling. Beads of sweat dotted his brow. “You are the devil’s spawn,” he shouted, thwacking his cane across the desk. “Your father should have killed you years ago.”
His mother charged in, ablaze with fury. “You will leave our home. You are no longer welcome here,” she commanded her brother-in-law.
Fillmore’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I will have my retribution,” he vowed as he made his way to the door. “I will have what should have been mine.”
Damon’s mother collapsed into the chair Fillmore had occupied, tears streaming down her face. Damon remained where he was, his knuckles white against the desk from the pressure placed on them. He held still, fighting the urges surging through him. He would not twitch, would not tic. Not in front of his mother. He jerked his head once, hoping she’d not notice.
“I should have called him out,” he finally muttered as he sank back into his seat, his leg bouncing underneath the desk. At least she couldn’t see it. “I should have demanded satisfaction for the offense against my honor. Your honor.”
“No, Damon,” his mother said. “You need not stoop to his level.”
“A gentleman defends his honor, does he not?” Damon snarled. “Not that I would know, having had no one to teach me.”
Felicity Blackbourne sucked in a breath. “I take responsibility,” she whispered, sorrow evident in her voice.
Damon slammed his hand on the desk. “It was not you, Mother. It was him. My father.” He spat the name. “And my uncle.”
“But I should have tried harder, should have insisted…”
“So that he could beat you, too?”
She winced, her shoulders tightening.
“Did he beat you? Did that bastard beat you, too?” His voice had risen to a roar, and the muscles in his neck spasmed. Not now. Not now.
His mother rose and crossed to him. She laid a hand across the top of one of his, still balled against the desktop. “He is gone now, Damon. It does not matter.”
“It matters to me! Did he beat Adam?” Damon paled as a worse thought hit him. “Did he beat the girls?”
“No, no, never.”
“Then why?”
“Because … because I told him my father had also made movements like yours when he was a child. I said it to defend you, to show it wasn’t your fault. To show it wasn’t something evil. But it only made him angrier. He was furious I hadn’t revealed that beforehand. He thought I had deceived him.” She sighed. “But how was I to know? How was I to know that one of my poor children might also be afflicted in such a way? If I had—”
“You wouldn’t have wanted me?” His voice caught.
She rested a hand on his cheek, her eyes growing moist. “Heavens, that is not at all what I meant. I love you, Damon. I always have. I only wish I could have spared you the pain you needlessly endured all these years. It is not your fault. I failed you.”
Damon circled the desk and enfolded his mother in his arms. His own cheeks grew wet as they held each other. “The fault lies outside of both of us, Mother.”
It lay with the true demons: Silas. And Fillmore.