CHAPTER FIVE
REXBOROUGH BALL, LONDON – EARLY APRIL, 1814
Damon whirled.
A young woman sat in a cushioned nook near the window, dressed in a rather simple gown of pale green. Gorgeous sable hair swept up in a simple chignon highlighted her elegant neck. Kind chocolate brown eyes watched him, and her lips curved into a delicate smile. She set the book she’d been reading on her lap.
“I hate it when my sisters surprise me when I think I’m alone, so I thought I owed you the same courtesy.”
“Who are you?” Damon demanded, his mind racing. She’d seen him. She’d seen him at his worst, when his body wasn’t under his control and he’d twisted and turned as if truly demon-possessed. Apprehension flooded through him. What if she revealed his secret, that the tics that had plagued him as a child were not completely gone? What if it started again—the accusations, the avoidance?
She rose and approached him. No trace of repulsion reflected in her eyes. “Grace Mattersley. Sister to Claremont.”
“Claremont,” he repeated, stalling as he tried to place the name. So many blasted titles to remember. A Christian name teased at him. Derrick, perhaps? Or Deveric? Yes, that was it. Deveric Mattersley, Duke of Claremont.
“Damon,” he said, cocking his chin in the air to disguise his unease. To go on the attack was often the strongest defense, was it not? “Blackbourne. Duke of Malford.”
Damn. He should have simply said Malford. That’s how it was done. Not giving one’s Christian name, not as member of the ton and with certainty not as a duke. He might be rusty, but he remembered the rules. Most of them. Still, she’d introduced herself by her given name. Was it any wonder he’d done the same?
He did not like how off-kilter this stranger set him.
Grace—Lady Grace—smiled, revealing dainty white teeth. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. But I’d best leave you to yourself, lest we be discovered here together.”
She was right; it wouldn’t do to be caught in a compromising position with a young lady of the ton. Even one as delectable as this.
A satisfied smirk spread across his face. “Well, if I had to be caught with someone.”
He inched toward her, coming to a stop a mere hand’s span from her face. Her chest rose and fell, nervousness emanating from her.
“What?” His smirk turned into a sneer, her obvious discomfort upsetting for some reason. “You wouldn’t wish people to know you were associating with the Demon Duke? For that’s what they call me, as I’m sure you have heard, now that you know my name.”
He ogled her up and down in an intentionally rude fashion. What are you doing? Why are you trying to frighten her?
So that she would run. So that she wouldn’t want anything more to do with the odious Duke of Malford. Because his body wanted everything to do with her and that was unacceptable.
“Would you?” he added, his voice sharp. He expected her to cower, to back away. That was what most others did when he brought out his beastly side.
She didn’t.
She looked him full in the face, those chocolate eyes nearly sucking the soul out of him. Warmth radiated from them—not sensual, but rather sympathetic, as if she knew what he was doing and felt sorry for him.
Sorry would not do. It would not do at all.
Quick as lightning, he swooped in, his hand wrapping around her neck, his face dipping down until he brushed his lips across hers. He waited for a moment, gauging her response. He wasn’t such a monster that he would truly force a woman; he merely wanted to shake her up a little. And give her reason not only to keep their meeting a secret, but also to keep far away from him.
Beautiful young debutantes were not in his plans for the future—no sense pining after something he could never have. And he couldn’t ever have someone like her. How could he marry someone, perhaps even have children, if there was the chance said children would suffer from his affliction? No, far better to maintain the monkish lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed.
And yet, as her lips opened shyly beneath his, as she leaned into him, other parts of his body waged war against his well-thought out plan. He wanted to inhale her, to absorb her, to touch and caress every part of her soft, delicious, and strangely unafraid body. He deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking out to taste her mouth. Would she run in fear now? Reject him for this depraved behavior? His heart constricted at the thought.
She made a soft sound, half sigh, half whimper, and opened her mouth more fully. Their tongues wrapped in liquid embrace, and he ran his fingers into her hair, clutching her to his body.
The logs in the fireplace settled, and the crackling noise startled him back to reality. He broke off the kiss and stepped away, his fingers going to his mouth.
“I—” he began, but stopped. What could he say? He wanted to apologize, to beg forgiveness for his brutish behavior. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted her to think him awful, so he wouldn’t be tempted by those heavenly eyes and luscious mouth. He wanted her not to despise him, not to reject him like so many others. What was wrong with him? The surge of emotions overwhelmed him. He needed to run, to flee, to clear his head. Again.
“Don’t worry,” she said as she moved toward the door. “Your … secret … is safe with me.”
“Secret?” He whirled to face her again. Damn. She had seen. She’d seen his tics. Of course she’d seen. How could she not, with how he’d been carrying on?
She touched his arm briefly, the lightest bit of reassurance. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”
With that, she exited the room, closing the door behind her.