CHAPTER SIX
REXBOROUGH BALL, LONDON – EARLY APRIL, 1814
Grace leaned against the wall, her racing heart robbing her of breath. She’d nearly fallen from her seat when he’d burst into the library. She’d hoped to have the room to herself, to read and to avoid the crush of people in the main ballroom. She’d get an earful from her mother later on, perhaps her sisters, as well, but she hadn’t had it in her this evening to engage in small talk and smile and simper.
She’d finished several of Aesop’s familiar tales and started The Count of Oltranto when the door had whipped open and the devil himself had entered. Not the true devil, naturally, but that man, Malford. Damon Blackbourne. So sinfully handsome in all that black, and with such a look of wrath on his face. Was it any wonder she at first believed Lucifer himself had come calling?
And then the poor fellow had had some sort of fit. What else could she call it? His fists had clenched, his cheeks had spasmed, as he’d attempted to control his body, but his neck had jerked and his nose moved and his whole form had seemed to pulse to an unheard rhythm.
Perhaps she should have been frightened, witnessing him move in such a way. Her old nurse would have crossed herself and whispered against demons. But Grace wasn’t scared. Instead, sympathy had burst upon her for this large man fighting what appeared to be a hard battle. The desperation in his eyes when he’d finally seen her, like that of a cornered deer, had mirrored the entrapment she often felt.
But this man was no meek deer. He was the panther she’d first thought him to be, sleek and black, untold power hidden in those ferocious blue eyes. And then he had pounced, kissing her when she’d least expected it. She ought to have been outraged, she supposed. He had no business being so familiar with her person. And yet, he’d given her a choice. He would have stopped. She’d sensed his momentary hesitation.
What had come over her? It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed before, but this kiss had been different. Somehow, in that instance, it had felt right. Maybe Mama is correct. Maybe those novels do have a bad influence on me. She exhaled. It wasn’t as if the man was Fitzwilliam Darcy, despite his brooding demeanor. She didn’t know him at all—he was as likely to be a scoundrel as a hero. Wasn’t he?
She’d heard of him before tonight, of course. Emmeline had regaled them with tales of the mysterious new Duke of Malford, returned from the grave. Nobody knew where he’d been or what he’d been doing these last seventeen years.
There was no doubt he was a Malford; those blue eyes gave it away. He looked a great deal like his mother, actually. What had happened? Why had he been away?
“Some say he went mad and was locked up in an asylum. Or was banished for unnatural acts,” Emmeline had exclaimed in the carriage.
“What kind of acts would those be?” Grace hadn’t been able to help herself; she’d had to ask, merriment crinkling her cheeks.
“A lady never speaks of such things.”
“Especially when a lady knows not what those things are.”
Matilda had hushed them, but that hadn’t stopped Emmeline and Rebecca from whispering amongst themselves.
With those rumors and the violent physical convulsions she’d witnessed, why hadn’t she been frightened? Grace didn’t know. Her instinct had been to soothe, not to scream. The poor man had seemed lost and bewildered. As she so often did herself.
And then that kiss. She traced her lower lip with her finger. To her surprise, part of her—a large part—wanted to go back into the library and kiss him again, to experience once more the electricity, the magnetism that had flowed between them for one brief moment.
Smoothing her skirts, she made her way to the main ballroom, grateful the door behind her hadn’t opened and the mysterious Malford hadn’t emerged. She adjusted her hair, which his hands had loosened from its pins. The man would not appreciate her sympathy, nor her vision of him as some sort of wounded animal. Men preferred to be viewed as strong and invincible. Lord knew her father had never admitted fault.
“Grace! Where have you been?” Rebecca rushed to her side. “You’re missing all the fun. I’ve danced with Lord Brisbane and Lord Evensham, as well as Lord Emerlin. And what of the Duke of Malford? Clad all in black, like a vengeful spirit. And that skull pin!” Rebecca shuddered. “You missed it. He nearly came to blows with his uncle in this very room!”
Grace frowned at her sister. She hadn’t seen whatever altercation Becca referenced, but still. “A vengeful spirit? What nonsense! The man is in mourning for his father and brother, you goose. I was right here and saw him myself. He’s as human as the rest of us.”
Rebecca dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “If you say so. Did I tell you Lord Emerlin has asked to waltz with me? Two dances in one evening. Mama will be so scandalized!”
She grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her through the crush, weaving toward the other side of the room, where Emmeline stood with her friend, Lady Adelaide. It took every bit of Grace’s willpower not to look behind her, to see if her duke had appeared.
DAMON SANK into the settee in front of the fire, threading his fingers through his hair. What had just happened? He’d come into the room seeking respite and refuge, a place to let his body have full rein. And had ended up kissing the most heavenly female he’d ever laid eyes on.
Had Hobbes been here, he surely would have greeted such an assertion with a snort. “It’s not as if you’ve spent much time around women, living in that God-forsaken abbey,” the man would likely have said.
Regardless, no one had caught his attention the way the little mouse reading in the library had.
Mouse? Where had that come from? She was no mouse; she was a beauty. A lioness. But something in her quiet demeanor, not to mention that she’d been hiding in the library, suggested she didn’t consider herself such. He’d guess she far preferred a quieter, simpler lifestyle. Or was that hopeful thinking?
He shook his head. What had gotten into him, imagining a nice, quiet life, with a nice, quiet wife? With Grace Mattersley as his wife? Good God, the unsettling events of the evening—of the past months—were clearly having a most deleterious effect. They’d unbalanced him. There was no other reason he would be thinking of Grace Mattersley as an option, much less a marriageable one.
But she wasn’t afraid of you. She saw you, really saw you, and wasn’t afraid.
“That doesn’t matter. By tomorrow, my uncle will have spread the tale through all the corners of London,” he muttered. Even if families still welcomed him into their homes—an homage to his very respectable mother and sisters, no doubt—they would never entertain the thought of one of their daughters marrying him. It just wasn’t done.
He sank lower in the settee. How long could he hide before his sisters got worried? Or worse, how long before some incorrigible rakehell tried something as atrocious as kissing one of them in a darkened room? Damon scowled. It had been a some since he’d had to think of anyone but himself. He stood up, adjusting his waistcoat as he reluctantly prepared to rejoin the ball.
Duty called.