The Demon Duke Page 2

  He’d given his jerking, twitching behaviors full rein in hopes they’d drive off this man some fifteen years his senior, convinced Hobbes’s true purpose was that of a spy, to determine if Damon ought to be committed to an asylum.

  Then again, Hobbes hadn’t initially cared for him, either, resentful of being sent to the ends of the Earth, or at least of England, to tend to a wild young man little more than half his age.

  But both had grown to respect each other: Damon for Hobbes’s ability to ignore his rages and movements, for Hobbes’s refusal to treat him as anything less than a full peer, and for Hobbes’s wry sense of humor in poking fun at both of their situations, abandoned to each other in the middle of nowhere.

  Hobbes, meanwhile, expressed sincere admiration for Damon’s intellect. “You are far superior to your father and brother, my lord, in nature and ability. Never did care for His Grace, if you don’t mind my saying, and Lord Adam, though a pleasant enough chap, simply did not apply himself to life, content to float along behind others.”

  But still, despite the instruction, despite everything Damon had learned since his return to Thorne Hill—and he’d thrown himself into mastering every aspect, determined to excel, to prove his father wrong, to prove to himself he was more than his affliction—his insides quaked at the thought of making his appearance in London.

  He would not show it, however. Never would he let others beat him down again.

  Laughter floated up the stairs, jarring him from his thoughts as his two sisters entered the hallway below. Spying him, Lady Persephone, or Sephe, rather, called up in her clear, pleasant voice. “Damon! Are you coming?”

  His other sister, Lady Cassandra, tossed him a grin, one eerily similar to his own. Cassie’s light blue eyes, mirrors to his, flashed at him as he descended the stairs. It was always a shock to see her; were she not obviously much younger, she and he might have been mistaken for twins.

  Thank goodness he had taken after his mother in looks. Had he looked like his father, that big barrel of a Viking descendant, nightmares would have dogged him every time he looked in the mirror. Cassie had their father’s blonde locks, but her blue eyes spoke of their mother’s influence. Those ice-blue eyes were considered a hallmark of the family, for all four of the Blackbourne siblings had them.

  These two women are why I am here.

  Damon descended the stairs, the side of his mouth cocked up in his customary grin. He had missed them in his own way. What would it have been like to grow up together? To have had a family he could count on? Though these past months had allowed them to get to know each other, the connection was too new for him to put much faith in it.

  Cassie had had her first Season two years ago at eighteen, but she’d refused every offer because she wanted to wait for her sister, who was two years her junior.

  “I need Sephe to be out so we can take the London Season by storm, together,” she’d insisted.

  His mother grumbled over that—“The expense! And what if she’d missed a most excellent match?” But the love for her daughters shone in her eyes every time she looked at them.

  It shone for him, too. But he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust her. His mother regretted the past, regretted not standing up to his father, regretted the lost years with her son. She’d said as much many times since he’d arrived, her eyes haunted, shadowed with that look of fear he himself had often borne as a child. Had his father raised a hand to her, too?

  If the bastard weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself. He’d fantasized over the years of doing to his father what the man had done to him, of beating the man to a pulp. He’d dreamed of returning from Blackwood Abbey and presenting himself to his father in triumph, proving he’d become every inch a man and more. He’d longed for it, that sense of revenge.

  And yet he’d fought it, too. The world might believe him to be the devil he’d been called, but a part of him, buried deep within the recesses of his own heart, wanted to prove he was different from Silas Blackbourne; that the evil in the old man’s mind hadn’t warped his, as well.

  It had, of course. How could it not? A ten-year-old boy sent to live in the wilds of northern England for something he couldn’t control? How a parent could simply rid themselves of a child like that, Damon didn’t know. He himself had grown quite attached to the cook’s daughter, the little girl he’d held when she was just a babe. He’d watched her grow up, moving from winsome toddler to young schoolgirl, delighting in her milestones along with her mother. He missed her, that young girl, and she wasn’t even his child. How could his parents have sent him away?

  He knew their answer. Knew his father had been convinced Damon was possessed, had had an evil in him.

  “What else could explain it, boy?” his father had roared. “Be grateful it’s only Yorkshire and not an asylum.”

  What else could explain the jerks of Damon’s body, the tossing of his head and the flaring of his nostrils, over and over again? The blinking of his eyes and the grunting that flared up, especially when he was angry or scared? How he hated himself, how his own body betrayed him, taking on a life of its own. His movements had scared the servants, had scared even his little sisters. Whispers of demons and curses had floated around him for as long as he could remember.

  It hadn’t always been like that. Sometimes the feelings had calmed. Sometimes he’d had complete control of his body. But when he hadn’t, it’d been a nightmare, a nightmare of emotions and urges he couldn’t suppress. No remedies applied had made any difference, though his father had paraded numerous physicians past him. Nearly boiling-hot baths, bleeding by leeches, and antispasmodic pills of dubious content had made not a whit of difference. One of the doctors had called the painful twitches “tics,” and Damon a “ticcer.”

  His father had called him much worse, horrible names too awful to repeat. “No son of mine will be so out of control, so lacking in self-discipline, so beleaguered by such irregularities!” Silas had shouted on more than one occasion.

  How often had his father beaten him black and blue with a switch, commanding Damon to stop? If Damon had had any lasting control over his own body, did his father truly think he wouldn’t have? What boy would have continued with such “nasty habits,” as Silas termed them, if he’d had a choice?

  His mother had wept each time she’d applied salve to Damon’s back, held him close and whispered words of love into his hair, even as he’d railed against her, against his father, against everyone. Against himself.

  “I know, my son. I know the truth. You can’t help it. I know.” She’d repeated the words to him time and again.

  But the only time she’d said such words to Silas Blackbourne, he’d shouted her down with such ferocity she’d never attempted again. And she hadn’t stopped Silas from sending Damon away.

  He walked into the main dining hall. His mother, seated at the far end, was a pale and shriveled version of the woman he’d known as a child. His heart constricted. What was left of it, that was.

  “I am so sorry, Damon, my love.” Over and over she’d said the words the day he’d arrived at Thorne Hill. Often had she repeated them in the months since. Part of him wanted to fall at her feet like that lost little boy and beg her for love. Wanted to forgive her when she professed her grief and guilt over his childhood.

  The other part wanted to run. Return to Yorkshire. She was no mother. Was she not at least half as much a monster as his father? She’d let him go. And only when he’d written of his victories over his movements, insisting they were now well controlled and had been for some time, had she hinted at the possibility of reconciliation. “Perhaps when Adam is Duke,” she’d written once. But never again.

  Now he was Duke, his father and brother gone in one fateful, unexpected moment.

  If only Adam had married and had had an heir. Then Damon would still be at the abbey, still be in all that was comfortable and familiar.

  “Damon.” His mother greeted him warmly, though her face looked wan in her w
idow’s weeds.

  “Mother.”

  His sisters sat down, ignoring the tension in the room. Or did they not feel it? How he envied their light-hearted approach to the world. How different their childhoods had been.

  “The weather is warming,” he said as the first course was laid. “I suppose it is time. Tomorrow, we pack for London.”

  His sisters burst into furious conversation with each other; his mother smiled, animation lighting her face for the first time in a long while.

  Only he, apparently, was marching into the gates of Hell.

  Chapter Four

  Rexborough Ball, London – Early April, 1814

  Grace squeezed nearer to the wall, surveying the crowded room from her cramped corner. Bodies moved past and around each other as everyone jockeyed for position. It was the first grand ball of the Season, a mad crush at the Marquess of Rexborough’s expansive London estate, and there was hardly space for dancing, although the orchestra played gaily across the floor.

  If only she could go home. Her sister Emmeline danced by with Lord Everton, a vivacious smile lighting her face. Even Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she carefully executed her steps opposite the handsome Marquess of Emerlin.

  Why could Grace not feel the same excitement?

  Matilda, standing next to Grace, beamed at her other two daughters, delighting in their successes in snagging eligible men so early in the evening.

  “They’re merely dancing, Mother. No need to plan the weddings.”

  The dowager duchess sniffed. “At least they’re dancing. You have begged off three invitations so far.”

  “Lord Oglesby has two left feet, quite possibly three, if my toes have any say. Lord Featherstone is old enough to be my grandfather. And Lord Emerlin only asked because you wished him to. You know he’s had his sights on Becca for waltzing.”

  Her mother aired her face with the elaborate fan in her right hand. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad match. Though he is so much her elder.”

  “A marquess and the eventual heir to a dukedom. Not such a bad match, indeed. And ten is not so many years. Many a young lady has married a far older gentleman.”

  Matilda Mattersley opened her mouth as if to respond when a commotion started amongst the ball goers. They gave a collective gasp as a man entered the room. He was clad entirely in black—black pantaloons, black coat and waistcoat, even an ebony shirt and cravat. Thick black hair tousled wildly over his forehead. Two young ladies next to Grace tittered.

  “He is of fine countenance,” one gushed.

  “Who is he?” said the other.

  A matron broke in, speaking sharply. “Did you not hear him announced? That’s the Duke of Malford.” She made the sign of the cross. “They say he is a devil. They call him the Demon Duke.”

  “Really?” the first girl exclaimed.

  The older woman slapped the girl’s knuckles with her fan. “Don’t even think about it, Alice. Come, let us seek some lemonade.”

  The girl obediently followed the matron, no doubt her mother, through the mass of people.

  “The Demon Duke,” Grace murmured.

  The man moved farther into the room. His grin was wicked, but his shoulders tight, his eyes … sad. Did he notice how people edged away? How whispers raced across the room? How eyes peeped at him while pretending not to do so?

  How could he not?

  Sympathy flooded through Grace. “He doesn’t look devilish to me,” she said to her mother. “He looks uncomfortable. Like he wishes he were anywhere else but here.” How she could relate.

  Matilda sucked in her breath. “However he looks is not your concern. The Duke of Malford is not an option.”

  “I do not think you have anything to fear, Mother. A man such as that would never be interested in a mouse such as me.”

  A smile leaked through the dowager duchess’s pursed lips. “A mouse, indeed. It’s good to see this mouse knows to stay away from a cat such as that. He looks rather feral.”

  He is a panther, sleek and black. With the mien of a lion.

  “If you’ll pardon me, Mama, I am in need of the retiring room.”

  Grace slipped from the room. With everyone’s attention on the Duke, this was a good time to sneak away to the library, as she’d done at Rexborough balls a time or two before.

  She pulled a book from the shelf. Ah yes. Aesop’s fables. She settled in near a window, her thoughts on the man in the ballroom.

  Hadn’t Aesop said it was the mouse who saved the lion?

  Though he affected an air of nonchalance, Damon’s cravat dug into his neck, his hands itched inside his gloves, and as gasps echoed through the room and the weight of what seemed a million eyes fell on him, he wanted nothing more than to leave. Especially since it was not his lovely sisters at his side, but his appearance that had them tittering.

  They’d all thought him dead.

  “Your father told everyone you’d passed away,” his mother had confessed, shame wringing tears from her eyes. “I’ve had to admit it wasn’t the case—but one look at you and they’ll know. They’ll know you are a true Blackbourne.”

  So he’d died all those years ago—and now had come back to life. At least in the eyes of the ton. A sneer slipped across his face. Let them think that. Let them call him the Demon Duke. He knew the talk. He knew his return to London had set the gossip mill grinding, that the very mystery of him had sparked numerous rumors since the family’s arrival in London last week.

  Cassie tutted at a wide-eyed debutante who stood as if transfixed in front of Damon. “He doesn’t bite.”

  The young woman skittered off, her eyes bulging, though whether in response to him or his sister’s rather rude comment was unclear.

  His eyes flashed in amusement. “You needn’t defend me.”

  “It’s just silly, all these people acting as if you’re some kind of ghost.”

  “Or monster,” he said.

  Sephe snickered from his other side. “Monster. Posh. You are perfectly delightful, as the last several months have proven.” She linked her arm through his. “Although I am sorry for this attention, Damon. I’m sure you can’t enjoy it. If only Mother—”

  “Our mother cannot be here because she is still in mourning. I know. That is why it has fallen to me to escort you through the Season.”

  “Well, it’s possible Aunt Martha could have done that,” Cassie admitted. “I think Mother wanted to make it up to you by letting you take your rightful position in society, wanted to show that we as a family accept you.”

  Damon’s jaw clenched. Fury snaked up his back. He didn’t have to be here? He could be home, in solitude, instead of at the center of attention amongst people he didn’t know, people who gaped at him as if he were Lucifer himself?

  “Though likely she would rue the current level of attention,” Sephe said. “I doubt it shall last long, however.” She raised her chin as if to bolster her assertion.

  It was true the tittering had died down somewhat. Several young dandies eyed the sisters appreciatively. No one could deny the Blackbourne ladies cut fine figures. Cassie, her coloring so similar to Damon’s, was clad in a cream gown trimmed in black (fitting for half-mourning, or so he was told) that enhanced the blue of her eyes. Sephe had opted for a lavender confection that made her complexion shine and complemented her nearly white-blonde hair to perfection.

  “Do I need to stay by your sides the entire evening?” Damon muttered, hot under the gazes of the people around him. Or perhaps it was the numerous candles ablaze above them. The room was overly warm, but that was no surprise considering how many people occupied it.

  “I see Cousin Daphne,” Sephe cried out. “I didn’t know she would be here. I thought she was still in Bath!”

  A tiny young woman with dark hair smiled from across the room as she gave Sephe a wave. The older man standing next to her, however, was not smiling. He fixed his eyes on Damon, scowling fiercely. The longer the man stared, the ruddier his comple
xion grew.

  “That’s Uncle Fillmore,” Cassie said.

  “I know.” Damon grimaced. The man looked so much like his father it was like seeing a ghost. Ironic, perhaps, considering it was Damon who’d allegedly returned from the dead. His whole body went rigid as his uncle approached. Though shorter and smaller than Damon, the man’s demeanor radiated hostility. Did his uncle mean to do him bodily harm?

  It wouldn’t have been the first time. Fillmore, in fact, was the one who’d encouraged Silas to send Damon away. Damon had overheard them arguing about it in his father’s study, years ago.

  “The boy is a menace,” his uncle had insisted. “A plague upon this family. You do not want his like contaminating us.”

  His father’s response had been inaudible.

  “He must go,” his uncle had persisted. “Perhaps … an accident. With his rages and afflictions, no one would question that.”

  “Are you telling me to murder my own son?” Damon’s father had roared.

  Apparently whipping me within inches of my life is acceptable, but killing me is not, Damon had thought. I suppose I should be grateful you draw the line somewhere, Father.

  He had sat, shaking, in the hallway. Surely the jerking of his head, the clearing of his throat, the occasional noises he emitted without his knowledge weren’t enough to damn him as unfit to live. Were they? Was he truly so evil his own family would rid themselves of him?

  Damon stared at the man in front of him. His hands itched to close around Fillmore Blackbourne’s throat, to take out all of his anger and hurt and disgust on this shadow of his father before him. He clenched his fists, his teeth grinding as he willed control to return.

  “Damon,” his uncle bit out with a terse nod.

  “I believe you should address me as Your Grace,” Damon responded evenly.

  Fillmore’s face reddened even further. Perhaps he would succumb to an apoplectic fit and spare Damon this unpleasant interaction.