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  "We're not going to get along, you and I, are we?"

  "Good god, I hope not."

  Thus begins the acquaintance of Damon Deverell and a young woman he finds under his feet one evening, at a ball to which he isn't invited. She reminds him instantly of someone he knew before, but that would be impossible, of course, because she—the girl from his past—was entirely a construct of his own imagination. Wherever this disturbingly real woman came from, he's determined to maintain a cautious distance. But when he's hired to keep an eye on her, Damon's resolve to keep it "merely business" is soon threatened by some fresh-baked muffins, a pair of ankles he wishes he'd never seen, and a certain bold, independent American woman who boasts of a "very efficient right hook".

  Miss Epiphany "Pip" Piper has been sent into exile abroad, where her father hopes she'll learn to cool off her hot temper, acquire some elegant manners, and, hopefully, find a titled husband. Mr. Prospero "Smokey" Piper, of Louisiana and various other parts unknown and best unmentioned, claims to be the first ambitious and wealthy American businessman to think of this idea, but just like his very first boyhood attempt at building a whiskey still behind the family outhouse, this plan doesn't exactly turn out the way he expects either.

  And although explosions are inevitable, it's not his grandmother's drawers in danger this time.

  When these two stubborn young people— Damon the "merciless shark" of a lawyer, who likes his world in order, and the utterly disorderly Miss Piper, a "despicable girl of whom nothing could be made" find themselves thrown together by mischievous fate, it's not just a battle of the sexes or even a comedy of errors…

  It's a chemical reaction that will change both their worlds forever.

  Damon Undone

  The Deverells Book Five

  Jayne Fresina

  Twisted E Publishing, LLC

  www.twistedepublishing.com

  A TWISTED E- PUBLISHING BOOK

  Damon Undone

  The Deverells, Book Five

  Copyright © 2017 by Jayne Fresina

  Edited by Marie Medina

  First E-book Publication: April 2017

  Cover design by K Designs

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2017, Twisted Erotica Publishing.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  All characters engaged in sexual situations are over the age of 18.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part II

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Also By Jayne Fresina

  About the Author

  "This is not a romance."

  - Pip Piper, 1850

  Prologue

  1836

  "Trust nobody. Remember, there is no soul on earth who has your best interests at heart more than you."

  Remembering his father's stern advice, Damon Deverell, at just ten years of age, proudly kept his small chin up and his lips pressed tight, speaking to nobody, as the mail coach trundled slowly along the bumpy coast road, carrying him off to boarding school for the first time.

  With a wide, dry-eyed gaze, he peered out through the grimy window and quickly sought the little island that jutted up from the sea. There, clawing its way out of that rock, stood his father's house— the stark silhouette of a hunch-backed ogre, against the pink yolk of sunrise. Once the coach turned, the boy knew he wouldn't be able to see the familiar turrets any longer, so he stared now until his eyes were sore, taking it in and storing it within the young, but very orderly, vaults of his memory

  Somber-faced, he sat quietly, bouncing in the seat, his booted feet swinging, legs too short to touch the floor of the coach. In his lap he held a stack of school books and a package tied with string. Pushed into his hands at the last minute by Mrs. Blewett, his father's cook, he knew it contained an entire seed cake. It was her way of wishing him well on his journey, without making a fuss, without words or soppy gestures of which his father would be scornful. Nobody ever wanted his father's contempt or disapproval, for he was the greatest, wisest, strongest man in the world, the undisputed ruler of that little kingdom on the rock.

  Soon the bend in the road would come and the castle over the causeway would disappear. His breath misting the glass, Damon pressed his face closer to the window, watching.

  There she was, standing on the edge of the cliff, her small, thin shape lit by the awakening sun, her long hair blowing slowly in the breeze off the sea— so slowly, the gently curled locks seemed to be reaching into the air, like tentacles, lamenting this goodbye, begging him not to leave. She raised her hand as if it were heavy, and waved.

  He knew, in his heart, this was the last time he'd ever see her. They'd both have to get used to the idea.

  Together they'd enjoyed many escapades along these cliffs and beaches, but this adventure was one he must undertake alone, leaving her behind, even if she was the best, most loyal first mate a bloodthirsty pirate captain ever had.

  He had to give her up. Damon didn't have time for those games anymore.

  His father said he was a clever lad and that great things would come his way if he worked hard at school. Other folk told him he was the most like his father of all the Deverell "cubs".

  Although he might be nothing more yet than a "thwarted stump"— as his sixteen-year-old brother called him— one day he would grow tall enough that his feet would not only touch the floor of this carriage, but he'd be able to stretch his legs right across to the other seat, the way he'd seen his father do. People would have to curve their necks back to look up at him.

  So what use would that little girl be to him then? Boys weren't little forever, and grown-ups didn't have make-believe friends. Had no one told her that?

  Still she waved, not ready to lose her friend yet. And now she ran, barefoot in the long, reedy grass, stumbling and tripping, trying to catch up with the mail coach.

  Daft 'apeth, as Mrs. Blewett would say.

  Damon turned sharply away from the window, remembering how proud his father was that he never cried.

  He wouldn't look back at her again, he decided.

  The small boy rubbed his chest where it felt hollow and achy. The new shirt and waistcoat itched under his smart, blue cutaway, the sleeves of which were too long for his arms, coming to a halt just short of his fingertips. His father said he must grow into it. His father talked a vast deal about what must be for his fourth son, as if there was never any doubt.

  Here came the bend now, and after that the coach horses would pick up speed. Damon gritted his teeth, his jaw hurting, his throat tight, as he felt the thunder of hooves sweeping him away from her, away from childhood games and into manhood, which was not only a black tunnel of intrepid mystery, but a
lso a place of stern expectations to be fulfilled. Anxiety thumped hard through his small body as his legs swung from side to side.

  He took a deep breath and, rather than fall prey to the warm, sympathetic smile of the elderly lady seated opposite, he closed his eyes tight.

  Mrs. Blewett's cake did not survive the journey. It was crushed to crumbs beneath his sweaty, determined grip. But that resolute little boy endured. And he did grow into his coat. Indeed, within a year he'd outgrown it, setting a remarkable pace for achievement in everything he did. The other coat, with its pockets still full of all the usual schoolboy treasures, such as conkers, marbles and bits of useful string, was set aside for one of his younger brothers. Only one item was transferred to the new coat, where, folded neatly, it was tucked inside a notebook.

  It remained with him ever after, a solitary keepsake of a long lost childhood.

  Part I

  Nonesuch and Master Grumbles

  Chapter One

  May 1850

  London

  An evening out in society for Miss Epiphany Clodovea Piper— known to her friends as "Pip"— was seldom anything to be excited about. If left to her own preferences, she would stay by the fire, fling her corset into the farthest corner, light a cigar, drink a glass of bourbon and read something entirely unsuitable— the sort of behavior that, so she'd been warned, would lead to hysteria of her feminine parts, not to mention a "wandering womb".

  At this point she really wouldn't blame her womb for running off to join the circus. She'd pack it a basket of chicken. Would it send her letters, she wondered, like those her sister used to write whenever she "ran away from home" as a child.

  Dear P;

  The food here is poor, but the company a vast improvement. I bet you are all sorry I left, so next time you will be sweeter to me when I have a pimple. Do send my music box, my new muff and some of Delphine's taffy to Billy-Joe Bullard's tree-house...You may tell pa that I shall be gone quite some time and he is not to look for me as he will never guess where I am...

  But, for now, none of Pip's body parts had worked up enough sisterly vexation against her to go exploring on their own. Not even as far as the nearest neighbor's tree-house.

  And quiet evenings in with her own entertainment were out of the question. At the age of one and twenty, with a strong constitution and most of her wits, Pip was supposed to be in want of a husband, and there were several folk determined to find her one, whether she liked it or not.

  "You may not be the prettiest or most congenial of creatures, especially compared to your sisters," her Aunt Du Bois often remarked, cheerfully pragmatic as ever, "but you have the plain essentials, Epiphany. You are not fundamentally lacking. There is no reason why you can't find a man, especially with your dowry. Much that is unfortunate can be overlooked in a bride with adequate birthing hips and a good dowry."

  To which she would reply with equal joviality, "And to think, I feared the age of romance had died with the great poets Byron and Shelley."

  Sadly the sarcasm went over her aunt's head. "You don't need a poet, ma cher," she assured Pip. "You need a man of action, not one who wastes his time, and yours, sitting in the bath, pondering his shriveled fingertips, drinking all the best Bordeaux and thinking up flowery words that rhyme. And when he is not in the bath, he is flirting shamelessly with your friends, setting light to the drapes when he leaves a candle untended, falling into the magnolia bushes, and staining your Chinese silk dressing robe, which he has lain about in all day and has no right to wear."

  "That seems...curiously specific."

  "Bombastic fools with a fondness for frills on their shirts and the sound of their own voice. No, no! What you need is a practical fellow— one who can do his duty as necessary, but never meddles in the household accounts and, most importantly, is outdoors as much as possible. Men have a tendency to track mud about the house when they come indoors, so it is useful to find some excuse to keep them out. Most enjoy the fresh air and exercise. It is beneficial for their health and their mood, and it puts them to sleep sooner."

  "I suppose if confined inside too long they gnaw upon the furnishings."

  "But don't you worry, ma cher," said her aunt, not listening as usual. "We shall find someone for you. There is many a mossy stone yet unturned. You'd be surprised what one can find lurking beneath."

  No, she really wouldn't. She'd met a lot of toads already.

  Although Pip could do nothing but admire her aunt's enthusiasm, which remained remarkably undaunted in the face of several setbacks, she hoped, eventually, to be left in peace. Once she was sunk into eccentric decrepitude, which was not many years ahead— she worked artfully toward it now— nobody, not even her father and sisters, would surely want her exhibited about the place, except perhaps as a cautionary tale. In the meantime, to keep everybody happy, she went through the motions. Like a bowel, she thought wryly.

  Tonight, here she was, yet again, about to enter the fray.

  As they converged with other guests to ascend a wide flight of marble stairs, her aunt whispered on the apex of a tense breath, "Lord Boxall would be an excellent catch for you, and his godmother promised to manage the introduction this evening." The lady's excitement cooled only somewhat when, in the riotous melee, a tipsy gentleman almost knocked her off her feet and a chattering young girl's elbow struck her in the forehead.

  "Mais! Look at this crowd! I did not expect so many. Come see, cher!" Rubbing her wounded forehead with one hand, she gestured with the other for her niece to stand closer. Rising on tip-toe to gain a better view over the heads of the swelling crowd, she exclaimed, "Look about you. Lord Boxall is a tall young man, vayan, with good hair."

  "Well, that's not too broad a description," Pip muttered. "At least we can be sure he has a head, since there is hair attached to it."

  "He is fluent in Latin, enjoys the harp and has just returned home from a year abroad. His godmother thinks it is time he married. His first name is Bertie, and he is the son of a Marquess. What else could you possibly need to know? Marriages are often brokered successfully on far less information."

  Her aunt was, of course, well versed in the art of marriage and husbands, having disposed of several herself. Not all of them her own. Queenie Piper Du Bois had spent twenty years touring Europe on her deceased first husband's fortune, picking up a few other lonely, elderly noblemen along the way and brightening the last few years of their dotage, whether they made the arrangement official or not. Her last marriage— to a young man for once— had lasted only five months before Remy Du Bois, a charming, restless rake, left her a widow again. This appeared to have put her off marriage at last. Perhaps it had much to do with the fact that when he died she discovered that her "beloved Remy" had spent more money than he ever earned, living entirely on promissory notes. The shock of learning that everything he owned was begged for, borrowed or stolen, had resulted in a broad streak of silver through Queenie's dark hair. At least, she blamed that vivid, rather handsome lightning flare on her last husband's antics. But she faced this tragedy as she did any other, by blotting away her tears, tightening her corset another inch, and with that formidable Piper spirit, continuing onward, head high and bright eyes shrewdly on the lookout for another opportunity. Just not another husband for herself.

  "I was sore bereft when ma cher Remy passed on," she liked to say with a dramatic hand to her brow. "I shall never find another dear fellow like him. I am now resolved to eternal widowhood."

  For the time being she had settled in England, referring to it as her adopted home, and she already thought of herself as an expert on London society and manners, even going so far as to speak, at times, with a frighteningly inept semblance of an English accent. Nobody had yet told her how bizarre it sounded. Her English acquaintances were either too horrified or too polite to mention it, and her American nieces, accustomed to her eccentricities, merely found it amusing. Pip, especially, enjoyed the awkward, confused glances caused by their aunt's Louisiana British pa
tois.

  "I understand Lord Boxall is, like you, a little unconventional," the lady added. "I doubt you will find this one disappointing. I'm sure he'll suit you en plin!" This confident assertion of a perfect match, based on nothing more than a random friend's vague recommendation, appeared to be the final word as far as Aunt Du Bois was concerned. She turned away to gossip avidly with another lady and paid her charges no more attention for now.

  The crush of well-dressed folk on the staircase became very hot and discontented. For some reason the forward flow had trickled to a complete stop and now the unruly horde was stuck in place, only able to bulge sideways or, with some pushing and shoving, reverse the way they had come in. Pip would gladly have done the latter, if it were not for the sisters flanking her— a formation that was probably deliberate.