Till Dawn with the Devil

by Alexandra Hawkins

  Juliana laughed at something the dark-haired woman had said, and once again Alexius was enthralled by his wife’s beauty. A breeze caught the strands of golden-blond hair that had slipped from its confines. The ends floated like dandelion puffs. Juliana absently captured the errant strands and tucked them behind her ear.

  As if sensing his perusal, his wife glanced up at the window and grinned. Her smile, artless and full of love, warmed him even at a distance. Alexius waved. Juliana blew him a kiss before she and Lady Frances continued their stroll through Reign’s gardens.

  “Did you even hear what I said, Sin?” Frost inquired snottily, annoyed that he was being ignored. “Stop flirting with your wife and pay attention. Reign tends to heed your advice more than mine.”

  Frost’s expression was one of puzzlement, as if he could not fathom why anyone would prefer Sin’s advice to his. Alexius took no offense. If one ignored Frost’s arrogance and sarcastic wit, he could be a tolerable companion.

  “You were the one who told Reign about Ravenshaw,” Dare said from his reclining position on the sofa. Thanks to Frost’s mischief, none of the Lords of Vice had gotten much sleep.

  Frost glared at Dare, but the gent had his eyes closed. “Reign was supposed to knock Ravenshaw on his arse, break a few ribs, and bloody the puppy’s nose. If Lady Sophia was feeling generous, she might have invited our surly friend into her bed. No one, least of all me, expected him to rush off to the Doctor’s Commons for a bloody special license!”

  Dare raised his head and adjusted the small pillow he had tucked under it. “Then you have not been very observant. Reign wants Lady Sophia. For weeks, he has been trying to figure out the how and why of it, and you and Ravenshaw just gave it to him. Congratulations!”

  “Utter twaddle!” Frost scoffed, his hair falling rakishly over his left eye as he admired his boots on Reign’s desk. “Over the years, all of us have had the pleasure of observing Reign’s interaction with females. When he puts his hands on them, the gent certainly knows what to do with them.”

  “Lady Sophia is apparently different,” Alexius interjected.

  “Not that different,” Frost said dourly. “Beatrice married Reign because she needed a proper sire for the bastard she carried in her belly.”

  Dare opened one eye to glare at Frost. “Have some respect, Frost. The lady and her child have been dead for the past eight years.”

  Frost’s response to Dare was a dismissive wave. “Lady Sophia needs something from Reign, too.”

  Dare shot Frost an incredulous look. “And Reign wants to give it to her. Leave it alone.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Frost grumbled. “Reign’s old man went mad lusting after Lady Sophia’s mother, and shot his face off in the end. Maybe we should bury Reign’s pistols before he returns to the house.”

  Alexius abandoned his post at the window and walked over to the desk where Frost was sitting. “Stay out of Reign’s affairs,” he advised, intimately familiar with his friend’s meddling. “If you interfere, he is likely to do more than break a few ribs and bloody your lip.”

  Stephan seized his brother by his dark brown frock coat and slammed his back against one of the walls of the front hall.

  “Tell me, Henry, how is it that our sister has vanished from her room?” he silkily inquired, inches away from his brother’s face, which was bathed in sweat.

  “I-I swear, I do not know,” Henry, the whining weasel, stuttered.

  Stephan lightly cuffed his younger brother on the side of the head. “My orders were simple for even you to follow. Keep the servants away from Sophia, and guard her door.”

  “I did!” Henry’s face darkened to a red hue. He cringed as he felt the sting of Stephan’s knuckles against his temple. “I swear it on our mother’s grave! The servants were too terrified to interfere. You made certain of it.”

  Someone had to have assisted Sophia in her escape. His sister was not cowardly, unlike sniveling Henry, but she did have her limitations. Stephan’s lip curled in disgust as he scowled at his brother. How their father had sired such a culver-headed dandy was unfathomable to him.

  “And what of Lucy?” The sharp-eyed chit would have cheerfully laid down her life for Sophia.

  “Sitting in her quarters like you told her to. She has been demanding to see Sophia all day.”

  Stephan bared his teeth in frustration. He reached into his brother’s waistcoat pocket, retrieved his handkerchief, and tossed it at him. “Mop up the snot on your lip.” He whirled away, pressing his fingers to his brow. “How did Sophia do it? Was she clever enough to pick the lock?”

  Henry sagged against the wall. “Maybe she climbed out the window? She could have fashioned a decent rope with the bedding?”

  Stephan paused, turning his head to glare at his brother. “And did you find evidence that our clever Sophia created such a rope?”

  Henry floundered and glanced at his boots. “Well, no . . .”

  “Why do I bother? You are a simpleton.”

  Stephan’s anger was directed not only at Henry, but also at himself. She had run off because he had lost his temper with her. Now she was wandering the streets of London alone. He was surprised to discover that some of the fear churning in his gut was for his vulnerable sister.

  With a decisive stride, Stephan moved to the center front hall and shouted for the butler.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Henry flinched when Stephan clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “We, my dear brother, are going to search every street, and pay calls to our sister’s friends. Sophia will be seeking an ally, and I would wager Lady Frances is high on her list.”

  They had actually done it.

  She was now Sophia Housely, Countess of Rainecourt.

  For the hundredth time, Sophia studied the band Reign had slid onto her left hand. The gold glinted under the candlelight. She felt the weight of both the ring and her decision as she tilted her head to the side, admiring it.

  “I can imagine how you must feel,” Lady Sinclair—no, Juliana, as she insisted on being called—said, sensing the new bride was quietly reflecting on the commitment that she had made to her husband.

  After a lavish wedding dinner that included courses of venison, joints of veal, and mutton served with celery and cream, artichoke pie, and lastly, chocolate and almond puffs, not to mention several fruit pies, the ladies had retired upstairs to the drawing room while the gentlemen adjourned to the library.

  Reign and his friends, however, had not lingered downstairs with their port and brandy. One of his friends, perhaps it had been His Grace, the Duke of Huntsley, had teased that Reign could not be parted from his new wife so the gentlemen had decided to join the ladies.

  Her new husband had endured his friends’ teasing with an easy grin and a bawdy retort. He had even walked over to the sofa where Sophia was seated and kissed her cheek. The chaste kiss seemed to vastly amuse his friends, in particular Lord Chillingsworth, though she could not fathom why.

  Sophia cast a shy glance at Reign, who was standing on the other side of the rectangular drawing room, debating politics with Lord Sainthill and Lord Hugh while the other gentlemen listened. Occasionally, one of the other gentlemen interjected an opinion into the often heated exchange.

  She gave Juliana a slight smile. “I must confess that all of this is overwhelming. Legal or not, my brothers will not accept this marriage.”

  Fanny put down her teacup hard enough to make the cup rattle against the saucer. “Ravenshaw and Henry will have no choice.”

  Juliana looked back at the seven gentlemen. They seemed too large, too uncivil for the gilded grandeur surrounding them. Her husband murmured something to Reign, causing the earl to toss his head back and laugh. “I have learned never to underestimate the members of the Lords of Vice. Reign called in a great number of favors to ensure that you were under his protection by nightfall.”

  With her hands in her lap, Sophia entwined her fingers t
ogether in a nervous gesture. “So I have been told. Before Reign caught up to me at the stables, I had managed to do rather well on my own. I had planned to ride to Fanny’s.”

  Fanny, sitting to Sophia’s left, touched her on the arm to gain her attention. “Ravenshaw will be searching for you, Sophia. My family’s town house will likely be one of his first stops. Rainecourt was clever to steal you away from your brothers. They never did appreciate you.”

  “Fanny, you do not seem particularly troubled by the drastic measures Reign has taken on my behalf this afternoon.”

  “You forget that I have been quietly observing your rather odd courtship with Lord Rainecourt.”

  “Courtship!” Sophia sputtered. “Oh, no, there was no courtship.”

  “Of course there was a courtship,” Juliana said, her green eyes alight with humor. “Although, knowing Reign, he was probably about as unaware of his intentions as you were.”

  As she noted Sophia’s confusion, the young marchioness cast a hasty glance to ensure the gentlemen were not eavesdropping on the ladies’ conversation before she leaned forward. “If you are under the impression that Reign married you out of some misguided notion of chivalry, I can assure you that you are wrong. Reign married you because it suited him.”

  Sophia thought back to Reign’s response in the coach when she had asked him what he wanted in a wife.

  “Faithfulness and respect. A wife who will willingly share my bed and bear my children.”

  Her husband had seemed to know exactly what he wanted in a wife, and that included what he did not want from her. “Perhaps, Juliana, you are right,” Sophia conceded. “I confess, all of this feels strange to me.”

  “I am scarcely an expert on marital bliss, since I have hardly been married a year; however, let me offer you this piece of sage advice—be patient with Reign. His first marriage, well, no one likes to speak of it. Despite what the gossips say, I know he is a good man. Unfortunately, like most thickheaded males, he is set in his ways. With a little proper training and he should be a good husband.”

  Sophia raised her brow. “Truly? And how does your husband view this so-called training?”

  Juliana brought her first finger to her lips and winked.

  All three ladies laughed.

  As the conversation casually switched from husbands to the recent fashions in La Belle Assemblée, Sophia let her thoughts drift while she stroked the gold band on her finger.

  Their wedding ceremony had been brief, and if the clergyman Lord Sainthill escorted into the drawing room that afternoon had been curious about the couple’s haste, the man had been well-schooled in the subtle art of discretion.

  As she took in the opulence of the drawing room, Sophia had lamented about her dress. Though beautiful, if Reign had given her some warning about his plans, she would have attired herself in a dress that had possessed fewer flounces and less black brocade. Since Stephan had deprived her of Lucy’s services, Sophia had been forced to slumber in what was to be her wedding dress. She was tired, bedraggled, and feared that she was less than sweet-smelling.

  Her spirits plummeted further upon glimpsing Lady Sinclair and Fanny. Both were smartly attired, her dear friend Fanny in a white dress with a fancy purple embroidered border at the bottom of her skirt, while Lady Sinclair—or Juliana—was wearing a round dress of India muslin over a light peach satin slip.

  Compared with the other ladies, she looked like a rook that had flown backward through a thunderstorm.

  Sophia’s distress had been apparent to both ladies. Before Reign could object, they had whisked her away from her self-appointed protector and taken her upstairs to one of the bedchambers. There she was stripped of her wrinkled dress, where it was given to a maid for pressing. Another maid brought her a basin of warm water, towels, and a ball of soap so she could wash her face and limbs. Once she had freshened up, Fanny took the pins out of Sophia’s hair and brushed her long, blond tresses. An hour and a half later, Sophia entered the drawing room, wearing her neatly pressed dress and her hair arranged in a manner that did not remind her entirely of a rat’s nest.

  With approval gleaming in his dark blue eyes, Reign brought Sophia’s gloved hand up to his lips and brushed a light kiss on it.

  “Will you have me as your husband, Lady Sophia?” he had asked her, giving her one last chance to escape what seemed fated from their first meeting.

  “I will, Lord Rainecourt,” had been her reply.

  They were married fifteen minutes later with the Lords of Vice, Juliana, and Fanny bearing witness to their vows.

  Sophia started at the sound of clanking metal coming from the other side of the room. Fanny and Juliana had also grown silent as all three women turned their heads to find the source of the commotion.

  Lord Vanewright and Lord Chillingsworth had apparently raided Reign’s silver plate, for both men possessed serving trays the size of small shields and large silver spoons. The noise they made could have woken the dead.

  “A toast, a bawdy boast, then take your lady to bed . . . to bed,” the men chanted, and then Lord Sinclair, Lord Sainthill, Lord Hugh, and the duke of Huntsley were joining their friends.

  Juliana sent Sophia an apologetic glance. “Clearly, we have left the gentlemen too long with their brandy.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened as Reign climbed up on one of the chairs and raised his glass to her.

  “A toast to my lady, gents!” He swayed slightly before finding his balance.

  “To Lady Rainecourt!” Lord Hugh said, and the others echoed his words.

  “Now a bawdy boast!” Lord Chillingsworth challenged, casting a sly look at Sophia.

  “A boast,” Reign muttered under his breath as he tried to think of something appropriate for the occasion. “My lady’s lips taste as sweet as honeyed clover; be they high or low!”

  He jumped down from the chair and emptied his glass.

  “Ho-ho!”

  “To your lady’s sweet lips!” shouted all of them in turn.

  The very lips her husband had just praised parted in surprise. Sophia stood as Reign and his friends approached, uncertain what she was supposed to do.

  Reign delivered an exaggerated bow, and extended his hand. “To bed, my lady.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “My friends, my lady and I bid you a good night!”

  With his friends goading him, Reign swept Sophia into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder.

  “Reign!” she shrieked in protest.

  “Five hours married, and already sounding like a shrew,” Reign said mournfully, giving her bottom a playful smack. He strode out of the drawing room, across the hall, and toward the center staircase.

  It was not surprising that the drunken merrymakers followed them into the hall. Sophia caught glimpses of white and peach, and assumed that Fanny and Juliana had joined the men.

  “This is highly improper, my lord!” she said, burrowing her face into his back.

  Reign realized her intentions when she nipped his skin with her teeth. The high ceilings echoed with his friends’ cheers and his own laughter. His insides were warmed by the brandy he had imbibed, and the notion that the lady dangling over his shoulder belonged to him.

  He affectionately rubbed her backside. “Behave yourself, Lady Rainecourt, or we will be spending our wedding night under the watchful eye of a surgeon because one of us is bound to crack our heads.”

  “Ho-ho. If you want an audience, Frost and I will volunteer!” Vane shouted as he raised his glass in their honor. “We are not squeamish.”

  A disagreeable noise rumbled in Frost’s throat. “Speak for yourself. I, for one, have no desire to see Reign’s hairy, bare arse!”

  “The feeling is mutual, Frost,” Reign called out over his shoulder.

  “I say, another toast . . . to Lady Rainecourt’s lovely ankles,” Saint declared, beckoning everyone to raise their glasses.

  “To Lady Rainecourt’s ankles!” Dare seconded, and everyone, including
the ladies, echoed the toast to his countess’s perfect ankles.

  “Good heavens, Reign,” Sophia said, her embarrassment increasing with each toast. “First my lips, now my ankles . . . I am showing an indecent amount of leg if your friends are commenting on my ankles.”

  His sheltered bride was unused to the frank appreciation of his friends, and he found her innocence charming. “My friends mean no disrespect. And truthfully, you do have very lovely ankles, my dear.”

  “Oh, you are all impossible!” she said, or something close to that remark. It was difficult to tell with her voice muffled by his frock coat.

  Once Reign reached the top of the stairs, he strode down a passageway and nodded to the two maids leaving the bedchamber he had ordered the servants to prepare for his new bride.

  “It appears that Lady Rainecourt will not require your assistance, after all,” Reign said, giving both young maids a jaunty wink. “You both may retire for the evening.”

  “Aye, milord,” they said in unison, curtsying as the couple walked by them. “Good tidings to both you and your new bride.”

  “Reign, you have had your fun. Set me down at once!”

  He grinned at her surly tone. “Be patient, Sophia. I am yours to command.”

  His outrageous remark was overheard by the maids. He and Sophia could hear their giggles as they vanished around the corner.

  His valet had anticipated Reign’s arrival and opened the door. “Good evening, Lord Rainecourt . . . Lady Rainecourt.”

  Reign had originally planned to retire to his bedchamber to give his bride some time alone as she prepared for her wedding night. He had done the same for Beatrice, and it had been a miserable night for both of them. She had come to her marriage bed reluctantly, and had cried at what she had described as his awkward fumbling. He had left her bed bitter and unsatisfied.

  He refused to make the same mistakes with Sophia.