The Devil's Submission (Fallen series)

by Nicola Davidson

  He raised his head. “Beg pardon?”

  “Suck me,” she said, a bit louder, squirming in Grayson’s lap when his hand rubbed slow circles against her lower back.

  “Still can’t hear you. Lizzie,” he replied, his eyes so bright with uncharacteristic mischief, Eliza swallowed hard against an overwhelming rush of topsy-turvy emotion.

  Grayson had first called her Lizzie the night in the Brimley Park maze. And continued to while their marriage worked. He was the only person in the world who had ever called her by a nickname, though she’d scolded him a thousand times for it: The Delightful, Decorous, and Demure ladies of the Brimley Finishing Academy simply did not stand for shenanigans with their names, or any other such social informalities. “Grayson…”

  “Hmmm?” he said, circling her areola with the tip of his tongue.

  Almost panting with need, all thoughts of proper behavior fleeing her mind, she cupped the back of his head and pushed it closer to her breast.

  “Suck my nipples,” she said fiercely. “Suck them hard…oh God, yes, just like that.”

  Every draw of Grayson’s lips, every nip of his teeth sent an incredible jolt of heat straight to her core. Eliza writhed on his lap, almost insensible with pleasure. Between her legs she could feel the thick length of his erection nudging her, and she moaned as she ground herself against it.

  “What else?” he gasped, the scorching hot lust in his eyes almost making her orgasm on the spot. “Tell me what else, Lizzie.”

  “Make me come.”

  He made a growling sound, his erection jerking hard against her. “You want me to rub your clit? Fill your pussy with my cock?”

  “Both. Oh please, I want—”

  They both froze as sharp knocks pounded on the chamber door, the wood creaking slightly as it swung open and a heavy footfall marched into the room. Thanks to the bathing screen, they were hidden from view.

  “Devil. What the fuck are you doing?” yelled a man in a very familiar Scottish brogue. “The carriage is leaving in five…Devil? Are you in here?”

  “Yes,” called Grayson in a rather hoarse voice. “We’ll see you in a minute, Vice.”

  “We? Oh. Good morning…Lady Eliza?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” she snapped as she eased off Grayson’s lap, supremely irritated at Vice’s hesitancy over her name. Were there that many possibilities? Did her husband have a different woman in here every night of the blasted week?

  “Ah. Well, we need to leave, my lady. It’s a way to travel to the Archbishop’s palace, and while Sin and Grace may forgive us our trespasses, the harem would deliver the evil in apocalyptic form if we were to mar the day in any way. You know they would. Not to mention Prinny and the rest.”

  “Very well,” Eliza said crisply. “Give us just a moment.”

  As soon as the door shut behind Vice, she hurried over to the smaller of her trunks and took out a fresh chemise. She could hear her husband moving about the room behind her, combing his hair and slipping on a waistcoat and jacket, but she couldn’t even look at him.

  How many women had slept in this room? Had straddled Grayson on that same leather stool while he pleasured them beyond belief? Did Charlotte not only assist him with shaving, but also help him with the accounts, sponge the ink blotches, welcome him into her bed every other night?

  Angry, jealous tears burned Eliza’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. That was a private pain.

  “Shall I lace your stays?”

  Eliza nodded, trying not to flinch at how close Grayson was as he threaded the silken cords and pulled them tight. Trying not to scream at the horrible jumble of thoughts twisting and turning through her mind as she tugged on a hunter-green striped muslin gown for the wedding.

  Stepping into heeled slippers, she finally turned. “I’m ready. Do you need your spectacles?”

  Grayson’s lips quirked. “Only for bookwork. I’m not quite in my dotage yet. For instance, it is very clear right now that you look beautiful in that gown. Not quite as beautiful as in the nightgown with the torn bodice, but a very close second.”

  The tears burned again. Damn him. “Well then. Let’s go before Vice leaves without us.”

  The carriage ride to the south bank of the Thames was surprisingly fast and uneventful, and Morton’s Tower soon loomed above them. As Grayson escorted her into Langton’s chapel within Lambeth Palace, the residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Eliza couldn’t help a sneaking glance at her husband. The last time they had been here, crossing the black-and-white checkered marble floor, positively dwarfed by the stunning stained glass windows, it had been for their special-license wedding.

  Grayson met her gaze and smiled. “Archbishop Manners-Sutton is going to be sick of the sight of us. Fortunately we keep making substantial donations to his favorite charities.”

  “Or he is a man with a soft spot for love, and who cares about his flock, even the worst rogues,” she replied primly.

  “That, too.”

  She, Grayson, and Vice barely had time to take their seats before the ceremony began. Sin, the handsome rake whom she only sometimes remembered to call Sebastian or Lord St. John, stood at the altar holding his beautiful betrothed Lady Grace Carrington’s hands in his. They were both dressed so elegantly, Sin in black trousers and jacket with a sapphire blue waistcoat, and Grace in a heavenly gown of topaz silk, and the expressions on their faces were so joyful, so tender, it hurt to watch them pledge themselves to each other. Although by all accounts, Sin and Grace had endured a rocky path to this day and very much deserved their happy ending.

  Grief gripped her. She had looked like Grace on her wedding day, so happy and hopeful and madly in love. The marriage foundering so quickly had been soul-destroying. Now kissing her husband, touching him, and seeing hints of the softer side he rarely showed anyone was just salt in the wound. If it weren’t for her blasted mother, Eliza would never have put herself through this. When Grayson found out the real reason behind her being in London, he would shun her completely.

  As the kindly archbishop continued the service, her gaze slipped around the chapel and widened at the sheer number of attendees from the very highest echelons of power. The Prince Regent sat with Mrs. Fitzherbert in the front row, next to the Duke and Duchess of Waverly, Grace’s uncle and aunt. Prime Minister Liverpool sat a row back, along with several older peers who had probably been close friends of Sin’s late parents, Lord and Lady St. John. Five rows behind them sat her own mother and father, Lady Brimley waggling her fingers and smiling broadly, no doubt in transports at the company she was keeping.

  “With this ring I thee wed,” said Sin in a loud, clear voice to complete the ceremony, “with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  Eliza applauded with the rest of the guests when a beaming Sin and Grace left the chapel as a married couple, but as the stragglers mingled and chatted, a hand clamped on her elbow and led her to the corner.

  “Well, Eliza? Have you asked him?” hissed Lady Brimley out of the side of her mouth while smiling and nodding at passersby.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “What? Why not?”

  She gritted her teeth. “We have been apart six months, Mother. I couldn’t just demand ten thousand pounds on my first day back. Not when things are…uneasy.”

  “I can see that for myself,” said her mother, nudging her so she turned left. “You promised me you would try, but there your husband is, all smiling and cozy with his mistress. How convenient, her being acquainted with Lord St. John and his new wife, so she could even attend the wedding.”

  Feeling like she’d been pummeled, Eliza glanced over to the other side of the chapel. Indeed, there the two of them were: her husband and Charlotte Lewis, bathed in a rainbow of light from a stained-glass window, their heads together as they spoke. “Grayson can talk to whomever he pleases.”

  “Of course. But they aren’
t talking, they are confiding. If you behaved like a proper wife, he would treat you like that. Then you could get the money. Go to him. Send that trollop on her way. Don’t forget, though, a lady never raises her voice.”

  Eliza hesitated, weighed down by doubt. She hadn’t behaved like a proper wife this morning, boldly ordering Grayson to do as she wished. And he’d lost his iron control. He’d smiled, really smiled, like he’d been happy, and kissed and touched her with such passion. But if he’d liked that so much, why was he now flaunting his close and intimate relationship with Charlotte? Again, it seemed her mother was correct. This morning had been a passing whim. Sweet, obedient Charlotte was the constant in Grayson’s life, the woman he kept returning to. Unless she learned how to be like his lover, she didn’t stand a chance.

  Squaring her shoulders, Eliza walked toward them.

  It was time to meet the enemy.

  …

  “Dev, if you want any chance at happiness, you have to tell her.”

  Devil glanced down at Charlotte, one eyebrow lifted in a very mocking slant. “You know as well as I do the monumental difficulties of that conversation. Besides, she doesn’t want any part of it. She delivered the most exquisite slap, then nearly burst into tears.”

  The beautiful brunette, whom he owed his life to, heaved an audible sigh. “I’m quite devastated, you know. My record of nudging dominant women and submissive men together was, until you and Eliza, perfect. I spied on her several times when she rode in Rotten Row, and I was so sure I saw traits of myself…damnation. I should never have encouraged you to accidentally-on-purpose bump into her. I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t be. I thought I saw the traits in our courtship. Christ, Charlie, it was…”

  “Amazing? Blissful?” Charlotte smiled sadly.

  “All of the above. But enough about me. How goes the world with your latest paramour?”

  “That is over,” she said briskly, but he could see the hurt in her eyes. “The earl spun a good tale, but he was very lazy and entirely focused on pleasing himself rather than me. The first time I used my crop on him he punched me square in the stomach and said he’d kill me if I ever told anyone. I didn’t tell Sin; I was too mortified.”

  Devil took her hand and squeezed it, ten years of friendship in the gesture. The illegitimate and unacknowledged daughter of a viscount, Charlotte had always lived on the fringes of society, too high class for the servants, and too low class for the nobility. She’d been an actress, then a courtesan, made some money, and purchased her own small townhouse from which she hosted parties of a very discreet and certain nature—where men could explore the various elements of their sexuality. He’d heard of her through a classmate at Cambridge and attended several of her parties. After Reyburn had thrown him out, he’d half crawled, half walked, bloodied and broken, to her doorstep. Charlie had taken him in, no questions asked, and he’d stayed with her until he reached his majority and inherited money from a maternal aunt.

  When he’d started Fallen with Sin and Vice, she’d been the first person he’d offered a luxurious life and well-paid employment to, for as long as she wanted it.

  “Bastard,” he said fiercely. “But you know I love you unconditionally and for time without end, correct?”

  Charlotte smiled and squeezed his hand back. “And I love you. Even if you keep me awake at night.”

  “Well, I never,” said an icy voice behind him. “So much love in this chapel.”

  Dismayed, he turned on his boot heel. “Eliza. I’m not sure if you’ve met my very good friend—”

  “I know who she is,” his wife spat, her eyes a silver storm. “Mrs. Lewis.”

  “That’s right,” said Charlotte pleasantly. “I’m Charlotte. Or Charlie if you prefer. I always thought Mrs. Lewis sounded quite ridiculous considering I’ve never been married. Living with Dev was the closest I ever got.”

  “Perhaps it is time you did find a husband. Other than mine.”

  “Eliza,” he said with a frown. “That is uncalled for.”

  “Hush, Dev,” said Charlotte, surprising him. “In response, my lady, I can only plead the difficulties in finding a husband when you have certain…quirks.”

  “Such as you prefer men already married?” snapped Eliza.

  Charlotte laughed. “Well, married men are often much less trouble. But I was actually referring to—”

  “I don’t care! You stay away. Actually, it would be far better if you packed your trunks and were gone from Fallen tonight.”

  Both women looked at him, Eliza all fire and brimstone, and Charlotte surprised irritation. Grayson silently cursed his wife’s outburst, even as the possessiveness behind it warmed him to the core. This was so damned complicated.

  “No,” he said quietly but firmly. “Charlie has a home at Fallen for as long as she wants it.”

  “Fine. Fine,” said Eliza, every part of her body screaming betrayal, hurt, and fury. “I’ll leave you two alone, then.”

  As she hurried away, almost running from the chapel, Devil swore.

  “Go after her, Dev,” said Charlotte with a sigh.

  “I’m not throwing you out. I won’t. Ever. It’s my fucking house. Eliza doesn’t decide who lives there.”

  Charlotte glared at him. “Don’t be a bloody fool. If it comes down to a choice, you choose Eliza, the woman you love, who also seems to have a great deal of feeling for you. Go.”

  “I’m not throwing you out,” he repeated. “And I’ll see you later at the club. It’s past time I made an appearance.”

  Her eyes widened. “No, Dev…”

  But he’d already turned away, crossing the black-and-white checkered floor and sprinting out of the chapel at such pace he almost got vertigo. Yet as he burst through the chapel doors, the only thing that greeted him was warm sunlight on his face, and the sight of his carriage pulling away with Eliza in the back.

  Fuck.

  Hailing a hackney, Devil returned directly to Fallen and locked himself in his office. Usually poring through the accounts, counting guineas, being enveloped in the scent of leather, parchment, and ink calmed him like nothing else. But not today. Even when he forced himself to stay in the room rather than confront his wife, when the bright sunlight faded to dusk then darkened to night and a maid brought a tray with freshly baked bread, roasted chicken, creamed peas, and buttered potatoes, he ignored the clawing feeling of wrongness. Instead, he opened a third bottle of brandy while still staring at the same page of the same ledger he’d been staring at since he got home.

  It’s your fault. If you weren’t so weak, so abnormal, your marriage would have worked. You would never have imposed on Charlie. Your parents and brother wouldn’t consider you dead to them. You would have fought off the valet who helped beat you to a pulp…

  Shuddering, Devil lifted the bottle and took several long swallows, welcoming the burn in his mouth and throat, the warmth that settled in his stomach. He could be alpha, the one in charge, he just hadn’t been trying hard enough.

  With the careful steps of a man who’d had too much brandy and not enough food, he left his office and walked downstairs, then across the foyer toward Fallen’s main entrance. Diaz, their butler, looked at him with surprise and concern but wordlessly opened the heavy oak door for him, and he made his way through the main ballroom. The chandelier-lit space teemed with elegantly dressed people, all wearing numbered masks, laughing and enjoying themselves as they indulged in excellent food and wine, listened to the orchestra, and planned their sexual activities for the evening. Some would watch shows, some would indulge in the various pleasure rooms, others would swap spouses or be introduced to a new temporary lover.

  He inclined his head and exchanged greetings with several members but didn’t stop until he reached a chamber at the end of a narrow hallway. In this room a small group of alpha male exhibitionists met each week to play with, and show off, their exhibitionist wives. He could learn how to act, how to be effortlessly strong and forc
eful from these men. This was how it was supposed to be, after all.

  “Well,” Devil said harshly to the room of masked but naked men and women. “What do we have here?”

  “Just some lovers about to indulge in friendly play,” said Charlie, who stood to his right. She wore a black leather corset with a sheer skirt of black muslin, her mask also in place, but her words were stilted, and the swing of the riding crop in her hand was distracted rather than sure.

  “Are you going to stay for a while, Devil?” asked one of the men, with a gratified smile. “I know my wife would greatly enjoy performing for you, wouldn’t you, sweet?”

  The woman curled at the man’s feet looked up at her husband adoringly as he stroked her hair, her own smile eager excitement. “If it pleases you.”

  “I will stay, yes,” said Devil, settling himself onto an empty chaise and scanning the room.

  Some of the other women lounged on the floor, some were cuddled on their husband’s lap. Two had collars, several more had jewel-studded anklets. But they all wore the same look of contented anticipation; secure in a world of loving care and ownership, knowing their specific sexual needs would be met, and utterly aroused at the thought of what was to come.

  Pure jealousy seared him, only fueling his anger.

  Charlie hesitated until he gave her a stern look, not as friend to friend, but employer to employee.

  “Master Devil,” she said grimly. “With your permission, we shall proceed.”

  “Granted.”

  Immediately the play began.

  One woman knelt between her husband’s thighs, sucking his cock while he crooned endearments. Another lady writhed in delight when her master tormented her nipples and clit with the tip of a peacock feather. Some used leather restraints, others riding crops or toys. But the couple he couldn’t take his eyes off was making use of candle wax and champagne, the man drizzling a little wax on his lover’s body then pouring champagne over her and himself and instructing her to lick him clean.

  “Devil, my lady would be honored if you personally secured her restraints.”