Devil broke the kiss. Lifting his head, he stared down into his wife’s face. Her eyes were closed and her lips parted. Slightly intoxicated by the first taste of his wife, Devil dipped his head and kissed her again. This time, her mouth firmed, and she kissed him back.
This wasn’t the first time she’d been kissed, but it was the first time Jacqueline had kissed her husband. The realization sent an unexpected thrill pooling in her belly, her heart pounding as his lips continued to caress hers.
The burst of desire was a surprise.
Devil resisted the urge to take the kiss deeper, to slip inside his wife’s mouth and taste her fully. Andrew’s discreet cough was a timely reminder that this was neither the time nor the place.
Lifting his head, he watched his wife’s eyes slowly open. A light haze told him she had enjoyed the kiss. “Congratulations, Lady Edwards-Radcliffe.”
Jacqueline withdrew from her husband’s hands. Just then she realized Canon Andrew and Emme had witnessed their kiss. “That certainly sounds like a mouthful.”
“As I understand it,” Devil said, still locked in the moment of intimacy created by their kiss, “you retain your name and your title, even in marriage.”
“I’m not sure I want either,” Jacqueline said. The name reminded her of her father, and her title had once belonged to her mother. “Perhaps I could simply be Mrs. Jacqueline Radcliffe.”
A new name for a new life.
Devil nodded. “It suits.”
Amid congratulations from Canon Andrew and Emme, Jacqueline and Devil signed their names to the registry, their marriage forever memorialized in the records of Westminster Abbey.
Afterward, Devil helped Jacqueline up into another hired hackney. They rode in comfortable silence, Devil watching Jacqueline as she stared out the window.
Jacqueline leaned forward in her seat, eager for a glimpse of her new home. Outside, the streets changed, growing narrow as the houses grew smaller and closer together.
“Where are we?” Jacqueline asked. She hadn’t seen a familiar landmark since leaving her father’s house that morning.
Devil glanced out the window. A moment later, they rolled to a gentle stop. Throwing the door open, Devil jumped down before turning to offer his wife his hand.
“Welcome to Devil’s Acre,” he said. “Welcome home.”
By far the largest one on the block, the house was set back from the street and surrounded by a stone and wrought-iron fence. Cobblestone led the way up to a wide staircase, delivering guests onto an elegantly curved porch that wrapped around the side of the house.
Oriel windows and parapets graced the second and third stories beneath a steeply pitched roof with pointed arches and three chimneys.
“It’s beautiful,” Jacqueline whispered, stirred by the gothic beauty. Slipping her fingers into his hand, Jacqueline smiled up at her husband. “You live here?”
“You seem surprised.” There had been nothing in her question to suggest judgment, yet Devil found himself stiffening slightly as he tucked his wife’s hand into his arm.
Jacqueline shook her head. “I didn’t know what to expect.”
“You had best prepare yourself for a lot of that,” Devil warned, guiding the way through the gate and up the stairs.
“What do you mean?” Jacqueline asked, stepping into her new home.
“I mean, we do things differently here,” Devil said, taking her wrap and setting it aside. “I suspect there will be many things that are unfamiliar and like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Jacqueline said, lifting her chin. “I assure you.”
Devil couldn’t help it. He smiled.
“What?” Jacqueline flushed. Perhaps her boast had been a bit overconfident, but, for some reason, she didn’t like the idea of her husband thinking her incapable, or weak.
“Nothing,” Devil said, indicating the way forward. “I recall saying something very similar myself not long ago.”
“And how did things turn out?” Jacqueline asked, stepping through the tessellated foyer, her husband’s hand resting comfortably at the small of her back.
“I’ll let you know.” Devil gave Jacqueline a quick tour of the ground floor, showing her the sitting room, dining room, study, library, and breakfast nook. Upstairs there were two guest bedrooms and the master suite, while the third floor housed the small staff and included a room for Emme.
Jacqueline was surprised when Devil stopped outside one of the guest rooms, reaching past her and opening the door.
“Your room.”
Jacqueline hesitated, finally stepping past her husband and into a lovely bedroom decorated in shades of blues and golds. The generously apportioned room contained a large canopy bed and plush carpets. There was even a small sitting room and a small balcony overlooking the street.
“It’s lovely,” Jacqueline said. It was clear Devil didn’t intend for them to share the master suite. And why should he? This was a business arrangement, after all—the use of her name in exchange for the repairs to her reputation.
Devil nodded. “I’ll let you get settled. I have some business to tend to before I leave.”
“You’re going out?” Jacqueline asked, surprised. Wasn’t this their wedding night?
“I spend most of my evenings at Purgatory.” Devil didn’t trust anyone else to oversee the club’s management. To do so was a little like inviting the fox into the henhouse.
“I see.” Jacqueline fought against a blush. How foolish she was to think of this as a real wedding night. “When will you be back?”
“Not until late.” Devil stepped across the hall, one hand already on the door to his room. “I’ll have Mrs. Thompson prepare your dinner. She’ll send up a tray later this evening.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Jacqueline said.
“Mrs. Barrett is our housekeeper, and our butler’s name is Dillon. Please do not hesitate to ask them for anything you need.”
“I’m sure I will be fine.” Jacqueline tried for a light tone, embarrassed at having assumed they would be spending the evening together.
“Good night.” Devil tipped his head and slipped into his. He had a routine and a schedule to keep. There was no reason a wife should change that.
Suddenly alone, Jacqueline looked around the room. Abandoned on her wedding day! Well, it was too late to wonder if she’d made a mistake. She was there, and she was married.
Crossing the room, Jacqueline threw open the balcony doors and stepped outside. A few minutes later, the door opened below her, and her husband strode down to the street. He passed through the gate, never once looking back, and turned to walk down the sidewalk.
Jacqueline watched him disappear. He had changed his clothes, exchanging his tails for a more casual coat and trousers. He carried a walking stick, and a hat covered his dark hair. Not for the first time, Jacqueline noted how handsome he was.
Belatedly, she wondered what sort of female company he might keep at his club.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marcus Eddington was the sixteenth Earl of Chester. Not that it mattered. London was overrun with earls. One couldn’t swing a cat and not hit one, in town with their wives and daughters for the season.
Marcus liked to think he was a different sort from the rest, but wasn’t that true of most men? Of course, with this new middle class it was getting harder and harder to differentiate between titled and simply rich.
Take the Misses Bloomberg, for instance. Marcus tipped his hat to the two American sisters, nearly identical despite being born two years apart. Predictably, the sisters broke into fierce whispers, tittering behind their hands until their mother hushed them with a severe look.
The ladies were in town looking for husbands. Their father had made his money supplying lumber to the shipbuilders and had his headquarters in Boston. Mr. Bloomberg was an American and as such had no title, but he had more money than the Queen, and there was more than one lord looking at the sister
s as a possible way to revitalize a struggling estate.
Thankfully, Marcus wasn’t one of them.
Marcus watched the ladies pass by. It was said the sisters shared everything, and he wondered how far such an assumption might go. Watching identical hips sway away enticingly, Marcus decided that it was certainly a possibility to keep in mind for later, once both girls were safely married—to someone else.
Marcus crossed the street, dodging carriages and horse-drawn carts. He was headed for the shopping district and the bookstore on an errand for his mother.
Gaining the sidewalk, Marcus caught sight of a man rounding the corner. His head was tipped at a hauntingly familiar angle.
Philip!
No, it couldn’t be. Marcus cautioned himself as his steps quickened and he hurried past strolling ladies and their escorts. Philip was still abroad, serving with the 13th Dragoons in the Crimean War. Surely, Philip would have sent word if he had returned.
Marcus’ heart pounded, the distance closing between him and the gentleman.
“Excuse me,” Marcus muttered, slipping between a couple walking a small dog. The dog turned and yapped at Marcus, darting between his boots. Marcus hopped over the leash and barely avoided becoming tangled. When he looked up, Philip was gone.
If that had been Philip…
Marcus stepped aside, letting the steady stream of shoppers pass by him. Slowly, too slowly, his heartbeat returned to normal.
He hadn’t seen Philip in nearly three years, not since Philip’s father purchased his commission and Philip was sent to the peninsula. Their last few days together had been strained, and Philip had left without saying good-bye.
Marcus ran his fingers through his blond hair and scrubbed at his angular jaw. Giving his coat a crisp tug, he stepped back into the flow of foot traffic and resumed his journey to the bookstore. There had been no word of Philip’s return and no reason to think the man he’d caught sight of was his friend. Come to think of it, the man had been broader across the shoulders, and his stride contained a hitch lacking in Philip’s smooth stride.
No, Marcus told himself, Philip remained on the peninsula, serving in the conflict between Russia and the alliance.
Shaking his head at such foolishness, Marcus reached the bookstore. Opening the door, he stepped back, bowing to the young lady who slipped outside. He was just about to enter the shop when his way was barred by the lady’s escort.
Marcus froze. “Philip.”
Captain Philip Westmoreland leaned heavily on his cane. “Hello, Marcus.”
Marcus stumbled back a step, still holding the door as Philip walked slowly past and joined his companion.
“It’s good to see you.” Philip’s polite smile contained none of his inner turmoil. Not today! He wasn’t ready to see Marcus, not yet, and certainly not today.
“When did you get back?” Marcus asked, his eyes drinking in the sight of his longtime friend. The handsome face that stared back at him was the same—a little harsher, perhaps, and the lines around the eyes were new, but it was definitely Philip.
“About a month ago,” Philip admitted, and had the decency to flush. “I was going to call on you.”
Marcus shifted uncomfortably. He knew a lie from Philip when he heard one. “Yes, well, I’m sure you’ve been busy.”
Philip nodded, but didn’t respond.
“Philip? Aren’t you going to introduce us?” The young woman slipped her hand through Philip’s arm.
Her gesture, and the familiar use of Philip’s name, told Marcus more than he wanted to know.
“Of course.” Philip shifted his weight onto his uninjured leg. His thigh was starting to throb, the wound beating in time with his pounding heart. “Miss Julianna O’Brian, I’d like to introduce you to Lord Marcus Eddington, the Earl of Chester.”
Miss O’Brian dipped a quick curtsy. “My lord.”
“Miss O’Brian,” Marcus greeted, nodding and turning to Philip. “You were injured?”
“In the Charge of the Light Brigade,” Philip said, anger creeping into his voice. “It’s why I was sent home.”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. He had heard some of the details on the charge that left several hundred English soldiers dead. “I did not realize the Thirteenth was part of the charge.”
“Yes, well, not much was known until it was too late,” Philip said.
Marcus stared at his friend. He longed to reach out and wrap the man in his embrace, but the distance between them was greater than the space from which they stood. There had been a time, once, when Philip would have welcomed the contact, his need to touch and be touched as great as Marcus’. But that time had passed.
An awkward silence settled over the threesome, Miss O’Brian smiling up at Marcus politely while Philip did his best not to appear eager to be off.
“Well,” Marcus said, his chest tightening. “I should let you be on your way. Miss O’Brian, it was a pleasure meeting you.”
“And you, my lord,” Miss O’Brian said, dipping another curtsy.
“It was good seeing you again,” Marcus said, offering Philip his hand. For a moment, he feared his friend might not take it.
Philip slipped his hand into Marcus’, his fingers trembling slightly at the familiar contact. The spark of that simple touch hit him in the chest and nearly stole his breath.
Marcus clasped his friend’s hand before forcing himself to let go. Philip nodded to him, shifting his cane to his other hand and slipping his arm around Miss O’Brian’s waist.
“Marcus.”
Marcus watched the couple start off, Philip studiously avoiding Marcus’ eyes as he passed. His steps were slow and obviously painful as he guided Miss O’Brian down the street and into a waiting carriage.
A moment later, Philip was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jacqueline woke the morning after her wedding, the warm body in the bed beside her stirring restlessly. Reaching under the covers, Jacqueline found the purring kitten. Feline eyes opened sleepily, the animal giving Jacqueline a decidedly disgruntled look at having been disturbed.
“Hello, Cat,” Jacqueline said. She rubbed noses with the black kitten before snuggling her under her chin.
“You really should come up with a better name, my lady,” Emme said as she slipped into the room. The kittens purr rose from a low rumble to a steady drone.
Jacqueline smiled and allowed the cat to disappear back under the covers. The small mound made its way to the foot of the bed where she would no doubt spend the day hiding, at least until mealtime. “I suppose you’re right, but I find myself strangely uninspired at the moment.”
“What about Bartholomew?” Emme ducked into the dressing room and came back out with a grey dress.
“She’s female.” Jacqueline kicked back the covers. Her room was pleasantly lit and warm with morning sunlight.
“Beatrice?” Emme hung up the dress, giving it a once-over before turning to her mistress. “You could call her Betty for short.”
“Betty? For a cat?” Jacqueline wrinkled her nose. “I fear you’re not doing much better than I am.”
“At least I try, my lady. You’ve simply settled on Cat.”
“I haven’t settled.” Jacqueline sat down at her vanity, watching her maid in the mirror. “It’s a temporary name, just until I can come up with something better.”
“If you say so, my lady,” which was Emme’s way of politely disagreeing with Jacqueline.
“Is my husband up?”
“He is, my lady. He’s due to breakfast in half an hour. I thought you might like to get ready in time to join him.”
Jacqueline nodded. “I trust your first night went well?”
“It did.” Emme picked up a silver brush and started on Jacqueline’s hair. “It’s a small house, but everyone is friendly.”
“And your room?” Jacqueline closed her eyes at the pleasant feel of her hair being brushed.
“It’s very nice, bigger than the one back home.” The
servants slept on the third floor, each with their own room. The benefit of a smaller staff, she supposed.
Jacqueline opened her eyes. “Are you still glad you came?”
Emme smiled. “I couldn’t very well let you go on your own.”
Jacqueline turned to her maid, capturing her hand in her own. “I’m serious, Emme. I know this isn’t the kind of house you were trained to serve in. I’m not sure there is a place for you back with my father, but I would be happy to see you set up in another house.”
Emme gave Jacqueline’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t be silly! I serve you, and you are a lady no matter where we are.”
Jacqueline searched her maid’s face. Satisfied, she turned back to the mirror.
Emme set the brush aside, sweeping Jacqueline’s hair up and securing it to the top of her head. “Besides, from what I gather from Dillon and Mrs. Thompson, this is a fine place to work.”
“Dillon is the butler?” Jacqueline asked, remembering Devil’s brief explanation.
“Yes.” Slipping the last of the pins into place, Emme gave the simple coif a gentle pat. “They’ve both been here for years, which speaks well of your husband. The pay is fair, and the work isn’t too much for the small staff.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Jacqueline said, suddenly eager for breakfast and another look at her husband. With one last check of her hair, she stood and slipped out of her nightgown. A tug on her stomach drew her attention to the bandage covering her abdomen. Slowly, she peeled back the tape and stared at her stomach in the mirror.
The scars were red and puffy, the skin scabbed over. The flesh started to itch as she ran her fingers over the scars, tracing the lines of the symbols. What did they mean? She didn’t have anyone she could ask. Emme was the only other person who knew of their existence.
“They’re healing,” Emme said, softly.
“They’re ugly.” Jacqueline replaced the bandage and turned away from the mirror.
“They’ll fade in time,” Emme said, slipping the dress over Jacqueline’s head.
Jacqueline nodded, buttoning her bodice and tugging her sleeves into place. “It won’t matter,” she said, not looking at Emme. “No matter how much they fade, I will always know they’re there—a reminder of what he did.”
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