Devil Takes A Bride

by Gaelen Foley

  “Where?”

  She bit her lip and looked away. “I thought everyone knew. Oh, but you’ve been abroad. Of course.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “There is a rich baroness—everyone in London seems to know her—Lady Campion. I’m sure you must have seen her in Town. She’s very elegant, sophisticated, worldly. Everything I’m not,” she added with an unhappy little smile.

  He took her hand. “Go on.”

  “I’m not quite sure how to put this. It was Lady Campion who paid off Alec’s debts in the end. He became—that is, he had made arrangements with her to work off the sum…in her bed.”

  Dev stared at her in shock. “Poor sweeting,” he whispered. “You must have been crushed.”

  She nodded, avoiding his tender gaze. “Billy—Jacinda’s husband—has attempted to explain to me that Alec did this only because to take my money would have caused him too much shame. But I cannot see that his solution was any less humiliating. He didn’t have to do it, after all. He could have swallowed his pride and turned to his elder brothers for help, or even to Billy. If any of them had known he was in danger, they would have helped him in a heartbeat. But, you see, Alec chose his course with Lady Campion to kill two birds with one stone. Not only did he get his debts paid without having to swallow his pride and ask his big brothers for help; he also succeeded in making it crystal clear to me that there was no possibility of a marriage between us—ever. The moment he realized how much I adored him, he took the sharpest possible action to drive me away. And do you know something, Devlin? It worked.”

  She fell silent for a moment. “A part of me will always love Alec, but I could never trust him now. And I could never respect a man who has so little respect for himself.” She paused. “He actually said I would thank him one day. But he never did explain what it was about me that he found so objectionable. So, I’ve been left to wonder about that.”

  “There’s nothing objectionable about you, Elizabeth. Trust me, your friend Billy is dead on. No man with an ounce of self-respect could take a sweet young girl’s dowry to pay his gaming debts, and I daresay Alexander the Great has never lacked for pride.”

  “You condone what he did?” she exclaimed.

  “Of course not, but I think you are too naive to see the meaning of it.”

  “Enlighten me, then.”

  Dev shrugged. “Alec’s refusal to exploit your devotion suggests to me that you mean more to him than you know.” When she blinked with fawnlike confusion, Dev gathered her closer and kissed her cheek, slowly petting her hair. “There are some men, chérie, who will kiss every girl in town except the one that matters.”

  She scowled at him. “That’s just silly. Why would any man do that?”

  “Fear, my darling.”

  “But Alec’s like you: he’s not afraid of anything. I mean, he’s never fought off a mountain lion, but he’s been in countless duels—”

  “No, you misunderstand. It’s not danger that scares men like Alec and me. It’s love.” Dev suddenly snapped his jaw shut—aghast at what had just slipped out of his mouth. Bloody hell! It was all well and good to analyze the foibles of another, but what perverse inner devil had compelled him to confess that he, too, fell into this sorry class of men?

  It was true, but—God! The old, ingrained fear returned, slapping him back to his senses. With an odd, jarring sensation, it was as if his objective mind swept back for one second to a safe distance of several feet away to view the bed where he lay entwined with his aunt’s little paid companion—whom he had half debauched!—consoling her and crooning to her like some lovelorn swain. Reason returned like the searching beam of a lighthouse, blaring out the dreamy, candlelit haze of her chamber, and what Dev saw in himself by its harsh glare appalled him. Just what in the Hell did he think he was doing?

  “Is something wrong?” she inquired, while he stared at her, withdrawing steadily by tiny fractions of an inch.

  His heart pounded. I’ve got to get out of here. As if his attachment to his aunt were not threatening enough, he obviously had some strange, dangerous weakness for Elizabeth Carlisle. It would not stand. He knew too well that the safety he felt with her was an illusion. Love equals pain. Fate had smashed his heart to pieces once. He was never going through that again.

  He did not think he could survive it.

  She frowned when he forced a suave smile, like a man strangling for air.

  “It’s late,” he said as carefully as possible, his stiff smile plastered in place. “I should go.”

  Lizzie had sensed the exact moment when Devlin withdrew; he did not move, did not blink, but she felt the change in him like a shift in the wind. At first, she did not understand what was happening. “Devlin?” she prodded when he failed to answer. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, of course not, darling.” He sat up without warning, throwing his long legs off the edge of the bed. He stood up, pulling free of her light embrace, and took a few restless paces away from the bed. “You need your rest.”

  But I’m not tired. Her stare traveled reverently over his warrior’s body, glorious in his nakedness. He bent down and retrieved his clothes, pulling them back on, while she began wondering unhappily if she had done something wrong. But then she recalled what his aunt had told her—“He hasn’t let anyone get close to him in twelve years”—and understanding dawned.

  The poor silly thing had scared himself with their closeness tonight.

  Finished fastening his black trousers, he returned and sat on the edge of her bed, where he drew on his boots. He was closed up within himself, imprisoned in a cage of his own fears, and with the way he turned his back to her, she might as well have ceased to exist.

  But instead of anger or indignation at his sudden urge to bolt, she felt a wave of sadness for him. He had not come by his scars lightly, after all. Very gently, she reached out and laid her hand on his broad, smooth back.

  He allowed it with a pause, neither moving closer nor pulling away. She could feel how his big, lean body thrummed with tension under her touch.

  Leaning toward him, she tilted her head and studied his patrician profile for a moment, wincing inwardly at the lost look on his chiseled face, so beautiful in the candle glow.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered.

  “You think so?” he asked in a low, cynical tone, but at least he did not attempt to deny what was really going on in his head.

  “Devlin.” She came up onto her knees behind him on the bed and draped her arms loosely around his wide shoulders, kissing his cheek. She closed her eyes for a moment and rested her head against his. I could fall in love with you…so easily. The thought was unsettling. But there was no need for him to be anxious. She stroked his raven hair and soothed him in a teasing murmur: “Don’t be distressed, darling. Alec Knight may be a lost cause, but I’m fairly sure there’s hope for you.”

  “Oh, really?” His tone was wry.

  “Yes. You’re much more of a grown-up than he is.”

  “Thanks, I think.” He hesitated. “Lizzie?”

  “Yes, Devlin?”

  “If you’re ever in London—” He stopped himself. “Ah, never mind,” he whispered, staring at the floor, but the trapped, tangled frustration in his eyes moved her to compassion.

  “Come here, sweet.” Before he could pull away, she gave him a loose half-hug and kissed his temple. “If I’m ever in London and I should see you, I will remember this night and how lovely it was. That is all,” she said in a soft tone, then patiently gathered his long hair back into its loose queue and tied it for him. “I said I don’t expect any promises from you, Devlin. I know the lay of the land. I wanted this as much as you did, and I’m still your friend.” She kissed his left earlobe just above the small golden hoop.

  He glanced warily at her from the corner of his eye. “Are you an angel?”

  She smiled at him. “What do you think?”

  “Very possible.” Looking a trifle more relaxed, he got up, retrieved his whi
te shirt, and slipped it back on over his head, but instead of leaving, he came back slowly to the bed and sat down again. His wide shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry I’m like this,” he said after a long moment, then offered nothing more.

  “Oh, you’re not so bad, Devil,” she teased gently, and wrapped him in a comforting hug. She kissed his princely brow, resigning herself to the unhappy prospect of sending him on his way. “Good-bye, my dear Lord Strathmore—,” she started to say, but he turned and stopped her at the first syllable, laying his fingertip over her lips.

  “No. Not good-bye,” he murmured. “What is it the Italians say?”

  “Arrivederci?”

  “Yes.” He smiled faintly in the shadows. “Until we meet again.”

  “Will we, Devlin?” she whispered, searching his crystalline eyes.

  “Oh, I think it very likely,” he whispered, then caught her chin between his fingers and, leaning closer, kissed her tenderly one last time.

  She wound her arms around him, loath to let him go, but she knew full well that a peer of the realm like him was not hers to hold, nor ever would be. Let him go. Best to take this night simply for what it was—two lonely people coming together for warmth on a cold winter’s eve. Reluctantly, she released him with one last caress. He nuzzled the corner of her mouth with a final, lingering kiss, then rose and withdrew.

  He paused in the doorway, however, and glanced back at her. “No regrets?”

  “No regrets,” she answered softly, nodding.

  He blew her a kiss from his two fingertips, then slipped out of her room as silently as the wind that came and went as it willed.

  She listened until his stealthy footfalls had also faded down the hallway, then turned onto her side with a slight, fond smile, though her heart hurt a little. Arrivederci, my lord, she thought with a sigh.

  Until we meet again.

  SIX WEEKS LATER

  Give the Devil his due.

  —sixteenth-century proverb

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  The tolling of cathedral bells resounded over the rooftops of London, disturbing flocks of pigeons that lifted in vexed swirls, drab as the skies, their feathers smudged with the soot of a thousand chimneys. A gray March drizzle drummed the river of black coaches and umbrellas wending their way along Whitehall, falling steadily on the oddly silent crowd of some two thousand mourners and countless more onlookers who had gathered for the state funeral of the Dowager Viscountess Strathmore.

  A few policemen were on hand to clear the way to the Abbey. Near the head of the procession, a hearse was drawn by six pitch-black horses with plumes on their heads and fitted blankets of red velvet embroidered with the Strathmore crest. Behind it walked three musicians: a kilt-clad bagpiper, silent for now, and two drummers beating out a slow, dirgelike tattoo.

  Every great family of the realm had sent a representative to pay their respects to old Lady Ironsides. The slow-moving line of black coaches stretched nearly to Trafalgar Square, each stately vehicle emblazoned with some noble’s coats of arms, and adorned on this somber occasion with black crape and funeral wreaths. Few voices could be heard—only the clip-clopping of countless hooves and the grinding of carriage wheels, and, always, the deep, reverberant clanging of the bells.

  On foot, Lizzie struggled through the jostling throng, trying to find Devlin while his aunt’s last request echoed in her ears: “Will you look in on him from time to time when I am gone?”

  The dowager had passed away a fortnight ago, dying peacefully in her sleep a month after Devlin’s visit. Mrs. Rowland had found her in the morning; Dr. Bell had been summoned at once, all for naught. Lizzie had penned a tearstained note to Devlin, breaking the sorrowful news.

  The viscountess’s frail body had been washed and lovingly prepared by the elder female servants, then enclosed in a pine box that would fit inside the magnificent white casket in which she was to be laid to rest; it was then conveyed to London for burial in the vault beside her husband at Westminster Abbey, who had gained that honor through some long-forgotten service to the King. Lizzie had cried her tears for Lady Strathmore at the villa, but her faith was such that she knew the woman had gone to a better place. Now her grief was for Devlin.

  “He has no one else….”

  Though she had denied the dowager’s plea at the time, she was unable to refuse the dictates of her own heart. She had thought about Devlin constantly, though she had not seen him since the night of sensual abandon they had shared. But all that mattered now was finding him. Reaching him. Looking into his eyes and letting him know that he was not alone. She was determined to show him that he had her support on this awful day, just as his aunt had had it throughout the last months of her life.

  She caught sight of him at last, a tall, stark, solitary figure before the cathedral, his face an emotionless mask. He and the other pallbearers must have carried the coffin in already; now he stood by the huge open doors of the ancient church, stoically greeting the endless line of mourners filing in for the service, his somber, elegant control never faltering as he thanked them for coming. But to Lizzie, he looked dazed, and the fact that he stood alone in the receiving line was unbearable to her.

  As she stood beneath an old leafless tree in the churchyard, staring at him with the cold kiss of the rain wetting her face, a terrible sorrow crept through her as the knowledge sank in: he had been through this before. The present loss surely forced him to relive the triple funeral for his mother, father, and little sister years ago. To see him now was heartbreaking, but to think of him enduring this grim ritual as a newly orphaned seventeen-year-old simply shattered her.

  Yet Devlin did not flinch. Locked inside himself, his taut control concealed to all but her how deeply he was suffering. With tears in her eyes for him and a lump in her throat, she fought her way blindly to him, pushing her way through the mob without concern. He chanced to look over and saw her coming through the crowd. For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other.

  As she advanced, she saw the signs of strain around his hollowed eyes and mouth. The fractured look in his blue-green crystalline eyes would haunt her, she feared, for the rest of her days. She swallowed hard and pressed on to close the space between them.

  When she reached him at last, no words came.

  They stared at each other for a long moment in silence. All she wanted was to take him into her arms, but there were people everywhere, including a few dissolute-looking rogues who glanced at the two of them with interest. Lizzie ignored them.

  “Oh, Devlin,” she whispered with a slow, earnest shake of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  He dropped his gaze, barely hiding the way his eyes misted. “Thank you. Thank you for coming,” he forced out, and though he grasped her hand politely, the same as he had everyone else’s, his voice broke to a pained whisper as he said it.

  “Of course I came,” she murmured, giving his gloved hand a reassuring squeeze. “I wouldn’t leave you to face this alone.”

  Dev stared into her dove-gray eyes with the intensity of a man clinging to a lifeline. God, he had thought of her so often since leaving her room that night. From the second he had caught sight of her bravely marching toward him through the crowd, two warring impulses had instantly raged inside of him: He wanted to lay his head on her chest and let her soft arms surround him; at the same time, he wanted her to get the hell away from him—now. Before she made him crumble in front of these thousands of people. He already had a burning sort of lump in his throat that had not been there until he had seen her.

  Unaware she was a threat to every last bloody one of his defenses, the girl searched his face with such tender concern that he could feel his brittle control fraying, strand by strand, until it hung by a thread. Somehow her simply being here made it seem as if everything would be all right. But it would not. She was naive. She did not understand the full cruelty of the world.

  He did.

  His aunt’s death had reminded him with fresh, vivid
clarity, lest he forget, exactly why he went through life in a state of well-defended solitude. Lizzie Carlisle’s touch and coaxing little smile were mere salt in the wound, for he was not letting this into his life. Not now. Not ever. His mind was made up long ago. He was never going through this again.

  Besides, he had no certain expectation of surviving the battle when it came time to move against his enemies, loitering nearby, so why should he let her get attached to him, either? He would not wish this grief on anyone.

  Raw with pain, feeling utterly lost, Dev longed to accept the healing comfort she was so good at giving, but instead, he looked away and withdrew his hand stiffly from hers. There was still an endless line of mourners to be faced.

  With a look of understanding, she followed his glance at the waiting queue. “We’ll talk later, all right?” she murmured, and gave his arm a gentle caress, trying to coax a glimmer of a smile from him. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee at a café I know in Russell Square.”

  “No—Miss Carlisle,” he forced out, fixing his stare above her head at the milling crowd beyond. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Why?”

  He could not bring himself to answer for a long moment. “We can’t see each other anymore.”

  “But you said if I was ever in London—,” she started in a soft tone of wounded confusion.

  He just looked at her.