Devil Takes A Bride

by Gaelen Foley

She stared at him, sobering. Then slowly, emphatically, she shook her head at him. “Don’t do this, Devlin. This is no time to push your friends away. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this—”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “That’s just the hurt talking, sweetheart, and I promise, it will pass. It’s all right to lean on the people who care about you. I’m here for you. If you need me, just send for me at Knight House—”

  “I don’t—need you,” he wrenched out in a harsh whisper, grabbing her arm. He yanked her nearer for a second, bending to glare into her face in angry desperation. “Don’t you understand? I don’t need anyone. Please go away.”

  Her innocent eyes flared with hurt surprise; he saw that his sharp vehemence had frightened her. When she blurted out a barely audible, “I’m sorry,” Dev released her helplessly and turned away, closing his eyes with a surge of self-hatred, his jaw clenched. The girl had nothing to be sorry for, of course, but he dared not say that for fear of her weakening him even more. Shut her out. That is all.

  The impatient queue began nudging Lizzie aside, crowding her out as it snaked between them; she fell back like the pull of a riptide were carrying her away from him.

  “Our condolences, Lord Strathmore.” A lady in a large black hat reached out to grasp his hand with polite formality.

  “Thank you for coming, ma’am,” Dev said like an automaton.

  “Her Ladyship will be greatly missed.”

  “You’re very kind. Do come in out of the weather. Take a seat inside.” He turned to the next person in line and repeated the ritual. But as the stream of black-clad mourners widened the gap between them, Dev eyed Lizzie through the crowd in dark, roiling hunger.

  She still stood on the far side of the queue, staring at him, looking young and lost and so very fragile. Dev flinched when she turned away abruptly, pressing the backs of her fingers over her lips, and walked off blindly through the crowd.

  He watched her hurry away, then closed his eyes in the most exquisite misery he had ever tasted. At that moment, he wished that someone would have run him through.

  Oblivious of the false mourners who had come only to bid his aunt farewell because it was the fashionable thing to do, he dragged his eyes open again and watched Lizzie rushing off awkwardly through the crowd, bumping into people as she went, as though she were not quite watching where she was going. The look on her innocent face…As if he’d slapped her.

  Well, he said brokenly to himself. That’s that, then.

  He told himself that it was for the best. Love equals pain. Lizzie Carlisle had come too close to getting under his skin as it was. The only sane thing to do had been to chase her off before her softness became his undoing.

  “Who was that little morsel?” murmured Quint, sauntering over to Dev’s side from where he had been finishing a cheroot before going into the Abbey.

  Dev managed to refrain from sliding the leader of the Horse and Chariot Club a murderous glance. “That was no one.”

  “Ah, well, cheer up, old boy. That half a million pounds that just fell into your lap can buy you plenty more ‘no ones’ to see you through your time of grief. Ha!” Quint clapped him on the back and went to crush out his cigar on the stone side of the Abbey.

  Dev eyed his so-called friends with a guarded glance. Big, vulgar Quint was not entirely to blame for thinking that Dev’s aunt had meant nothing to him, that he had cared only for her money, and today was only going through the motions. Familial obligations, after all, were but sap and sentimentality to the hardened men of the Horse and Chariot Club.

  When Quint had returned to Carstairs and the others, Dev cast one last, furtive look in the direction Lizzie had gone. His swift scan of the crowded churchyard informed him she was gone. Though the realization left him desolate, it was just as well. There was no need for his enemies to know that the brown-haired girl in the olive pelisse was his last remaining Achilles’ heel.

  With a leaden heart, he went into the yawning darkness of the cathedral.

  God, what I fool I am!

  Her arms crossed tightly across her middle, Lizzie walked swiftly up the street, fighting not to cry as she stared at the rain-darkened pavement beneath her striding feet. Her head still reeled in hurt confusion and, with every step, she cursed both Devlin and herself. Surely she deserved the pain that now lanced her heart in reward for her ludicrous folly.

  How could she have done it again? Once more, she had made more of her liaison with a charming, worldly rake than it had ever meant to him. Fool! What a fantastic imagination she must have, to have somehow fancied there had been something more between them than the awful loneliness of an oddball bluestocking girl and the temporary boredom of a dissipated nobleman, who had been tricked, after all, into visiting his invalid aunt.

  Devil Strathmore had clearly moved on. What else had she expected? If she had ever really meant anything to him, she would have heard from him again after the night they had shared, but he had not visited again nor even written to her, not a line.

  Yes, she knew that it was his custom to pull back when he felt threatened, but her deepest doubts and fears supplied reasons aplenty for his coldness, reasons that were so much easier to believe. Why should he want me? I’m an estate-keeper’s daughter. Plain. Boring. Thoroughly ordinary…

  She’d had no reason in the world to believe the man had ever thought of her again since that night—and yet, believe, she had. But now the reality of the situation was all too clear: Devil Strathmore did not want her any more than Alec did.

  God, she felt like the village idiot for daring to approach him on this most somber day. He probably had to strain to even remember who she was. So much for Lady Strathmore’s muddle-headed notion of making Lizzie promise to look after him when she was gone. The dowager had obviously forgotten that the viscount had his fine Society ladies to comfort him now.

  Somehow she managed to bring her angst under control by the time she reached Knight House on Green Park, quietly letting herself into the palatial town mansion of the Duke and Duchess of Hawkscliffe. It was here, to the bosom of the Knight family, that she had returned when Lady Strathmore’s villa was closed up after her death. With their usual kindness and unstinting generosity, her former guardians had welcomed her back. To her surprise, they had kept her room just the way she liked it from when she had lived here, attending Jacinda during the Season. Yet for all its opulence, she thought with a sigh, her gaze trailing wistfully over the curved white staircase that floated up weightlessly to the upper floors, this was not really her home. It was just another place where she had existed on the fringes of other people’s lives.

  She had come here with the thought that she could make herself useful helping to care for little Bobby, Robert’s two-year-old heir, especially now that Bel, the young duchess, was expecting her second child. Lizzie had quickly seen, however, that between his mother and his nurse, there was little need for her here; worse, at Knight House, she always ran the risk of running into Alec. So far, she had managed to avoid him.

  The youngest Knight brother dwelled in first-rate bachelor lodgings at the Albany, but since the family showplace was so close to White’s and Brooke’s, where he spent so much of his time gambling, he was liable to drop by at any time, especially when seeking a “loan” from his fabulously wealthy eldest brother. Perhaps the scoundrel could turn to his old chum, Strathmore, the next time he was short a few quid, she thought cynically. Devlin, after all, was about to take possession of the industrial fortune of Lady Ironsides.

  Thrusting both men out of her mind, she took off her bonnet, which was half-ruined by the rain, and was unbuttoning her olive pelisse when the duke’s supremely dignified butler, Mr. Walsh, strode into the spacious entrance hall.

  “Why, Miss Carlisle, I apologize—I did not hear you come in,” he said with considerable warmth, for him.

  She smiled at the tall, stately fellow with his meticulously trimmed gray side-whiskers. “It’s all right, Mr. Walsh
. I can certainly open a door for myself. Where is everybody?”

  He took her coat despite her refusal to stand on ceremony. “Her Grace is in the music room with Ladies Winterley and—”

  “Aunt Lizzie!” a high-pitched voice cried.

  “Harry!” She brightened as the five-year-old came barreling at her, arms flung wide.

  The five gorgeous children that the Knight clan had so far produced swarmed around her in the next moment, Harry determined to have her attention all to himself, while little Bobby tugged at her skirts with lordly insistence as if he were already beginning to understand he’d be one of the most powerful men in the realm someday.

  Lucien’s daughter, Pippa, plopped down at Lizzie’s feet and began squealing happily for no apparent reason, while Damien’s one-year-old twins came zooming across the floor at a speedy crawl, Andrew just a pace ahead of Edward for the moment.

  “All of you, come away from the door. It’s too drafty,” she protested, but she succeeded only in leading them a few feet into the middle of the entrance hall before they pulled her down to sit on the floor with them.

  Her misery was forgotten sooner than she could have hoped, with babies crawling on her and toddlers hanging around her neck, Harry delivering a monologue all the while about the pony he was getting in the spring. How she loved the children. She was in a state of bliss as she played with them, completely ignoring her cares. Their mothers, Bel, Miranda, and Alice, were probably wondering where the wee ones had rushed off to; their nurses, on the other hand, were probably glad for a break.

  The one person Lizzie was not expecting to appear at that moment was Alec.

  The front door opened, and he strode in, his long, golden hair tousled—looking, in all, like some errant archangel who had just blown in on a passing cloud. Seeing Lizzie, Alec froze, his dark sapphire eyes blinking once in surprise; then he quickly shut the door, noting the children’s presence.

  As Mr. Walsh waited to take his coat, Alec stared at her surrounded by children, and for one heartbeat, both of them, Lizzie feared, glimpsed the future they might have had together if he had not wrecked it beyond repair. They had not seen each other since Jacinda’s wedding last summer and had not spoken privately for even longer than that.

  Harry broke the fleeting silence. “Uncle Alec!” The boy charged his favorite uncle and dived on him. “Hang me upside down! Please, please?”

  “That’s enough of you, fish bait,” Alec muttered in a jolly tone, grabbing the kid up in his arms and promptly dangling him by his ankles.

  Harry let out a whoop of delight. “Swing me!”

  “Excuse us,” Alec drawled politely to Lizzie, then swung Harry back and forth with each slow step, as he carried him into the anteroom. He deposited the tot gently onto a large, cushy chair, poking a finger into the boy’s chubby belly. “Have at you, sir!”

  Harry was on his feet in an instant, chasing Alec with uproarious laughter. “Again! More!”

  “Now you’ve got him riled up. Harry,” Lizzie chided in a gentle tone.

  “Pippa!” Alec exclaimed, staring beyond her in sudden alarm.

  Lizzie turned in surprise as he dashed past her and collected his tiny niece, who was just trying out her stair-climbing skills. Lizzie gasped at her own oversight, but Alec was already plucking the tot off the staircase before she climbed any higher. “Hullo, sweetheart. Where do you think you’re going?” Alec gave the baby’s downy head a kiss, then carried her with astonishing gentleness against his chest, while Harry leaped onto his back and clung there, hitching a piggyback ride.

  Alec played with them for a moment or two, but Lizzie refused to be charmed, never mind the fact that his easy manner with the children had always been one of the qualities she had always secretly found most adorable in him. The world outside might see the Corinthian, the ringleader of London rakehells, the mad chancer who would take any dare, any wager; the ton might quake in fright of his sardonic quips about their clothes; but all of that was largely just an act. His real father had been a handsome Shakespearean player, after all, one of the scandalous eighth duchess’s many lovers. Alec was a chameleon like his actor-father, but in the domestic setting, the wee ones flocked to him, instantly sensing him for what he was—one of their own—a jolly playmate with a world of patience and an imagination that climbed to the stars.

  A child at heart.

  “Hullo, Bits,” he offered, trying out a rueful smile as she stood up, holding Andrew. Or was it Edward? “It’s nice to see you again.”

  She flinched slightly at his old nickname for her, then noticed little Pippa studying her too intently by half. Just like her canny father, Lucien, that one. With the odd sensation that the child could detect her roiling emotions, she forced a taut smile. “Likewise.”

  Seeing that no reprisal was imminent—there were, after all, children present—Alec unleashed one of his dazzling reckless grins.

  Lizzie looked away, clenching her teeth. Oh, this was harder than she had thought it would be. He was every bit as beautiful as before, only perhaps infinitesimally less sure of himself. She resisted the urge to ask how Lady Campion was treating him and refused to let herself wonder whether his famous luck had finally returned or if his losing streak continued.

  The silence turned awkward; they directed their attention to the children; fortunately, the trio of young mothers glided into the entrance hall just then with light steps and lavish smiles, like the three dancing goddesses from Botticelli’s La Primavera come magically to life. Each one more beautiful than the next, Bel, Alice, and Miranda collected their stray babes, then greeted Lizzie with the quiet joy beaming in their eyes of women who had found their true places in the world. Their husbands arrived while they were all still convening in the hall—Robert, Lucien, and Damien—tall, handsome, black-haired men who radiated innate power and leadership. As each nuptial pair were affectionately reunited, Lizzie felt her heart sinking lower. Her solo status—and Alec’s—had never felt more awkwardly apparent.

  She kept a smile plastered on her face by sheer dint of will, but quickly realized that she could not bear to stay here. If seeing Alec were not uncomfortable enough, it hurt too much to be faced with the constant reminder of what she would never have. Besides, it would not be right to stay and drive a wedge between Alec and his family. They were his family, after all. They all had been so angry at him for what he’d done last summer, and had felt so sorry for her, that all of them had taken her side after his transgression. Now that she was back, she had no desire to rekindle their displeasure with him. It was best for her to go.

  Later that evening, she wrote to Mrs. Hall in the village of Islington just north of London, accepting the teaching position she had been offered at the girls’ school that the imperious headmistress had run for decades. Bed and board were included in the pay. The next day, bright and early, she arrived at Mrs. Hall’s Academy for Young Ladies with a portmanteau under each arm.

  For a long moment after the hackney coach she’d hired had driven away, she just stood in the dirt road, staring at the fine old redbrick manor that housed the school, tucked behind a white picket fence. The same green ivy grew up the walls; the same white columns steadied the portico. The big, old mulberry tree still stood sentry near the corner of the school, while the even older oak leaned over the flagged footpath leading up to the stately entrance.

  Jacinda and she had attended here for two years, and while the duke’s daughter had been a mischievous rebel and a general headache to Mrs. Hall, Lizzie had soon distinguished herself as a star pupil. She had liked the studies, the schedule, the predictable routine. She had liked finally finding a place where she could shine despite the fact that she had neither wealth nor rank like the other girls.

  Yes, she thought, taking a deep breath, she could be reasonably content here in this safe world of women. Not a single London rake in sight. Nothing here had changed, and in an uncertain world, that was a welcome relief. She could belong here, in a fashion. How l
ong she could actually be happy before she grew restless remained to be seen.

  She pushed the gnawing thought away, squared her shoulders, went through the squeaky front gate, and walked resolutely toward the school in anticipation of her new life. And yet she felt a vague shame, as though once more, she was running away from something she probably ought to have faced.

  Once more, as Lady Strathmore had said, she was hiding.

  Repairs to the gaudy pavilion were finished at last. All was ready. The answers he sought were almost in reach. Tonight, if all went according to plan, Dev would gain the inner circle of the Horse and Chariot Club.

  No turning back now.

  The full moon hung over the marshes, and Dev stood outside the pavilion at the top of the curved double staircase, slowly smoking a cheroot and waiting with brooding patience for his enemies to arrive.

  He knew the exact moment that they breached the massive gates, for in the tranquil silence of the black spring night, beneath the undulant song of the frogs in the desolate acres of reeds and mud, he detected the distant thunder of galloping hoofbeats. He felt the deep drumming of it in his chest as the riders swept closer.

  “See that all is made ready,” he murmured to a nearby servant, not taking his stare off the long stretch of moonlit drive. “And shut the doors.”

  “Yes, milord.” The majordomo bowed and pulled the fanciful double doors shut, whisking off to make one last check on the chef in the kitchens and the whores in the garish salons.

  From somewhere inside, a sharp burst of melody sprang from a nimble bow as one of the hired musicians gave his violin a last-minute tuning.

  Dev’s vision adjusted quickly to the light of the moon and the few flambeaux burning in the courtyard. In the distance, he could just make out the silver sparkle of the Thames; eerie bog lights flashed across the marshes like tiny lightning storms. His wilderness-honed instincts narrowed in on the first of the riders to burst into view, barreling up the road.

  At the head of the pack, the riders were the first to spy the brightly lit pavilion standing alone in the middle of the bog. Behind them streamed the rest of the brotherhood, tearing along at breakneck speed. The wan moonlight glowed on sleek phaetons, gleaming black coaches, racing drags, exquisitely kept cabriolets—all drawn by the finest horses money could buy.