Her face flamed. Had she been so obvious in her pursuit of the club that Wallace, who barely ever spoke to her except about the weather, had known of her intentions? “You are heartless!”
“Heartless?” He laughed. “Heartless is stringing one man along while you caper about with another!”
“It wasn’t another! It was you, you…jackass!” The word visibly jolted him, as though he’d been slapped. “And what were you doing at the club, anyway? You were also engaged. If anyone has been dishonest here, it has been you!”
“I—” he stopped himself, as though suddenly aware of some precarious predicament. “I have to go there, Permilia.”
“You have to?”
“I am duty bound.”
If her eyes had rolled any harder, they would have fallen into her skull. “Duty bound to what? Your cock?”
“No.” He moved past her, back to the settee, and sat upon it, hanging his head. “I own the Two Aces.”
Now, Permilia felt she needed to sit. She slumped in the armchair, her body going boneless with emotional exhaustion. “This cannot possibly be any worse.”
“No one knows,” he assured her. “Not even my mother. Only I, and my brothers.”
She sat up, mortification straightening her back where her spine had deserted her. “Your brothers. Oh dear…the gentleman…with the heart tattooed…oh no.”
“Permilia, please.” Wallace dropped to one knee before her in a sick parody of the afternoon he had proposed. She’d though him so damnably suitable then. Where had that boring, safe man gone?
He took her hand in his, and though she felt she should tear hers away, she did not. He gazed up at her imploringly, firmly aware that between them, she now held a very valuable asset in the knowledge of his involvement with the club. “My father was a very traditional man. He left his business to his sons under the stipulation that nothing be done to alter his ideals. But those ideals were bankrupting us. We had to do something to protect our mother’s interest, and Richard has always been interested in tinkering with gears and aether and…Permilia, I know it may seem as though I lied to you—”
“Because you did!” She wrenched her hand from his grasp. “How am I to look your brother in the face ever again? After I saw him…Wallace, how could you?”
He had the good sense to look sheepish. “I thought for certain that once we were married and you learned of my identity, you would be open to attending the club more frequently.”
“And what, I was to simply go along with this arrangement without being given a choice? I expected I would marry Wallace!”
“And you will. Part of the time. The rest of the time, you’ll be my Ophelia. Of course, we would still have to comply with societal strictures—”
That comment simply could not be born. She pushed him back, sprawling him on the carpet. “Societal strictures? You and I were engaged for six months before you even kissed me. You barely ever touched my hand, unless you were helping me out of a carriage. And all the while, behind my back, you were running about with harlots and…clockwork whores! Now you dare to talk to me of societal strictures?”
She didn’t want to be Wallace and Permilia and The Ace of Spades and Ophelia. She’d rather hoped it would be either one or the other. It seemed exhausting to keep up this kind of double life.
Yet, Wallace had done it. He’d lied to her, and for what? Her eyes flooded with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She was ready to hear him say anything to make her understand, for as much as she hated Wallace at this moment, she still loved the masked stranger.
But he did not ask her forgiveness. He simply said, “My family would be ruined if this were ever to be revealed. My mother would be irreparably harmed.”
So, that was it. He didn’t care about how his strange duality would affect her. He cared only that his obedient wife play along. “Do you think I took no risks at all coming to the club?”
“You did,” he admitted. “Very silly ones, at that. If you had any idea how many people who know your parents, people who know you, came to the club, you’d be shocked. And for them to connect you to me, to Wallace, I mean, it could have been catastrophic!”
“And leaving me completely in the dark until I was legally bound to go along with your lifestyle, that wouldn’t have been?” She snorted haughtily. “I’m glad to discover this now, instead of after the certificate has been signed!”
“Please.” He looked so truly desperate, she almost laughed at him. “My family would be destroyed.”
Composing herself, she nodded. “I will not ruin your family out of spite, Mister Sterling. If anything, I dare say I shall never speak of it to you again at all. Good day.”
She did not await further reply.
* * * *
“Wake up, you drunken sot!”
Wallace blinked against the light that invaded his bedroom, and winced at the noise of the curtain rings rattling on the brass bar. His mouth tasted of sick and his hair felt as though it might be sticky with the same. He wore the same clothes he’d worn all week, the disheveled shirt with the missing buttons that he’d been wearing the day Permilia had cast him off.
Be fair. You cut the ropes yourself.
He cursed his own conscience aloud and pulled the blankets over his head, realizing too late that he was sprawled upon them and not beneath them and his own weight was slowly choking him to death.
“This is a fine picture,” Horace scolded as he watched his brother fight free of the bedding. “I’m so glad that mother did not accompany me up the stairs.”
From somewhere far away, a voice shrill enough to startle a harpy called out, “Tell him that if he does not march down here at once, I shall be forced to drag him to the church as he is!”
Wallace pulled his head from the covers and sat up, gasping. “I swear she must sharpen her voice on a whetstone!”
“You must forgive our mother for being strung a bit tightly this morning, brother, but it is the morning of your wedding and no one has seen you in six days!”
The wedding! He’d neglected the world out of his own sadness, and somewhere between the drinking and destroying household objects, he’d also neglected to inform his family that his wedding was off. “About the wedding…perhaps it would be best if I…did not go.”
“Oh, yes, far too many grooms make the dreadful faux pas of showing up.” Horace gave him a rather un-brotherly slap against the side of his head. “Get up!”
Wallace gingerly cradled his head in his hands. “I cannot. The wedding is cancelled. Permilia did not react well when informed of my double life.”
“Well, this is news to us.” Horace folded his arms over his chest, looking like a very strict school master. “To Permilia, as well, I’d wager. She and her family have already left for the church.”
Wallace sat up straight, the ringing in his ears setting him slightly off balance. “What?”
“Did you inform your bride that you had called off the wedding?”
“It was her idea!” Hadn’t it been? Permilia had every right not to wed him, after the way he’d treated her. All the while he’d been criticizing her for her behavior at the club and worrying about what it would mean for his family, he’d never thought to apologize or atone. There was little he could think of that would be proper penance. What he’d done to Permilia was unforgivable. She’d been charmed by the Ace of Spades, had shared her body and her deepest desires with him, all while Wallace had watched from behind the mask.
What a mess he’d made. He hadn’t informed her family, or his, of their quarrel, and now she’d apparently changed her mind? Or had she informed her parents, only to be instructed by the formidable Mr. and Mrs. Deering that she would, indeed, be married? Wallace didn’t like to imagine that scenario, in which Permilia married him only because she had been coerced.
The only way to resolve the situation, at least, the only way that he could see, was to go to the church and straighten things out in person. With Horace’s help, he wa
shed and dressed and combed his hair, which badly wanted cutting, but for now there was nothing to be done. Cleaned and shaved and pressed, he hurried down the stairs, past his mother—whose head had begun to resemble an overripe strawberry in her rage—and into the waiting Phaeton.
“Not the most appropriate way to show up for one’s own wedding,” Wallace remarked as he helped their mother alight.
Horace shrugged one shoulder. “I knew we would be running late.”
When they were all seated, almost uncomfortably close in the small vehicle, Horace took hold of the gear lever and crank that controlled the clockwork horse. He wound the crank tight, until it could no longer be moved without strenuous effort, then hauled up on the gear lever and the phaeton lurched from the curb, nearly upsetting.
Their mother clasped one hand to her hat and another to her heart. “Horace! You’ll kill us all!”
“Hardly, mother,” he replied as he maneuvered the sprinting vehicle into the traffic on the street. They passed between two Hansom cabs, so close that Wallace was certain they made sparks against the other vehicles.
“If you survive to get to the church, the most nerve-wracking part of the day will be behind you,” Mother declared.
Wallace wished that were true, for at the moment he would take being spilled onto the pavement in a grisly accident over what would take place at the church.
* * * *
Permilia checked her reflection again, patting her ringlets, which required no fixing at all, pursing her lips in consideration of the bride that stared back at her. The high collar of her ivory satin gown was augmented with a silk rose that scraped against her chin in a most obnoxious fashion, and the puffed sleeves nearly reached her ears. As ridiculous as she feared she looked, she felt far more so.
Horace had sworn to her that Wallace would appear at the church, but what then? They hadn’t spoken in a week, and the last thing she’d done was call off their engagement.
“Dreadful, to be late to one’s own wedding! He’ll make everyone think he doesn’t want you!” Her mother fluffed Permilia’s veil, a scratchy thing held in place by a circlet of silk roses like the one at her throat.
“Mother, please,” she begged politely. It was bad enough that she doubted Wallace would appear, worse somehow that her mother felt that way when she hadn’t even been privy to the disastrous conversation in the parlor. What about her was so unmarriageable that her own mother doubted the groom would show up? It certainly didn’t inspire much confidence.
She should have confessed all to her parents, long before the morning of the ceremony, but something had held her back. No, not something. Someone.
The fact was, she loved him. Though she’d never really known Wallace Sterling, she knew his secret. During his proper, well-mannered days, he wore a mask, as effective as the one he’d worn in the club. If he could stand such a life, so could she. She could force her way through polite conversation during tea, if it meant long nights in the arms of the man who made her quake with passion, and who accepted that passion as a treasure, not unmentionable but necessary trash to be swept under the rug. So, marry Wallace she would, even if it meant carrying out a very confusing affair with the other man that he was.
The clock above the mantle chimed, and Permilia looked about the small rectory room in despair. Now was the moment she should be walking down the aisle. She would either leave today as a bride, or a jilted spinster.
* * * *
Wallace all but sprinted up the church steps. Just as he feared, guests filled the pews and sprays of roses decorated the doors. There really was a wedding planned for today, and he had to be the one to go and cock it all up.
Judging from the number of hothouse flowers strew about the sanctuary, Mister Deering had paid quite a handsome sum to decorate the biggest scandal of the season.
“She’s in there,” Horace instructed, gesturing to a door with “Church Office” etched on the glass.
Wallace paused, momentarily distracted from his primary goal. “Where’s Richard?”
His brother shifted uncomfortably and would not meet his eyes. “Richard…sends his deep regrets.”
It should not have bothered Wallace that his youngest brother was absent. After all, there likely would not be a wedding today. But Richard didn’t know that.
“Are you forgetting something?” Horace prompted, striding to the door and opening it. “Through there, in the rectory. Honestly, Wallace, should I march you down the aisle as well?”
He wouldn’t require such prompting, but his bride likely would.
He knocked on the door and waited, but it was not Permilia who opened the door. It was her mother, and she looked none too pleased with her impending son-in-law. “Are you ready, then? Finally?”
“I’m here to speak to Permilia.” He bent the brim of his hat in his hands, and willed his fingers to unclench.
“Really, this is most irregular!” Missus Deering was a short woman with severe features and ink black hair pulled tight enough to alter the shape of her forehead. “First, you fail to respond to our dinner invitations for an entire week, then you show up late to your own wedding. Well, it’s no wonder that my daughter feared she had been jilted!”
“She has been jilted?” Wallace practically roared, then forced himself to calm for the benefit of the guests assembled in the sanctuary. “Missus Deering, I am dreadfully sorry to have snubbed you. The truth is, I have been in the grip of a terrible fever for the past several days, and far too weak to reply to any invitations. In fact it is a miracle I have survived to stand before you today. Now, I would like to apologize to my bride, in person, before she walks down the aisle with any trepidation about my commitment to her.”
Mother Deering pursed her lips, but moved aside, pulling the door closed behind her as she left Wallace alone with Permilia.
There had never been a bride so beautiful, or so sad, he decided the moment he laid eyes upon Permilia. Her reflection gazed up at him in the looking glass. “Is it true, you were terribly sick?”
He tossed his hat onto the threadbare chair before the empty fireplace. “You know that was not true.”
She nodded, her eyes downcast once more. “I am glad you came.”
“What is this?” He gestured to the gown, and to the wall, the other side of which sat everyone they knew socially, everyone who would delight in yet another scandal for the Sterlings. “You don’t wish to marry me, yet you’re playing along? Is this some elaborate scheme to humiliate me, then?”
“Not at all.” She turned in her chair, hampered by the ridiculous bustle of her gown. “I came here today to marry someone. Just not Wallace Sterling.”
As he did not understand, Wallace thought it best to stay silent and await explanation.
Permilia rose, sweeping her gown’s short train behind her. “I am in love with someone else. The man I met at the club. The man who showed more passion toward me than I am certain Wallace Sterling is capable of feeling.”
“That isn’t fair.” He swallowed, not entirely comfortable having this conversation aloud, where it could be overheard. “That gentleman does not have a family to keep afloat, a mother to watch over and protect from the truth about her sons’ business. That gentleman does not have the crushing responsibilities that Wallace Sterling does.”
“I know that.” Permilia reached for his hands, and held them in hers between them. “Permilia must be a proper society wife, but Ophelia is free to be wild and reckless. We are more alike than I think you know, Wallace.”
That was all very well and good, but he found it unlikely that anything, short of falsifying his own death and fleeing to some far off country, could break him from his proper mold. “I am not like Horace. While he runs about being Bohemian and free, and Richard locks himself away from the world, I must take care of my family. I cannot suddenly abandon that way of life, simply because you prefer the man you met in the club.”
“I know that. Which is why I must take both of you, despit
e your faults.” She looked up at him, her sweet brown eyes full of hope. “Wallace, I do still want to marry you. Please say that you’ll still marry me.”
She’d taken quite a gamble, Wallace realized. What would she do if he turned away from her now? She would be humiliated. He’d treated her appallingly, caring more for protecting his family than the woman he was supposed to be marrying.
She is your perfect match. Are you willing to walk away from that?
She was willing to take on his double life to be with the Ace of Spades. And what of him? How much of him really was the man at the club, and how much of him was the boring cold fish she’d gone to the club to avoid? “I don’t know if I can ever be the man you’re looking for, Permilia.”
She stood up on tip toe to press a kiss against his jaw. The closeness of her body enflamed him, the soft brush of her breath against his skin intoxicated him. “You already are.”
A sharp rap on the rectory door startled them both, and Permilia’s mother’s voice called, “Your guests are waiting! Really, I cannot condone postponing this ceremony any longer!”
“She’s quite right.” Wallace offered Permilia his arm. “Shall we?”
Permilia nodded toward the door. “That does have a lock, you know.”
With a grin, Wallace strode the door, already loosening his collar. It wouldn’t hurt their guests to wait just a bit longer…
About the Author
The alter-ego of USA Today Bestselling Author Jennifer Armintrout, Abigail Barnette was born during a conversation with author Bronwyn Green, who encouraged Jennifer to develop an elaborate fantasy persona—complete with nom de plume—under which to pen erotic romance. Abigail enjoys long naps in fairy-filled glades, running through corridors in tragically romantic haunted castles, and drinking goblet after goblet of spiced wine.
Abigail loves to talk to her readers and can be found at www.abigailbarnette.com
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Infernal Devices (All Steamed Up) Page 8