The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  That secret would ruin the Cabot sisters, for if it were known among the ton that Lady Beckington was mad, and her four unmarried daughters now had modest dowries instead of generous ones, no one would have them. No one. There wasn’t a gentleman in London who would chance introducing madness into his family’s lineage, especially without the incentive of grand wealth. More important, Grace had two younger sisters who were not yet out. They would have no opportunity to make a good match.

  She and Honor had worried over it for weeks now, and while Grace didn’t like that it had come to this, that she should find herself in a position of having to conspire to something so morally reprehensible, she could see no other viable or expeditious solution. She must marry Amherst before her secrets were discovered.

  Everything was set. The little tea shop across the square from the abbey was closed at six o’clock. There was quite a crowd gathered at the abbey this evening to hear the Russian soprano. Grace knew the Franklin sisters would return after the chorale with Reverend Cumberhill. She’d even stood across from the tea shop, watching when the Franklin sisters departed for the abbey at six o’clock, then testing the door herself. It was open. It was always open—the abbey was only steps from the shop.

  Tonight, Grace’s life would change forevermore. She would suffer a great scandal, would no doubt be made a pariah among polite society. She was prepared for it—at least her younger sisters would have what they needed.

  At the chorale, she caught Amherst’s twinkling eye. Just as they’d planned, she stood and walked briskly from the abbey’s sanctuary before the chorale was ended. She knew that Amherst would be right behind her, unsuspecting that the Franklin sisters and the reverend would be right behind him.

  A light rain had begun to fall, and that worried Grace. A few moments too early, a few moments too late, and everything would be ruined. She pulled the hood of her cape over her head and hurried across the abbey courtyard to the tea shop. She had a moment of breathlessness at the realization she was actually stooping to such wretched manipulations—up until this moment, it had been nothing but a scheme—but that was followed by an exhalation of desperation. She had never in her life been so desperate as this.

  At the door of the tea shop, she pushed her hood back to look around her before she opened the door. There was no one about—everyone was in the abbey, hearing the last stanzas of the chorale.

  Grace reached for the handle and pushed. She knew a moment of panic when the door would not open—but she put her shoulder to it and it opened with a creak so loud she expected the entire town of Bath to spill out of their doors and accuse her of thievery. Grace slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar so that Amherst would know it was open, and paused, listening for any sounds that would indicate she’d been seen.

  She couldn’t hear a thing over the pounding of her heart.

  The room was very dark; the embers at the hearth were so low she could hardly see her hand before her. Another bolt of panic hit her—she hadn’t thought of the dark. How would Amherst find her? She was too fearful to speak. She’d stand near the door; she’d reach out and touch him when he entered.

  Grace began to feel about for the furnishings. She’d been in this tiny tearoom many times, and knew there were two small tables just at the door, a desk to her right. With her hands sweeping slowly in front of her, she brushed against the back of the chair at the desk.

  All right, then, she had her bearings. She knew where she was standing, where the door was.

  Grace removed her cloak and dropped it somewhere nearby, then nervously smoothed her hair. Her hands were shaking; she clasped them tightly together, waiting. A clock was ticking somewhere, and every second that ticked by, her heart beat harder.

  She heard the footfall of Amherst as he strode across the abbey courtyard. He was walking quickly, purposefully, and suddenly Grace’s breath deserted her entirely. She gulped for air, straining to hear. She heard Amherst pause just outside the door and swallowed down a small cry of tension. It sounded as if he was moving about, and Grace imagined Amherst was having second thoughts. He moved away from the door, and she gasped softly.

  But he came back almost at once.

  A silence followed, and Grace could not quell the shaking in her. Why did he not open the door? When he did, pushing the door so that it swung open, a rush of cool damp air swept across Grace’s face. Her breath was so shallow she felt faint; her hands were so tightly clasped that she was vaguely aware of her fingernails digging into her skin.

  Amherst stepped cautiously over the threshold. He looked taller than he normally seemed, which Grace attributed to the bit of light outside that framed him in the doorway. He turned his head to one side, as if he were listening for her.

  Her nerves would strangle her. “Here,” she said.

  His head snapped around to the sound she’d made, and in a moment of sheer panic, Grace launched her body at him. She expected him to say something, but he froze, as if she had startled him. She threw her arms around his neck; he caught her by the waist with a soft grunt, and stumbled backward to keep them from falling. Somehow, Grace found his mouth in the dark. It was much softer than she would have thought. It was lush, wet and warm, and—

  And he was suddenly devouring her lips. Hungrily. Grace hadn’t expected such a powerful kiss. She couldn’t say what exactly she’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Her blood felt hot in her veins, sluicing through her. She was a pot boiling over, and she liked it. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she was rocked by the prurient sensation of it. She felt strangely free and anonymous in the dark, not like herself at all. Not a debutante with at least some sense of propriety. His kiss was stunningly arousing, and Grace pressed against him without regard for herself or her reputation, feeling the hard length of him—

  He suddenly picked her up by the waist, and Grace cried out with surprise against his mouth. He knocked into the chair at the desk, and she heard it crash to the planked floor. He sat her on the desk, and something there dug into her back, but Grace didn’t care—his tongue was stroking her mouth and driving her wild. He nipped at her lips with his teeth, drew them into his mouth, and Grace realized now exactly how Amherst had derived the reputation for being something of a rake, for his kiss was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.

  She was sliding down a very sensual path. She felt too damp, too hot in her clothes, pushed to the edge of reason by every stroke of his tongue in her mouth, every bite of her lips.

  He suddenly moved, and his mouth was on her décolletage, his fingers digging into the fabric of her gown. Grace thought she should stop him before this game went too far, but his hand had found her leg, was under her gown! And his fingers were tracing a burning path up her leg.

  Stop him, stop him now! She wanted to be discovered in a fierce embrace, not in the full throes of lovemaking. Where were the Franklin sisters, for God’s sake? Grace couldn’t find her voice—rather, she didn’t want to find her voice. She much preferred to close her eyes and feel the extraordinary sensations. She dropped her head back and allowed herself to experience every moment of this carnal onslaught. His fingers dug into the meaty part of her thigh, and she gasped with the tantalizing sensation of a man’s hand between her legs. She sank her fingers into his hair as his lips closed around the hard tip of her breast through her gown. She could not believe she had accomplished it! She would be happy with him, if this is what she might look forward to.

  He freed her breast with a yank to the fabric of her gown. He took it in his mouth, suckling it, and the sensation was so shocking, so arousing, that it pooled in her groin.

  Amherst growled against her breast, a guttural, animal sound of desire, and Grace’s body reverberated with it. When his hand moved deeper between her thighs, Grace brazenly lifted her leg. His fingers slipped into the folds of her sex. She gasped for breath, lifting off the desk. She hardly knew herself!

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she whispered into his ear.r />
  His hesitation was so slight she wasn’t sure it was real. But he said nothing as he moved to her other breast and pressed an erection against her that both alarmed and incited her. She’d never felt a man’s desire, had never seen it. It felt mysterious and hard against her leg, and the lusty image of how it would fit inside her filled her head as a strong current of desire skated down her spine, overwhelming her senses, tingling in every patch of her skin.

  Everything began to fall away. Grace forgot her deceit, or even where she was. She forgot everything but the way he was making her feel, the way her body was responding, wanting more, craving more. So when a lantern of light suddenly filled the room, she was startled and cried out.

  Amherst whirled about, spreading his cloak to cover Grace while she desperately sought to cover herself.

  “My lord!” Reverend Cumberhill cried, his voice full of censure and alarm. “God in heaven, what have you done?”

  Grace frantically tried to remember her part in this theater. “Please,” she said. Please what? She looked down and realized that Amherst had actually torn the bodice of her gown. She held the fabric together with her hand, and cast frantically about for her cloak.

  “My lord, this cannot stand!” the reverend cried. “You have taken cruel advantage of this girl!”

  “Young lady, are you harmed?” one of the sisters demanded, and suddenly light was shining on Grace. She heard the Franklin sisters’ twin cries of shock at her appearance. Grace spotted her cloak and dipped down for it.

  “Miss Cabot!” one of them cried. “Come, darling, let me help you,” she said, and Grace felt her hands on her shoulders, felt her pulling the cloak around her neck.

  “By God, Merryton, I never thought you capable of rape! I will call the authorities!”

  Rape! Merryton?

  Grace’s heart stopped beating. And then it started again with a painful jerk. No, no no no no—Merryton? How could she have made such a horrible, wretched mistake? It was impossible, and Grace whirled about to face the man who had driven her to wild desire—

  Her heart plummeted to her toes.

  She felt ill, could feel the blood rushing from her limbs, and thought she might collapse. She had not coaxed the affable and randy Lord Amherst into a compromising situation as she had planned. She had thrown herself at his brother, Lord Merryton, the most disagreeable man in England.

  She had to fix this. “He did not harm me!” she cried, panicking now. There was sacrifice and the real desire to save her sisters, but then there was sheer terror, and this was sheer terror. She could not allow this to happen. It could not! Where in heaven was Amherst?

  “Miss, do not speak,” the reverend warned her. “I will not allow him to intimidate you!”

  Merryton’s cold green eyes bored through Grace. His face was dark, his expression stormy, and an unpleasantly cold shiver raced through her.

  “I take full responsibility,” he said curtly.

  “As well you ought!” the reverend said sharply, and stalked forward, holding up his lantern to see Grace. Grace quickly put a hand to her bodice and only then realized a long tangled hank of hair hung over her shoulder.

  “Dear God,” the reverend said, his voice hushed, his expression truly horrified. He shifted that look of horror to Merryton. “This will not be borne! You have ruined this young woman, ruined her irrevocably, and for that, you will pay the price! Ladies, please, do see her to safety at once,” he said brusquely. “Take her from this place and send Mr. Botham to me as quickly as you can,” he added, referring to the local magistrate.

  One of the ladies pulled the hood of her cloak over Grace’s head.

  “There has been no crime,” she tried again. “It was my doing—”

  “Quiet!” the reverend bellowed. The sisters shushed her as they flanked her, forcefully ushering her to the door.

  Grace stumbled along, her breath short and thin. What a horrible, horrible mistake! She’d done something quite wretched. Worse than wretched! She felt as if she might vomit, and doubled over so that she wouldn’t. She wondered wildly if Amherst would have felt as helpless as she was feeling in that moment if he’d come, if her plan had worked.

  “Oh, dear. Take heart, Miss Cabot. The reverend will see to it that man faces justice for what he’s done.”

  “He committed no crime!” Grace cried helplessly. “It was I who brought this on him! I lured him.”

  “Dearest, it is only natural that you would want to take the blame for your indiscretion, but you mustn’t,” one of the ladies said. “He has used you ill!”

  That made no sense to Grace, but they were pulling her out the door and into the abbey courtyard, where dozens were now emerging from the abbey. Several heads swiveled in Grace’s direction—it wasn’t often that one saw two women dragging a third between them—and voices began to rise around them.

  “Hurry along, Agnes!” one of the sisters hissed, and Grace was stumbling between them to keep up.

  She would never recall how, exactly, she was returned to Cousin Beatrice’s house on Royal Crescent. She could only vaguely recall being there at all when the gentlemen came to speak with her, to ascertain what had happened in that dark tea shop. Grace tried desperately to explain to them that it was her doing, but when pressed to give a reason as to why she would do something so heinous, she could not tell them the truth.

  The gentlemen assumed that as she could not adequately explain her reasoning for doing something so horrific because she was lying. She was lying, they carefully explained to her, because she feared Merryton.

  Grace did fear Merryton. She’d never heard a kind word said about him. He was known to be aloof and distant and disdainful.

  But he did not deserve what she’d done to him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ONE TWO THREE four five six seven eight.

  There were precisely eight steps from the breakfast room to the study, and eight panels of wallpapering in the room. Jeffrey knew this because he counted them every day on those occasions he resided at his townhome in Bath, sometimes several times a day. And yet he couldn’t be entirely certain of the number of steps in the early-morning hours after his spectacular downfall. He kept walking back and forth between the breakfast room and study, counting the steps.

  He had to do it; he had to count until he was completely certain, for it was the only thing that could annihilate the image of him thrusting his body into that young woman’s sex.

  The vision—unwanted, uninvited, mistakenly placed in his brain—was new to him. Generally, the vulgar and salacious thoughts that tended to plague him every day were of two women pleasuring each other with their tongues and fingers. He couldn’t say why that was, only that he had begun to experience that particular image around his seventeenth year. He’d begun to act on it in his twenty-first year, carefully seeking out the sort of bedmates who were willing to perform for him and with him. But in society, Jeffrey had learned to keep the dark images deep in the corners of his mind, hidden away. Always proper, always a model of propriety, just as his father had taught him to be. When Jeffrey made a concerted effort to banish the images, he was generally successful. They seemed only to emerge when he was very tired or felt the pressure of his title.

  His title, the Earl of Merryton, as well as two lesser titles, was the heavy mantle he wore. He was the head of a large family with impressive holdings. He was Jeffrey Donovan, the man everyone assumed to be above scandal and immoral behavior, just like his father before him.

  But the truth was that Jeffrey was not above it all. He’d merely found a way to restrain himself.

  Until last night.

  And now, a new, monstrous image was residing quite firmly in his thoughts and he could not subdue it. Bloody hell, he didn’t even know her name! Cabot, Mrs. Franklin had said. Jeffrey knew no Cabots. He knew nothing about her, except that she had tasted like honey, had felt like silk.

  One two three four five six seven eight.

  Eight. Eight. Ei
ght.

  This thing, this demonic obsession with eight, had invaded Jeffrey so many years ago that he could no longer remember how. But in his sixteenth year, when his father had died and he’d become the earl, responsible for carrying on the family’s name and its impeccable credentials, responsible for being the one above all reproach, the eight had begun to loom in his heart and mind. Like the salacious images, Jeffrey was at a loss to understood how or why it had happened. He thought himself mad, really, particularly as the eight was imperative to him but also torture at the same time.

  The necessity for eight in his everyday life had manifested itself when Jeffrey had lain with a woman the first time. How old was he then, eighteen? He’d been seduced—willingly—by an older woman. She had shown him what his body wanted with her hands and her mouth, things he hadn’t realized, had not imagined. Those things seemed incongruent with the lord he was supposed to be, and he had not been able to douse his shame except by counting.

  But then, the images, vile and lustful, had come at him, worse than he’d ever imagined. And the eight demon had grabbed him by the throat, choking the life out of him, forcing him to walk on the sharp edge of a blade—think bad thoughts, banish them only with eight. Now, at thirty years of age, Jeffrey knew that to fall off his private blade was to fall into the chaos of his thoughts, to obsess about women’s bodies and sexual plunder and the number eight.

  He had learned to control it, to keep it quite under wraps. He rarely made mistakes.

  Rarely.

  And yet, he’d made a colossal one last night.

  He had his brother to blame, damn him. John Donovan, the Viscount Amherst, was the bane of Jeffrey’s existence. It seemed John strove to make every mistake he could. He’d been unapologetically involved in one scandal after another. From the time he’d reached his majority, he’d racked up gambling debts that he could not repay, leaving Jeffrey to deal with them from the family’s coffers. He would not settle on a woman and make an offer, and instead preferred to dally with every debutante who happened to drift in his path, creating scandal in London and among some of the finest families in the Quality.