The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  “Good evening, my lord,” she said with as much cheer as one could muster, given the day. Her voice sounded melodic.

  “Good evening, Lady Merryton.”

  “Ah...Grace,” she said, as if perhaps he hadn’t remembered it, as if he hadn’t signed a marriage book and a special license with her name clearly spelled out for all eternity: Grace Elizabeth Diana Cabot. Twenty-four letters in all.

  “You will forgive me if I do not feel the familiarity necessary to address you by your given name as yet.” He thought he was being helpful. He couldn’t very well explain to her that certain things had to happen before he could call her by her given name—even he wasn’t sure what—but he couldn’t speak to her as if they were known to each other. As if he had courted her, had asked her permission to address her more intimately.

  Clearly, his helpful explanation had not had the desired effect; he could see her delicate swallow course her neck. She pressed her lips together and nodded politely.

  She apparently had given up any pretense of mourning her stepfather, as she was wearing a shimmering gold gown with intricate embroidery of crystals on the skirt. They caught the light and made it look as if she were sparkling. The gown hugged her body tightly, and her breasts, heaven help him, were two creamy mounds that looked as if they would burst from her décolletage at any moment. Her golden hair was swept up in a simple roll at her nape. Jewels that matched the glitter of those around her throat dangled at her earlobes.

  She was, in a word, lovely.

  Jeffrey gestured to a seat at the table; a footman instantly moved to hold the chair for her.

  She sat elegantly, her hands in her lap, her gaze on the setting before her. Jeffrey admired her long neck, the tiny wisps of hair that were not caught in the roll of her hair. She took a deep breath, her chest lifting with it, then smoothly falling again as she silently released it.

  Jeffrey sat heavily in his seat at the head of the table, prepared for what he assumed would be a difficult evening. He tried not to look at this stranger, this beauty, his wife. To look at her was to imagine the claiming of her, the possession of her body. It was within his right, but Jeffrey could not bear it. He feared what he would do, that he would lose control, that he could, God forbid, hurt her. It was one thing to seek the company of women who shared his appetites, or could be persuaded to like them with a generous purse. It was something else entirely when the object of his desire was a virginal debutante.

  He couldn’t help himself; he tapped his forefinger against the table eight times as nonchalantly as he possibly could.

  “Shall we serve, my lord?” Cox said behind him.

  Yes, please serve, let this day be done! “Please,” he said, and leaned back, his fists on his thighs, his jaw clenched.

  The place settings had been laid perfectly—the water goblet four inches above the center of the plate, the wine goblet four inches to the right of that. The china plate, purchased from a rather desperate aristocratic Frenchman, boasted a fleur-de-lis in the center of the plate. The top of the fleur-de-lis pointed to the center of the water goblet. Jeffrey did not look at the plate’s border; it was a terrible hodgepodge of scrolling evergreen boughs and tiny fleur-de-lis that made no sense to him and disturbed him.

  “You have a lovely home.”

  The dulcet tone of her voice slipped through Jeffrey; he risked a look at her. The first thing he’d truly noticed about her—the first time he’d seen her in light, in that wretched office before they were wed—was her eyes. They were hazel, more green than brown, and they reminded him of the colors of late summer. Her lashes were darkly golden but long, her brows feathery arches over her eyes. He’d been struck by her beauty, something that he’d failed to notice the night in the tea shop.

  What he noticed tonight was that her fingers were tapping lightly on the stem of the wine goblet. She had pulled the goblet out of its place, closer to her, and that it was out of place gave him a feeling of uneasiness. “Thank you,” he said. He looked away.

  “Have you always resided here?”

  Bloody hell, conversation could not be avoided. He turned back to her, his gaze sweeping over her. She was wearing a choker of amber stones about her neck, and he could imagine himself removing that necklace, his hands sliding over her shoulders, the jewels sliding into her cleavage, followed by his fingers.

  That image was inexplicably and unavoidably followed by one of him at her breast, his mouth surrounding the tip of it, his tongue flicking across the hardened peak.

  She was speaking, he realized. Jeffrey pressed the heel of his shoe into the carpet to settle himself. “Pardon?”

  “I was inquiring if your family has been long at Blackwood Hall.”

  “Generations,” he responded tersely. “This has been the Merryton seat since the title was bestowed on us. I am the fifth earl.” Her lips were full, plush and an amazing shade of coral.

  “Do you live alone here?”

  He shifted in his seat. “Mostly.”

  She looked as if she wanted to ask more, but thankfully, the serving of the meal ended any talk for the time being. When Cox had filled their plates with lamb and potatoes, and had filled their wineglasses, Jeffrey sent him and the footman out with a single gesture.

  He picked up his fork and began to eat. He was aware that his wife picked uneasily at her food as if she had no appetite, but drank her wine with more enthusiasm. When he finished, he settled back in his seat and placed his napkin on the table beside his plate. He noticed she’d only taken a few bites. “Do you not find the food to your liking?”

  “What? No, it’s perfectly fine.”

  Then why did she not eat it? He shifted his gaze to the buffet. Eight drawers, four by four.

  “If I may,” she said, “I should like to...offer an apology for what happened.”

  She had apologized to him. He didn’t know what she thought he might do with another apology.

  “The tea shop,” she said, apparently thinking it necessary to explain what she meant. As if something else had happened between them, as if she’d made some other catastrophic gash across his life.

  He did not care to think of that night, of his complete loss of control. “It is unnecessary.”

  “But I—”

  “Madam, as I said, unnecessary,” he said, and shifted uncomfortably again. “You were there to meet Amherst. You mistook me for him. We have both made a mistake of enormous consequence that has linked us, inextricably, for eternity. What is done is done. Have you finished your meal?”

  Her brows knit in frown. “Yes.”

  “Then...if you will excuse me.” He stood.

  His wife looked surprised. She moved to stand, too, and the gentleman in Jeffrey, bred into him at an early age, quickly moved to pull her chair away. She straightened, only inches from him. Her eyes blinked up at him, the candlelight making them seem to sparkle. Jeffrey felt a swirl of emotion and heat rising up in him. He had an unbearable urge to take her in hand, to kiss the plump, moist lips, to put his hand and his mouth on her chest, to bend her over this table and lift her skirts, bare her bottom to him, move his hand between her legs—

  He stepped back, curtly bowed his head. “I will not come to you tonight, Lady Merryton.” He clasped his hands at his back so that she would not see the way his hand curled into a fist, trying to control his desire. “I will allow you the time to be comfortable at Blackwood Hall.”

  Her eyes widened. An appealing blush rose in her cheeks as she glanced around them, as if searching for something. An exit, perhaps.

  “You may inquire with Mr. Cox about the services of a lady’s maid.”

  That brought her gaze quickly back to him, but this time, instead of bewilderment, her gaze was cross. She folded her arms across her body and tilted her head to one side, and Jeffrey could not help but admire her neck. “I am curious—are you this aloof and commanding with everyone you know, or have you adopted this demeanor entirely for my benefit? For if you mean to punish me, y
ou need not bother. I am punishing myself every moment of every day.”

  Her bit of cheek surprised him. He wasn’t punishing her. He was more at fault than she.

  “I understand you are angry. I would be, were I in your shoes. I have apologized—”

  “There is no need to apologize again,” he said brusquely.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Good, because I didn’t intend to apologize again. After all, there are only so many ways one might beg for forgiveness, and I believe I’ve exhausted them all. But I rather think that here we are, my lord, and we may as well determine how we are to endure it.”

  Jeffrey was caught completely off guard. He lived a solitary life—most people deferred to him. They certainly did not challenge him. “I beg your pardon, madam, if I’ve not been suitably garrulous for you. I find idle chatter tedious and I am not very good at it.”

  “Why yes, you have demonstrated that very well, my lord. But I don’t think of it as idle chatter. I was attempting to know you.”

  That declaration made him feel uncomfortably exposed. He wondered what she would think if she knew she’d trapped herself into a marriage with a madman. “Frankly, I don’t care to be known,” he said truthfully. “Good night.”

  He turned away from her and walked to the door. But as he reached it, he heard her say something quite low. He paused at the door and looked back. “Pardon?”

  “I said, good night, my lord,” she said with mock cheer. She looked lovely standing there, her color high, her eyes blazing with ire. The images began to come to him—images of those eyes blazing with passion—

  He turned away and walked into the corridor. He turned left. He walked sixteen steps to the turn into the main corridor, then thirty-two steps to the foyer, which required him to shorten his stride. In the foyer, he began the count again, going up the steps.

  It was the only thing that would banish the image of his wife caressing her naked body while he watched.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  GRACE LOCKED THE door of her room. She stood there, her arms akimbo, studying it. She debated pulling a chair before it to make doubly sure he couldn’t enter. She would no more allow that wretched man to touch her than she would eat her shoe.

  Actually, under the right circumstances, she might be persuaded to eat her shoe.

  She studied the door, imagined him breaking it down, demanding entry. He said he would not come to her...but when he said it, he was looking at her so intently, his gaze so ravenous, that Grace didn’t believe him. She thought it a trick.

  No, no, she was being ridiculous. He said he would not come to her. And if that man said something, it was painfully true. “I find idle chatter tedious,” she mimicked him under her breath. “Frankly, I do not wish to be known.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. What a miserable figure! And she, a woman who was accustomed to fawning men and high society, was married to him. “Oh!” she said to the ceiling, and gripped her hands in frustration.

  Yes, the lock was sufficient. And honestly, were he to come through the door now, she might brain him with the fire poker. Grace was never one to contemplate violence, but she had already contemplated it several times today, so exasperated was she with her situation. “Come through my door, sir, and see what awaits,” she muttered.

  She backed away from the door, expecting to see the handle turn at any moment, and bumped up against the bed. She sat, her hands on either side of her knees, her breath a little uneven. What was the matter with him? He was a man with a broad reputation for being aloof, for being more concerned about his place in society and propriety than his own family. But his flaws seemed more to her than that. There was something very different about him than anyone she’d ever known, the signs of a private struggle, as if he was making a concerted effort to isolate himself from everyone around him. Not only would he scarcely utter a word to her, it seemed to take quite a lot for him to look her in the eye.

  And yet, when he did look her in the eye, his gaze was so intent, so hungry, that she couldn’t suppress the small shock of fear that sliced through her even now.

  “Now you’re imagining things,” she muttered wearily. He might be a strangely aloof man, but he was an earl, a gentleman. He had said he would not come to her tonight and he would keep his word. Grace sighed with the exhaustion of prolonged agitation and stood up. She’d forced a marriage with the man and she could not avoid the marriage bed, no matter how much she might like to. Part of her was repulsed by it, by him, by his cold manner. But another part of her felt a bit of heat sluice through her every time she thought of their fateful encounter.

  You were there to meet Amherst. You mistook me for him.

  How did he know what she’d done? And if he knew, why did he kiss her so thoroughly that night?

  Grace mulled that over as she reached behind her to unbutton her gown but was startled almost out of her wits by a knock at the door. She gasped and hopped to her feet, running to the hearth to grab the fire poker. “Who’s there!”

  “Hattie Crump, mu’um. I’ve been sent by Mrs. Garland to attend you.”

  Grace’s relief swept out of her, making her feel suddenly limp. She drew a breath to find her composure, put aside the fire poker and walked to the door. She opened it to a small woman with dark red hair pinned tightly at her nape. She was wearing a severe dark blue gown with a prim white collar that Grace had seen on the other female servants today. She had an unfortunate pair of dark hollows beneath her eyes, as if she’d not slept in years.

  Hattie Crump curtsied. “Mrs. Garland said I should help you until you’ve hired a lady’s maid.”

  Grace’s initial instinct was to send her away, but she was so grateful for company of any sort that was not that awful man, she pulled the woman in. “Thank you.”

  “How may I help?”

  “Ah...” Grace glanced around the room. “My trunk. If you would put away my things?”

  “Aye,” Hattie said, and started briskly for the dressing room.

  Grace followed her. She stood in the doorway nervously fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve as Hattie began to remove her gowns and underthings from the trunk, opening the doors to the armoire and neatly stacking them inside.

  “Have you been long at Blackwood Hall?” Grace asked.

  “Aye, mu’um, more or less all my life. As my mother before me.”

  Hattie looked at least as old as Merryton. “Then I suppose you’ve known his lordship quite a long time,” Grace said, watching the woman’s face for any sign of revulsion.

  “Oh, aye. He’s only a wee bit younger than I am. He was a lovely lad. Always had a kind word for the servants.”

  Grace thought she must mean Amherst and said, “I was referring to Lord Merryton.”

  Hattie looked up, surprised. “Aye, Lord Merryton.”

  Grace blanched—Merryton, kind? There was suddenly so much she wanted to know, to arm herself against the devil. “It’s a beautiful house,” she said, avoiding Hattie’s steady gaze. “Quite far from town, however. I suppose his lordship is often away?”

  “No, mu’um. Lord Amherst is rarely about, but Merryton, he remains here most of the year. Except when he travels to Bath. The family takes the waters there.”

  Just as she’d feared, she’d be stuck in this wilderness, away from her mother and sisters, with perhaps an occasional trip to Bath. Grace pushed away from the door frame and walked to a window. She tried to see out, but the night was an inky black. “There must be quite a number of tenants,” she said with a sigh of tedium.

  “I suppose, mu’um. The church pews are filled on Sunday, that’s all I know.”

  In the mirror’s reflection, Grace could see Hattie holding up her black gown and eyeing it as if she were confused by it. Grace thought perhaps she might acquaint herself with this woman before she explained she’d married while in mourning. Put her best foot forward first, as it were. “Is there a village nearby?” she asked.

  “Aye, Ashton Down. It’s a two-mile wa
lk through the woods.”

  Grace couldn’t imagine taking as much as a step into these dark woods. “Perhaps I shall walk there on the morrow,” she said, surprising herself. Apparently, she could imagine it if it meant escaping this bleak house and its bleaker master.

  Hattie finished putting the clothing away, closed the doors of the armoire and turned around. “Mrs. Garland says to inquire if you will need me in the morning, mu’um,” she said.

  “No, thank you. I shall be quite all right on my own.” Grace smiled.

  “Very well. Mr. Cox, he’s to bring you a lady’s maid. His lordship said you must have one.”

  “Why can’t it be you?” she asked Hattie.

  The poor woman looked so shocked that Grace almost laughed. “Me!” Hattie said, glancing around the room. “I’m no lady’s maid, mu’um. I do the cleaning.”

  “It’s not a science, Hattie. It’s really quite simple. Help button me up and pin up my hair. That sort of thing.”

  “I...I don’t know, mu’um,” Hattie said. Her neck was turning red with her fluster.

  “I shall speak to Mr. Cox,” Grace said confidently. She would not allow Hattie’s fluster to dissuade her. She liked the small woman. And she certainly didn’t want a girl from the village who would be as fearful of Blackwood Hall as Grace. She needed someone who understood this house and its master.

  Grace put her arm around the woman’s bony shoulders and squeezed. “It will be quite all right, you’ll see. I’m very good at persuading gentlemen to my viewpoint.” She smiled, and thought the better of pointing out that the predicament in which she found herself just now was all the result of having persuaded a gentleman to meet her in the dark.

  When Hattie had gone, Grace locked the door again, changed into her nightclothes, and when she’d finished her toilette, she climbed into the four-poster bed. But she couldn’t sleep; every creak, every moan, was Merryton coming to claim his conjugal rights. She closed her eyes, tried not to imagine him looming over her, his expression cold, his eyes shuttered. She tried not to imagine the number of lonely days and nights stretching before her in this house, with no society, no one to talk to, no one to advise her.