The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  “If you are not bashful, then there is another name for what you are, my lord, but I am too much of a lady to say it,” she said pertly.

  “You mistake bashfulness for impatient tolerance,” he said gruffly.

  Grace was not a violent person, but if she could have managed launching herself at his neck, she would have done so. Instead, she spurred her horse forward, galloping away from him once more.

  This time, however, Merryton allowed his horse to join in the running. She could hear him gaining on her, and it angered her. She spurred Snow on. But Merryton’s horse matched Snow, and they rounded the corner galloping at a breakneck speed—so fast, in fact, that Grace had trouble keeping her seat. She tried to slow Snow, but the horse was racing Merryton’s and was not inclined to pull up. It wasn’t until Merryton raced alongside and caught Snow’s bridle, giving it a hard yank, that Snow slowed.

  They were in the middle of nowhere, but Grace was seething. She slid off the horse—landing on two feet this time—and marched forward into an untended field.

  “Where are you going?” Merryton called after her.

  “Home!”

  “You forgot your bloody dog!”

  She gasped and whirled around. Merryton had come off his horse and had settled his weight onto one hip. He was holding his crop at his side. “You are so heartless!” she shouted at him.

  He scoffed. “Not heartless. Practical.”

  “You are! You are heartless to me, you are heartless to them,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the Murphys. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” he said. But he tapped his crop against his leg in his customary pattern. He glanced uneasily around them, at the towering trees, the open field. And then he sighed. He took off his hat and shoved his fingers through his hair. “I am not heartless,” he said, speaking as if he was carefully considering each word. “But I find it exceedingly difficult to converse without a distinct purpose. It causes me to become impatient.”

  He needed a purpose to converse with someone? “So you are bashful.”

  “No, it’s...it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  “How so?” she asked curiously.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, and fit his hat back on his head. “I don’t mean to be cruel. Or cross. But perhaps you should understand that I cannot indulge in a lot of nattering.”

  “Nattering!” Grace protested. “I’m not an old woman in my dotage. I am trying to understand—”

  “There is nothing more for you to understand,” he said crisply, effectively cutting off any prolonged discussion of it.

  “Well. You clearly would like me to believe that. But I don’t,” she said, and started the march back to her horse, weary of him. But as she moved to pass him, he caught her arm.

  “I know you are trying,” he said hesitantly. “But I don’t...I’m not like the gentlemen you have known, Grace. And I would therefore advise you not to tell the tenants ours is a love match because I can’t add to that fantasy. Or to bring in untrained dogs—”

  “Or what?” she challenged him, jerking her arm free of his grip at the mention of Dog. “You will be unkind? You will refuse to accept this marriage? At least Dog shows me some affection.” She snorted disdainfully and started to move past him again. Jeffrey reached for her arm a bit more firmly this time, and when he did, Grace tried to swerve out of his reach. He caught her all the same, and her feet were tangled with his, and she swayed off balance, tumbling to the ground.

  Jeffrey tumbled with her.

  She pushed him away and rolled onto her back and splayed her arms wide. “Go on, then. Strike me, beat me, whatever it is you want to do to me for having put you in this situation. For heaven’s sake, do what you must!”

  Merryton groaned. “For God’s sake, why do you think I want to beat you?” He stood up, then leaned over and picked Grace up and set her on her feet.

  “You obviously want to do something to me,” she muttered as she shook out her skirts and tried to pick the grass from her braid. “I can see it simmering in you like an overcooked stew.”

  “For the love of heaven,” he muttered.

  “Will you deny it?” she asked, unthinkingly pushing him away from her.

  Jeffrey pressed his lips together, then slowly lifted his crop and touched it to her chin.

  Grace swayed backward. “Is that it? You want to beat me with your crop?”

  He moved the tip of the crop from her chin, sliding it down her throat, to her chest, then lightly flicking the end of it against her nipple. “Beating you is the last thing I want to do.” He slid the crop down farther, tracing a line down her abdomen and stopping at the apex of her legs.

  His behavior confused her. Grace could feel the wave of desire coming from him, could see the heated look in his eye, and found it strangely titillating. “If it is the last thing you want to do to me...then what is the first?”

  His jaw clenched, but there was a flash, a glimmer of raw emotion in his eyes. A surprising flash of bold desire mixed with a bit of vulnerability.

  She suddenly grabbed the crop and yanked it away from him. She touched him with the tip as he had done her, sliding it down his chest, to the top of his trousers. “What do you want, Jeffrey Donovan?” she demanded.

  Grace didn’t mean in that moment, precisely, although she would like to know what he meant to do with the crop. Hers was a bigger question, and her husband seemed to understand that as she slid the crop down, to the bulge in his trousers. He didn’t move, but kept his gaze locked on her, his expression raging with desire and anger and something else that Grace didn’t understand. “What I want is to return you to Blackwood Hall, straightaway,” he said. He grabbed the crop and took it from her. His expression had changed; it had shuttered again and he had hidden away that glimpse of raw emotion. He turned and began to walk back to the horses.

  Grace slowly followed, considering him and these last strange moments. She had noticed it before, she realized, that hint of vulnerability in an otherwise iron-clad facade of utter detachment.

  She was still studying him when she reached the horses. He was standing next to hers, ready to help her up. She looked up at him, trying to find that moment in his eyes again. But he was, she was learning, a careful man, closely guarded and a master at protecting the gates. For some reason that made her feel sorrow for him. What must have happened to him to be so guarded? To refuse to let even the slightest ray of affection inside? How lonely that must be, she thought, and couldn’t help herself—she touched his face.

  Merryton flinched and turned his head slightly, but Grace was not deterred. If anything, that flinch emboldened her. She rose up on her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. She expected him to recoil, but he didn’t. She lingered there, her lips lightly touching his, a chaste and simple kiss. And then she melted back to her feet.

  His gaze poured into hers, reaching down, filling her up for one long moment, and Grace had the sense that he was trying to understand her for a change. He wordlessly put his hands on her waist and lifted her up. His hand grazed her thigh when she was seated. He stepped back, his gaze fixed on her, quietly assessing.

  Then he turned and walked back to his horse.

  They rode in silence back to Blackwood Hall, Merryton slightly ahead, which Grace believed was his way of avoiding any “nattering.” At the gates of the hall, he slowed so that she might catch up. “I have business in the village. I trust you will see yourself safely to the house.”

  “I thought perhaps—”

  He had already spurred his horse.

  “I thought we might take luncheon together, you impossibly ill-mannered husband,” she said to herself.

  She rode down to the house, handed her reins to the young man who hurried out to greet her and hopped down. She strode away, her crop in hand, and walked through the immaculate garden, through the iron gates at the end of the garden into the park, bound for Molly Madigan’s cottage.

  As sh
e walked in through the wooden gate, the cat jumped onto the windowsill, and swished its tail several times as it fixed its eyes on Grace. The cat almost appeared to be scowling.

  She rapped on the door. A few moments later, the door opened and Dog came bounding out with what looked like the tongue from a leather boot.

  “Oh, no,” Grace said, and squatted down to receive his exuberant greeting and wrench the leather free.

  “Lady Merryton!” Molly said with delight, appearing behind the dog. “Come in, come in!”

  “Please, you must call me Grace,” she said as she stepped across the threshold. “I hope Dog hasn’t been too much of a bother?” she asked, and handed the chewed leather to Molly.

  Molly looked at it and winced. “Um...well,” she said, and gamely tried to smile. Grace could see why—the rest of the boot was lying in various spots around her parlor.

  “Oh, dear,” Grace said, and sighed with frustration. She needed something to be right today.

  “Is everything all right?” Molly asked as she shut the door and shooed the puppy away from her foot. He growled at it and pounced on her toe.

  “What a little bother you are!” Grace said, and scooped him up. “Yes, everything is fine. I’ll just take this bit of bother away.” She turned to the door. And then she abruptly turned back to Molly. “No, everything is not fine.”

  “Oh, dear. Come now, and sit. I shall give you some tea.”

  “What of my bother?” she asked, gesturing to the dog.

  “Put him down, please. He can’t destroy much else, can he?”

  Grace winced and allowed Molly to usher her into one of the chairs before the hearth. The dog trotted to the hearth and lay down, too, sighing long and loud, as if he’d had a hard day chewing boots.

  “He’s not what you say, Molly,” Grace said abruptly.

  “Oh, no. He’s really a good dog—”

  “No, I mean Merryton. I can’t seem to make any gains with him. I think he must truly despise me.”

  “Oh, that can’t be true,” Molly said soothingly, and hurried into the adjoining room to fetch the tea service.

  “But it is. He’s ashamed of me. He could scarcely bring himself to introduce me to his tenants. I had to do it.”

  “Oh, my,” Molly said, and put the tea service on the table between them and began to pour.

  Grace told Molly about the Murphys, and how he had neglected to even acknowledge her. “He resents me terribly,” she said with a groan.

  “I don’t believe it!” Molly insisted. “He was all set to marry Mary Gastineau, but he married you, my dear. How could he be ashamed of you?”

  “Pardon?” Grace had not considered that he’d held esteem for someone else. That he’d been set to marry someone else. She’d just assumed— Good God, she’d done a lot of assuming, hadn’t she? “Mary Gastineau?” she repeated distantly.

  “I thought you knew.”

  “No,” Grace said, shaking her head, and gave Molly a sheepish look. “I don’t know if you are aware, but our union came about after an...indiscretion. There was not time for familiarity.”

  “Ah.” Molly did not seem surprised or scandalized, which left Grace to assume that word of the scandal had already traveled. That did not help her mood in the slightest—if anything, it made her feel worse. How long before word reached the nice people she’d met today?

  “Well, no matter. I am certain he will grow to love you.”

  Grace snorted. “I can’t imagine it. He barely even speaks to me.”

  “Perhaps you might show him a kindness,” Molly suggested, and lifted her gaze to meet Grace’s. “He must be trying very hard to accept the marriage and to be the husband you deserve. But perhaps it is not as easy for him as it is for you.”

  “Why must it be so difficult?” Grace asked. “It’s not a new and baffling thing, marriage. Men and women have been joined in matrimony since the dawn of time.”

  “Well, yes, but some marriages are not always pleasant, are they? His lordship’s upbringing was difficult,” Molly said, her pleasant smile contradicting those words. “His parents were unhappy with each other. He’s not had the privilege of witnessing a happy marriage.”

  “I had no idea,” Grace said.

  “I don’t suppose that is something he should like to be known.”

  No, she supposed not. Grace had heard talk of unpleasant marriages. Rumor had it that Sir Brendon treated his meek wife to regular beatings, but even that was gossip—Grace had never seen any evidence of it. She wondered what it was Merryton had tried to convey when he’d touched her with his riding crop.

  “But I am fully confident that you’ll discover how to improve things with his lordship,” Molly said cheerfully. “Now then, I’ve made some fresh scones and clotted cream. I should be honored to serve you.” She stood up, and when she did, the dog bounded to his feet. As Molly started for the other room, the dog bounded ahead of her, almost tripping her.

  Grace sighed and wearily propped her chin on her fist. Perhaps a scone would help her think. “I am a bit hungry,” she muttered to no one in particular. But not for food, exactly. She was hungry to understand, to open the locked door to her husband’s heart. To discover what it was that kept him at such a great distance not only from her, but what seemed like the world.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AT PRECISELY EIGHT minutes to eight o’clock, Jeffrey went downstairs to supper. All day, he’d felt the strange current of agitation running just under his skin. It was as if he was waiting for something to happen, for someone or something to come, to leave, to rise, to fall. He despised the uncertainty.

  He arrived at the dining room, fully expecting to find a sullen wife, a wineglass in her hand and an angry spark in her eye, given her obvious displeasure with him this morning. He could not have been more wrong.

  She was dressed in a sunny yellow gown, a curious color given her stepfather’s recent passing. She had put up her hair with glittering pins and wore diamonds at her throat. She did not hold a wineglass, and in fact, he didn’t see glasses on the table. She did, however, hold the lead in her hand. The puppy was sitting patiently beside her, his tongue hanging long.

  There was only one real spot of chaos in the room, and that was in the vase of hothouse flowers, neatly tucked away at the sideboard, directly across from her seat so that she might see them as she dined.

  It was remarkable that Jeffrey noticed these things at all, because Grace smiled as he entered, and what a bloody brilliant smile it was, one that seemed to brighten the entire room. “Good evening, my lord,” she said cheerfully, and curtsied deeply.

  Before he could respond, the dog suddenly leaped up and bounded toward him with such force that the lead was yanked from Grace’s hand. The dog rushed to Jeffrey and planted his paws on his trouser leg, his tail wagging as he peered up at Jeffrey.

  “Bother!” she cried, and quickly stooped to grab up the lead. “Oh, I do beg your pardon! He’s not to do that. No, Bother, no!”

  “Bother?” Jeffrey echoed, and pushed the dog down, giving him a scratch behind the ears.

  “I’ve named him,” she said proudly. “He’s been such a bother to everyone that it seemed a perfect name. I hope you don’t mind, but Cook requested of Cox that he not be in the kitchens while they are preparing the evening meal. It would seem some food has gone missing.”

  “Has it,” he said, looking at the dog.

  “Not to worry! I’ve sent for Mr. Drake.”

  He looked up. “You’ve given up?”

  “What? No, certainly not!” she exclaimed. “I never give up! But I have asked Mr. Drake if he might teach him not to take things from Cook’s table.”

  The pup jerked on the lead again and wandered under the table, his tail high, his nose on the floor. Grace sighed dramatically, then smiled and clasped her hands demurely before her. “Would you care for wine before supper? Cox has decanted it for us.” She walked to the sideboard. She poured a glass and held it up to him as th
e dog began to sniff around the drapes.

  For some reason, that made the prickling beneath Jeffrey’s skin worse. Her smile was the kindling to the fire growing in him. He took the glass, his fingers brushing against hers. He did not drink, but gripped the glass tightly.

  “Oh!” she said as she poured a glass of wine for herself, as if just recalling something. “I hope you won’t mind terribly, but I requested Cook prepare one of my favorite dishes this evening.”

  Jeffrey sincerely hoped her favorite dish was not something he couldn’t possibly ingest. “Fish stew,” she said. “I am quite fond of it. How do you find it?”

  “I have no opinion.”

  “Astounding,” she said, one brow arching in graceful dubiousness. “I can’t imagine there is another man in all of Britain who has no opinion of fish stew.”

  There was something strange at work here. The room felt different. Lighter. Disordered. “Where is Cox?” he asked.

  “Gone to find Mr. Drake, I suspect. I will confess that Cox has not taken to Bother.” She glanced at the dog, who had managed to pull up a corner of the rug and was chewing it. “May I tell you something? I rather like it when Cox is not here. It’s difficult to speak candidly with servants hovering about, don’t you agree?” she asked, and looked at him coyly from the corner of her eye.

  “Do you need to speak candidly?”

  She smiled. “Not at the moment.”

  She made no sense. Why seek privacy for a candid conversation if one had nothing candid to impart?

  A knock at the door caused Bother to bark uncontrollably. Grace picked up his lead and quickly pulled the door open. “Ah, there you are, Miller,” she said to one of the footmen. “Has Drake come?”

  “Yes, mu’um.”

  She handed the lead to Miller, then bent down to pet the dog. “Go along, Bother. Go and learn how to be a good dog from Mr. Drake.” She watched as Davis led the dog away, even leaning partially out into the hall. When she was apparently satisfied, she shut the door and turned back to Jeffrey. “Shall we sit?”