The Demon's Bride

by Jo Beverley

  Rachel looked at the tea tray, unable to pour because she was sure her hand would shake too much. “Is it true?”

  “That I have a daughter? Yes. Did you think I was a virgin?”

  Her cheeks burned with mortification. “I think you should have married the mother.”

  He laughed out loud. “My father would have had me shot! I was sixteen and Catty’s mother was the assistant dairymaid.”

  Rachel stared at him. “Like Meggie Brewstock! I suppose your victim was fortunate not to be thrown into a fire, too.”

  “Don’t be idiotic.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t seduced a maid.”

  “I haven’t. She seduced me.”

  Rachel gave an unladylike snort of disbelief.

  “Can’t imagine a woman making the first moves? Nan was four years older than I and knew what she was doing, certainly better than I did. Though I was willing enough. We had a merry month of May, as I remember, and when she was with child both she and her family were pleased as punch. The dowry she got from my father set her and Jed Hesset up for life.”

  “And that makes it right?”

  “If all parties are happy, can it be wrong?”

  “Of course it can. What of the poor child?”

  “Catty’s twelve and pretty as a picture.”

  “And known far and wide as the earl’s by-blow!”

  “It won’t do her any harm to be blood-bound to the big house.”

  “It wouldn’t do her any harm to be raised a lady, but I don’t suppose your beneficence would stretch that far, would it, my lord?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I hope this vinegary disposition is the consequence of shock, Rachel. What would you have had me do? Snatch the babe from the mother’s breast at birth? Take her as an infant from her loving family and raise her at the Abbey with no other children? Or try to change her life now, when she’s happily equipped for something else entirely?”

  Rachel’s cheeks stung under the rebuke and she had no reply.

  “There are worse things,” he said, “than to be the well-loved daughter of a prosperous yeoman family. Be assured, if she ever has need of me, I will take care of her.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, though she couldn’t feel that all this was right. She poured him a cup of tea. “Do you have other children?”

  “Not as far as I know, though there are quite a few junior sprigs of the aristocracy who could be mine. They could be fathered by half the men in London, though. Are you going to marry me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “After a saga of dissipations such as that? Need you ask?”

  “Yes. Perhaps it’s my unmarried state that leads me into wickedness. It could be your Christian duty to marry me.”

  “I do not have the disposition of a Holy Martyr, my lord.”

  He stood restlessly. “What the devil do you want from me? I’m offering you a marriage far beyond your expectations.”

  “Like your daughter, my lord, I am content with my station.”

  “But you wouldn’t let that hold you back. Why? Why reject me?”

  “Because you’ve provided no honest reason for your pursuit! You don’t love me.”

  For a brief while, the cynical mask had lowered. She only knew it when it slid back into place.

  “If you want the truth, Miss Proudfoot, you shall have it. My financial resources are stretched. Due to the peculiarities of the Mad Earl, the estate sank into a decline from which it’s never fully recovered. In addition, the unentailed part of the estate’s assets was left to his daughter, my dear great-aunt Ida. Upon her death, it was to have come to the current earl—which would be me. But the old witch has tied it up with a condition. I will only get free access to it when I wed. If I must marry, I would rather it be to you.”

  Rachel swallowed against a bitter lump in her throat. “I see. I’m a slightly better option than debtor’s prison, am I? I recommend economy instead, my lord.”

  “Even marriage would be preferable.” He leant forward on the table. “Have some sense, you foolish woman, and take what is offered. Marry me.”

  Rachel made herself not quail backward. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I must decline your oh-so-flattering offer.”

  He hissed in a breath and she thought he would pounce on her, but then Mrs. Hatcher appeared in the doorway as if she’d been hovering. “Did you want something, miss?”

  With a muttered curse, the earl swept out of the room.

  Mrs. Hatcher came in and sugared Rachel’s tea. “You drink this up and put that young man out of your mind for the while.”

  “For the while?” echoed Rachel, clutching the cup. “Forever! I want nothing to do with such as he.”

  “Now, now. No need to be hasty. But he’ll do better for you in a while.”

  “When he reforms? Hah! That will be on Doomsday, or never!”

  Rachel downed the strong, sweet tea and promised herself that no matter what tricks the earl played, what maneuvers he attempted, she would marry no man just so that he could stay out of the Fleet!

  She turned her mind to another line of thought. “About the earl’s daughter . . .”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Is it true that she’ll feel no shame at being his?”

  “Aye, true enough. Such things happen.”

  Rachel stared at the leaves in the bottom of her cup wishing she had the gift of reading them. “So if a girl were to behave improperly with the Earl of Morden, she wouldn’t be a cause of shame to her family?”

  Mrs. Hatcher’s glance was sharp and rather alarmed. Rachel realized with embarrassment that the woman thought she was speaking of herself.

  Before she could correct the impression, the housekeeper said, “Not in the farming families. For someone of higher station, it’d likely be different, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it would.”

  Rachel’s question had not referred to herself. When the housekeeper had returned to her kitchen, Rachel pondered the fact that Meggie Brewstock’s immoral behavior might not have been cause for anyone to kill her. True, it had happened a century ago, but had matters changed that much? 1668 was well after the end of the Puritan regime. Charles II had reigned, and wickedness had been rampant.

  She waited anxiously for her father to return home so that they could discuss the matter, but his first words drove it out of her mind.

  “The earl has invited himself to dine with us, Rachel. I met him in the village.”

  “No!” Rachel wailed.

  “My dear, why not?”

  “He was here earlier and offended me grievously.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He offered me marriage.” At her father’s raised brows she added, “He made it perfectly clear that the offer was only made because I’m the means to keep him out of the Fleet.”

  “Tut, tut. Foolish man. Peers cannot be imprisoned for debt. But I have agreed that he shall dine, and you must act the hostess with dignity. It is the only way to handle such matters.”

  The Reverend Proudfoot rarely directed Rachel’s behavior, but when he did it was wisest to obey. Rachel refused to dress in something fine, however. She greeted their unwelcome guest in the same workaday high-necked gown of blue-striped jaconet that she had worn all morning.

  He showed no trace of his earlier anger, and bowed with courtly elegance. “You look so charming when you glower, my intriguing Puritan. I still want you to marry me.”

  “And I still refuse.”

  “That seems clear enough,” said Rachel’s father, “so we have no further need to discuss the matter just now.”

  “On the contrary,” Morden said, and already the anger was bubbling to the surface. “I was hoping you would make your daughter see sense.”

  “Rachel has an abundance of good sense, my lord, especially in matters of right and wrong. She does not wish to marry against her inclinations. As she is too prudent to run into debt, there is no reas
on she should.”

  The earl stared at the vicar as if he’d grown horns. “I could have you thrown out of this living for that.”

  Rachel was shivering in her shoes, for she had not thought that her affairs could ruin her father.

  “Perhaps so,” said Rachel’s father calmly, “but I would be a poor sort of fellow to allow you to bully my daughter for such a reason, wouldn’t I?”

  Morden turned to impale Rachel with cold eyes. “You hold yourself damnably high.”

  “Are you saying you hold me low?”

  “Believe it as you may, Miss aptly-named Proudfoot, but there are a great many ladies in this land who would jump at the chance that you toss back in my face.”

  “More fools they!”

  “I will not grovel to you.” It was almost a snarl.

  “I expect no man to grovel to me. Pray tell me, sir, what do you have with which to tempt me? I don’t care a snap for title and riches.”

  He didn’t allow her father’s presence to deter him. “Rapture of the senses,” he said.

  “That’s no reason to marry,” Rachel protested, face burning.

  “It’s an excellent one. Isn’t it, vicar?”

  “It’s an important part of marriage, yes,” said Rachel’s father.

  Rachel stared at him. “Father! But, still ... there has to be more.”

  “Assuredly.”

  Rachel turned back to her arrogant suitor. “What more can you offer, my lord?”

  “Oh, be damned to you for a prude and a stiff-rumped idiot! I’ll not ask you again.” He stalked out of the room.

  “Good!” Rachel shrieked after him, then sat down and burst into tears.

  Her father patted her back and offered her a dry handkerchief. “It really is better this way,” he said, when her tears had subsided to sniffles.

  “I know. Such a marriage would never work.”

  “That is not certain.”

  “He’s an unrepentant rake.”

  “He is certainly reluctant to change his ways.”

  “He makes me so angry!”

  “He certainly does. See, dinner’s ready. As there is enough for three, we must address it heartily.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to keep up your strength for future developments.”

  “What developments? He said he’d never ask me again.”

  Her father urged her into the dining room. “That doesn’t mean that he’ll give up.”

  He seemed in an oddly good mood.

  He was correct, though. The very next day as Rachel was returning from a visit to the new Dilbury baby, she encountered the earl on foot. She was taking a shortcut by the river, and the location was alarmingly isolated.

  “Are you afraid of me at last?” he asked with an unpleasant smile.

  “Why should I fear you?” But she did.

  “I could deprive your father of his living.”

  “That would be below contempt, my lord.”

  She tried to walk past him, but he seized her arm. “Perhaps you could reform me. . . .”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Lovelace, I am no Clarissa to be taken in by that ploy.”

  He flinched. “You are infuriating.”

  “Only to a spoiled child who must have his way. Release me!”

  “No. I must have my way.”

  Rachel didn’t even resist when he drew her to him. She’d been aware from the first moment of seeing him that he would kiss her, and her blood had been singing with the wanting. If he hadn’t kissed her, she suspected that she would have dragged him in for a kiss herself.

  His lips were clever, but now his hands, too, showed their skill, first at her throat, but then sliding down to her breasts. She wore only soft stays with this gown and the merest brush of his fingers seemed to start a fire of longing.

  She cried out against his hot mouth and knew she was mad. Mad to surrender, mad to deny them both. . . .

  Something alerted her. She opened her eyes and glimpse the three young Fletcher lads standing on the path, grinning.

  She struggled free, hearing Morden hiss with anger and fearing for them, but he released her and made space for the lads to pass. Giggling, they ran on, but stopped a little way along the bank to inspect the water for fish.

  Morden muttered something and moved to draw Rachel away to a more private place.

  “No,” she said shakily. “I admit your power over me, but I won’t go willingly to ruin.”

  “Plague take it, I want to marry you!”

  “But only for money. It will not do.”

  He looked at her darkly, and she sucked in a breath. “You were going to seduce me, weren’t you? Here, on the path! I suppose you think that once you’ve had your way I’d be bound to marry you.”

  He maintained a bold stance, but she could see that her words had hit home. “It seems a reasonable assumption.”

  “I’d rather die! If I think it wrong to marry you, my lord, then nothing will persuade me to. Neither threats, nor seduction!”

  “Now you’re sounding just like that damned Clarissa! I suppose you would pine away from the shame of your fate.”

  “Not before I’d killed you, sir!”

  He suddenly laughed. “Gads, but you are magnificent! Are you really going to force me to make do with some simpering London miss?”

  It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, but Rachel said, “Yes.”

  And walked away.

  The next she heard he had gone back to London. She knew he was off to find some other woman to marry him so he could get his hands on his inheritance. A handsome earl would have no trouble at that, so she braced herself to hear the news.

  Over the next little while, Rachel wept many a bitter tear and berated herself for being a fool, but she knew that given the time over again—and the remnants of her virtue and sanity—she would have done the same. Still and all, she could hardly bear the thought of the earl’s return to the Abbey with a bride, and plotted ways to persuade her father to move on to a distant area.

  On the night before Easter, Mrs. Hatcher said, “I wonder what house will have the egg this year.”

  “To pick Dym’s Bride?” said Rachel, who couldn’t even summon much interest in that matter any more. “How is it done?”

  “Someone has the job of choosing, but none knows who.”

  “No one knows? But I suppose if it were known, there would be pressure. It must be an honor, being Dym’s Bride.”

  “That it is, miss. Something to be right proud of.”

  The next morning, Mrs. Hatcher came to Rachel as soon as she came downstairs. “Miss Proudfoot! You’ll never guess. The egg were on this very doorstep!” She proffered a small blue robin’s egg.

  It took a moment for Rachel to understand. “Dym’s Egg? Here? But . . .”

  “Yes. You’ve been chosen to be Dym’s Bride!”

  Rachel felt a shock of icy horror. “No! I mean, it’s impossible. I’m not even from these parts. . . .”

  “That don’t matter, miss.”

  “But what if I refuse?” Images of Meggie Brewstock in the flames were dancing before Rachel, and Mrs. Hatcher appeared ghoulish.

  “Nay, miss, you couldn’t spoil a tradition that’s gone on for centuries.”

  The Reverend Proudfoot came in at that moment, and when he heard the news he looked very thoughtful. “But is not the Bride generally young? Rachel is twenty-four years old.”

  “Nay, sir, just unmarried.”

  “Perhaps we could have breakfast now, Mrs. Hatcher,” said the vicar calmly, and the housekeeper had to leave.

  Rachel stared at her father. “A virgin, she means. I’m to be a sacrificial virgin! Though I fear I am not supposed to end the night that way!”

  “Now, now, don’t fly into alt over this, my dear. Of course everyone assumes that you’re a maid, being the vicar’s daughter. This development is most intriguing.”

  “Intriguing? It’s terrifying!” />
  “Come, come, Rachel. You cannot really suppose the people here would intend harm to you.”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. But it’s a Dym’s Night. . . .”

  “We’re agreed that there’s nothing evil about this Dym’s Night, Rachel. Of course, you don’t have to take this role if you don’t want to, but I will be in attendance at the rites to make certain that no harm comes to you. It would be a priceless opportunity to obtain a completely accurate record of the event.”

  Rachel recognized how much her father wanted that, and his calm good sense was melting her alarm.

  But then her father said, “As a further safeguard, we’ll send the record of our research thus far to the bishop, and make sure that everyone here knows that we’ve done so.”

  “You think they might act to keep their secrets?”

  “No, no. Merely a precaution. But see, my dear, I’ll ask Sir George to attend this year. Mr. Home-Nowlan, too. They will be additional observers and representatives of reason.” He considered her anxiously. “I truly believe there’s no cause for concern, but if you think it wrong. . . .”

  Rachel couldn’t resist the unspoken plea.

  She put on a cheerful tone. “It will be rather exciting, Father, and after all, they say Dym’s Bride always marries within the year. I’m something of an old maid. I can’t afford to turn up my nose at that.”

  But then she was assailed by the image of the only man ever to propose marriage to her, the only man to tempt her beyond reason. If she would not marry him, where would she ever find a man to her taste?

  After the Easter service, Rachel found herself the center of attention. Everyone knew she’d been chosen to be Dym’s Bride, and everyone congratulated her. She thought it odd, however, that no one seemed surprised by the choice of a maiden of advanced years.

  “What’s more,” she said to her father later as they assembled the records of their research to send to the bishop, “none of the other eligible women seemed jealous.”

  “However the choice is made, my dear, I assume they accept it.”

  Rachel tucked some sheets of paper into one of the books. “There’s something else.”

  “Yes, dear?” Her father looked up from his letter to the bishop.