The Devil Takes a Bride

Jeffrey clasped his hands tightly at his back. “Good evening, Lady Merryton.”

“Good evening. By the by, my name is Grace,” she said.

“I am aware.” His gaze slid to her glass. “You enjoy wine.” He meant nothing by it; it was merely an observation, something to say to prove to himself that he could indeed converse. But he saw an almost imperceptible lift of her chin, as if she thought he disapproved, when in fact, he did not approve or disapprove.

“I do,” she said. “Sometimes, I like it far better than other times.” She drank deliberately, her gaze steady on his.

“My lord, supper is served,” Cox announced, and placed a glass of wine at Jeffrey’s place.

Jeffrey glanced to the footman. Ewan was a young man, a handsome man, Jeffrey believed, not that he was a particularly good judge of it.

Ewan instantly moved to seat Lady Merryton, holding out his gloved hand to help her into her chair. Jeffrey watched her slip her hand into Ewan’s, and he suddenly thought of Ewan’s hand on her bare skin, on her breast. That image plagued him as took his seat and as Cox filled their plates. Jeffrey was relieved when Cox had finished, and nodded to Ewan, and the two of them quietly quit the room. He picked up his fork.

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