The Devil Takes a Bride

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, you 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 walk 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.

What a shambles you’ve made, Grace Elizabeth.

Thank you, but I am acutely aware, she silently responded to herself.

* * *

SHE AWOKE THE next morning feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. She relinquished the last bit of pretense at mourning garb—it seemed ridiculous, given all that had happened. And it wasn’t as if anyone in society would see her here. There were far better things to gossip about now, weren’t there?

She dressed in a brown gown with a high neck and long sleeves, a somber color for her somber mood. She looked at the clock—it seemed that her eye found it every quarter hour. It was too early for breakfast, too early to walk. Grace decided to use the time to write Honor. She went into the sitting room that adjoined her bedroom and looked around. There was a pair of chairs before the hearth, the seats covered in the same chintz as the settee. Up against one long window was the writing desk Grace had seen yesterday. She opened the drawers, found vellum and ink and sat down.

My dearest Mrs. Easton, I assume this letter finds you well enough. You have succeeded in shocking me, as I am certain I have shocked you. I should like to think you’ve found your happiness in your foolishness, for I have found nothing but misery in mine. His lordship is aloof and somber, and he does not enjoy the slightest bit of conversation.

I have arrived at Blackwood Hall, and find it quite grim. There is no society, no one whom I may take in my confidence. The maid tells me the earl rarely leaves this place and I fear I shall never look upon the faces of my mother or my sisters again. I have never felt quite so alone or so foolish. You must advise me, Honor. Tell me how to bear it.

Before she knew it, Grace had filled two pages, front and back. She folded them together, sealed and addressed them and put it in her pocket to give to Mr. Cox. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was time for breakfast and, with trepidation, began her way downstairs.

Cox was in the corridor of the main floor and bowed when he saw her. “Shall I direct you to the breakfast room?”

“If you would,” Grace said. She followed him in a new direction, past more blank walls, more empty consoles. He opened the door of a room, and stepped aside to allow her entrance.

The room was small, the drapes pulled back to reveal a bright day. At a small round table in the center of the room, she saw one place setting, a vase with a pair of roses and a pot of tea. There was no evidence of Merryton, no evidence that anyone else would be dining here, save her.

She looked at Mr. Cox. “Where is his lordship?”

“He did not take breakfast this morning. Tea?”

“I will pour it, thank you,” Grace said, mildly annoyed that Merryton didn’t at least bother to greet her.

“The bellpull is just here,” Cox said, gesturing to the pull beside the door. He went out.

Grace looked at the sideboard, laden with enough food to feed four people, much less one. She walked to the window and looked out. The breakfast room overlooked a vast garden. The hedges had been planted into four series of scrolls, and at the center of each were rosebushes in full bloom. At the center of the garden was a large fountain. Beyond the garden, she could see a small lake, the path to it mowed and lined with more roses.

She helped herself to some toast and a spoonful of eggs, but in spite of scarcely having eaten in the past twenty-four hours, even that bit of food felt more than she could possibly choke down.

That exasperated Grace, too. She had always possessed a healthy appetite. She would not exist like this—she refused.

A thought came to her on a sudden wave of determination. She would not wander about from room to room, casting about for anything to occupy her. Merryton could despise her as he wished, but she would not stand to be cast out of her own life by what had happened. What was it her mother had once said? One is happy when one learns how to face up to life. Of course, her mother had been talking about a tiff between Grace and Prudence, the reason long forgotten. But her point was that each person made his or her own happiness.

Well, then, Grace would make her own happiness, because she refused to live any other way. No more moping about. No more living in dread.

When Cox returned to clear her dishes away—her toast and eggs still on the plate, her tea only half drunk—Grace stood up. “Mr. Cox, I should like to have Hattie as my lady’s maid, if you please.”

Cox’s eyes widened slightly; he put two hands under her plate, as if he feared he might drop it having just heard that news. “But Hattie is a chambermaid, madam. You would prefer a proper lady’s maid, I should think.”

“I cannot imagine there is a proper lady’s maid in Ashton Down. Hattie is sensible, she knows Blackwood Hall and I prefer her.”

She saw the apple of Mr. Cox’s throat bob as he swallowed down the news. “I shall speak to his lordship straightaway.”

“Oh. Is he here?” she asked, looking at the door.

“No, madam. He has gone out for the day.”

Merryton had gone out and left her here? Alone? One day after she had wed him? Grace couldn’t imagine why that would surprise her, but it did seem rather rude. “Very well,” she said, lifting her chin. “Then I suppose I shall spend this day acquainting myself with Blackwood Hall. Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Cox?”

“To me?” he asked, startled. “Yes, of course, my lady, whatever you wish.”

“That is what I wish,” she said. “And, if you would, see that this letter is posted?” she asked, and withdrew from her pocket the letter she had written to Honor and held it out to him.

“Will there be anything else, madam?” Cox asked.

Yes. She would like to rewind the past fortnight and do it all again. But as that was beyond Cox’s abilities, she said no, gave him a bright smile and walked out the door.

She moved down the main corridor to the foyer, paused there and looked around her. Her eye fell to the crystal vases filled with red roses. The vases were set atop half-moon consoles. There were four of them, two by two, each set in perfect mirror image across the foyer by the other one, all of them sporting identical vases. Each vase had exactly eight red roses.

Grace absently fingered one of the roses in the vase. It was drooping a little, and she guessed it had been cut and left without water too long. She pulled the vase from the wall, removed the drooping rose and held it up to her nose. She pushed the vase back and walked on, carrying the rose, determined to have a look about the place.

* * *

JEFFREY NOTICED INSTANTLY that one of the crystal vases in the foyer was not in its place when he returned to Blackwood late that afternoon. And it had been carelessly pushed against the wall. He bit down remarking as much to Cox, who was busy receiving Jeffrey’s cloak, gloves and hat, as well as his riding crop. He was reluctant to speak, certain that every word he uttered revealed his sickness in some way. He struggled to keep the evidence from everyone, although he thought that he had no doubt failed miserably to hide it completely from Mr. Cox or Mrs. Garland.

“If I may, my lord,” Cox said, his arms laden with Jeffrey’s things.

Jeffrey took his gaze from the offending vase and fixed it on his butler.

“Lady Merryton has requested that Hattie Crump serve as her lady’s maid.”

Hattie, the tiny woman with the dark red hair, was quite plain, her face reminiscent, to Jeffrey at least, of a goose. He did not wish to be so uncharitable, but when it came to women, it behooved his sanity to take careful note of their looks. Hattie had been in service at Blackwood Hall since she was a girl and he’d known her all his life. She was the one he allowed to tend his study and his private rooms. Hattie was quite efficient at what she did, and moreover, so plain that she did not provoke disturbing images to crowd his brain.

“I explained that she is not a lady’s maid to her ladyship, but she said that she preferred Hattie to anyone we might find in the village.”

An image of Lady Merryton lounging naked in her bath while Hattie brushed her golden hair flit like a butterfly through Jeffrey’s mind. “I shall think on it,” he said, and turned to go. He paused at the console with the offending vase, and straightened it. “We are missing a rose, Cox,” he said with his back to the butler, and walked on. He knew that Cox would be scrambling to right that terrible wrong, beginning with a tongue lashing for the poor servant who had miscounted.

He dressed for supper, as was his habit, combing his hair eight times, untying and tying his neck cloth eight times. When he’d finished, he studied himself in the mirror above his basin, looking for any sign of madness, of the obsession that gripped him. But he looked as he always did—filled with ennui. Expressionless. He’d spent a considerable amount of time over the years affecting the look so that he’d not reveal his terrible inner thoughts.

Even now, composed as he might appear, he couldn’t bear to think of laying eyes on his wife again, of seeing the swanlike neck, the golden hair, the sea-stained eyes. He was a man, for God’s sake. He was strong, he was virile—he wanted his wife and he would not allow this illness to hold him hostage.

He strode from his room, determined.

She was in the dining room before him, just as she had been last evening. Tonight, she was dressed quite plainly in a brown day dress with a high neck. It did not hide her beauty; if anything, it accentuated it. Now, there was nothing to distract from the eyes, or the creaminess of her skin, or the coral lips.

She was holding a glass of wine as she curtsied, then sipped from it as she eyed him curiously over the rim. She did not appear as anxious as she had yesterday evening. Tonight, she appeared restless.