The Devil's Own

by Liana Lefey

  Her rain-gray eyes lit with mischief. “Such a bold assumption of victory seems a bit premature, don’t you think? I should warn you that I’m a skilled player.”

  Not as good as this old gambler! He bit his tongue to keep the words behind his teeth. “I again crave your pardon, Miss Tomblin. If there is anything I’ve learned during our time together, it is that I should never underestimate you. I shall enjoy pitting myself against a worthy opponent.”

  “As shall I.” Now it was her turn to smile—a slow upturning of the corners of her lush mouth.

  A bolt of desire lanced down through his nethers, which instantly tightened in response. George’s balls… Time to leave—before I dig myself into a hole from which I cannot escape! “I look forward to exceeding your expectations. But for the moment, I fear I must leave you to attend to my duties.” Taking up his crutches, he rose. “Ladies, it has been a most pleasant visit. I look forward to seeing you again Friday.”

  The way her face fell told him he’d be missed. Again, part of him rejoiced in triumph. Again, good sense told him he was a bloody fool. He shouldn’t have come here today, and he definitely ought not to have accepted the invitation to return.

  The issue was that he could make her dislike Daniel, but he couldn’t make himself dislike her. And telling himself to stay away from her was proving to be much like a fox telling itself to stay away from the chickens. She was an irresistible lure.

  Farewells were made, during which he couldn’t take his eyes off Mary. The way he lingered on the threshold, stretching the moment, should have mortified him. He was no love-struck schoolboy to be hanging about on a woman’s doorstep! And yet, the moment he put her house behind him, he felt a pull to go back. He refused to give in to it.

  I’ll not behave like some calf-eyed lackwit! He’d come only to assure himself that he hadn’t done her any permanent injury.

  Then why did you accept the invitation to dine? It would have been rude to decline, but he could’ve made some plausible excuse.

  As he approached the front gate, the tingling between his shoulder blades grew impossible to ignore. He looked back.

  There at the window stood Mary. Their eyes met, but she didn’t turn away. Raising her palm, she bid him a final farewell.

  Devlin’s heart began racing as though he’d just sprinted a mile. Raising his hand, he replied in kind, accidentally dropping one of his crutches. Behind the glass, her lips curved in a sweet smile as she laughed. Before he could stop himself, he smiled back.

  Idiot! Forcing himself to focus on picking up his stupid crutch and wrangling the blasted gate open, he let himself out. With each awkward, unsteady step that carried him down the path, his silent self-castigation grew more vehement.

  George’s arse! Jerking the knot loose with angry fingers, he untied the horse and then made his way around to clamber up onto the box, again managing to drop his crutch in the process.

  What the devil is the matter with me? A quarter of an hour was all it had taken to render all the work he’d done to get her to leave off an utter waste of time and effort. He was right back where he’d started.

  Scowling, he urged the horse to walk on, desperately trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. But all he could think of was her. The way her moon-gray eyes had sparkled again once he’d mended things between them. The way her lips had quirked, bringing out the dimples at their corners. He wondered what it would be like to kiss those impish little hollows.

  Again, his nethers tightened. Again, he let out a quiet stream of invective. Despite being half frozen, he had an unrelenting erection. He quickened the pace, determined to get home as fast as possible.

  Had Harper’s Grove boasted a brothel, he’d pay it call this instant, broken leg and all. As it did not, his only option was self-abuse. He hadn’t had to satisfy himself since his school years and didn’t much relish the prospect of doing it now, but he needed some bloody relief before his wedding tackle turned blue.

  “Good afternoon, Reverend!” called a villager, pausing in the act of dumping out a pail of wash water to offer him a cheerful wave from her doorstep.

  It was a sharp reminder that he was playing the part of a clergyman. Pasting on a benign smile, he waved back. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Waite!” He drove on past, thankful for the long folds of his coat, which concealed the bulge at his crotch.

  The door to the inn swung open just as he passed it, and laughter, gruff and raucous, drifted from within. An almost overwhelming urge to join the men in their merrymaking nearly brought him to a halt. He’d give just about anything to be able to go in there right now and have a pint in their blessedly uncomplicated company.

  Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. At the very least, he’d have a brandy when he got home—and be damned his promise to Daniel. There were just some things a man couldn’t handle without the aid of a little brandy, and women most definitely fell into that category. Besides, the vicarage was cozy and above all, private. No one would know.

  As soon as he made it in and divested himself of his overcoat, it was straight to the bottle to pour a large glass. As the amber fluid blazed a warm trail down his throat, he contemplated his predicament.

  Every time he closed his eyes, she appeared. Is her image emblazoned on the ruddy insides of my eyelids? Downing the brandy, he poured himself another and grabbed a random book from the shelf, determined to drive her from his thoughts by sheer dint of will.

  He’d just settled in before the fire when a firm knock at the door shattered the quiet. Cursing softly, he laid aside his book and brandy to go attend his guest. It was all he could do to repress a groan at the sight of Mrs. Greer, pregnant to the point of fairly popping, standing at his door. Another groan piled up behind the first when she lifted a kerchief to her puffy, red, tear-filled eyes.

  “Oh, Reverend!” she burst out, barging in past him. “He’s gone and taken a mistress. I just know he has!”

  For the next twenty minutes, Devlin listened to the distraught woman pour out her woes with hardly a pause for breath. Finally, when she slowed enough to gulp in some air, he was able to get a word in edgewise. “Now, Mrs. Greer, your husband is likely down at the pub with his mates, taking a moment’s well-deserved respite after a long day’s work.” Mr. Greer’s voice had been one of those raised in happy song at the pub when he’d passed by. “He’ll doubtless be home in time for dinner.”

  This subtle hint resulted in a soggy tirade about how she was expected to manage everything on her own—hard enough when she wasn’t carrying a babe—while caring for their four young children.

  His neglected glass of brandy beckoned, and he eyed it with longing. When she finally paused again, Devlin quoted scripture praising womanly forbearance and forgiveness, thinking to appeal to her piety to send her off feeling both acquitted and appeased.

  That worked about as well as kicking a hornet’s nest. There was just no reasoning with her, so he kept his mouth shut and let her have the floor. Daniel had told him that sometimes people just needed to unburden themselves in order to feel better, and they came to him because they knew he would never repeat what was said.

  As Mrs. Greer’s shrill voice filled the space and set his teeth on edge, Devlin retreated into thoughts of Mary. Would she transform into a jealous shrew after marriage? He didn’t think so, despite her assertion to the contrary. No. She’d be too well loved to ever fear for her place in his heart.

  My heart? Dismayed, he shoved the errant thought aside and attributed it to fatigue. It would not be his heart that held her trust, but someone else’s. Someone who wasn’t a fraud.

  Even as he thought this, he couldn’t help imagining being married to Mary.

  To come home every day to her smiles, her laughter. To enjoy quiet evenings spent in her company instead of down at the club. To anticipate every night rather than drinking it away, and to wake up beside her every morning
.

  He lost himself in such happy musings until Mrs. Greer finally grew hoarse and ended her tearful rant.

  With a wistful glance at the window, which showed a sky just beginning to darken with the onset of twilight, he meekly ventured, “I imagine if you were to return home, you’d find your husband waiting. Or perhaps he’s already gone to look for you? I should think, given your condition, he’d be quite worried at your prolonged absence.”

  Her watery gaze darted to the window, and she gasped. “Merciful heaven! I did not mean to stay so long. I crave your pardon for keeping you from your rest, Reverend—I simply could not take any more of her carping.” She explained that her mother-in-law had come to help with preparations for the babe—and had been there for nearly a month without lifting a finger.

  Comprehension dawned. Now he knew why Mr. Greer had been at the pub instead of at home. Devlin looked his guest straight in the eye and deadpanned, “How her poor husband must miss her. Surely your oldest daughter could help with the rest of the preparations, allowing your dear mother-in-law to return to her beloved husband’s side sooner?”

  Her eyes widened, and a hint of a smile quirked one corner of her mouth. “Do you know, I think you might be right, Reverend.”

  Devlin allowed himself a small smile in return. “Why don’t you talk it over with your husband when you have a moment’s privacy tonight and see what he thinks?”

  “Oh, I shall, Reverend. I certainly shall.” She stood, supporting the heavy underside of her gravid belly with one hand. “Thank you for hearing me. I’m sorry I took so much of your time.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Greer.” He ushered her to the door. “Go in peace, and may the Lord look favorably upon you.” Holding his smile as she turned back to wave took serious effort, and it was with great relief that he finally closed the door, plucked out the stiff white collar binding his throat, and flung it across the room. “I’m not meant for this,” he exclaimed aloud. “I’m meant to be in London swilling expensive brandy and tupping expensive women!”

  But that thought just made him even unhappier. He was no longer that person, and he knew it. What sort of man was he becoming, then?

  Not a bloody priest, that much is certain. What did he really want out of life? He had money. He had renown, for all the wrong reasons. He had his pick of women.

  With one exception.

  Mary. He’d let himself think about her all evening in terms he could ill afford to acknowledge even to himself. Yet, he’d done it. He’d willingly wallowed in woolgathering of the worst kind, indulging in visions of blissful domesticity with a woman who didn’t even know his real name.

  Worse, he’d allowed himself to contemplate a different life, one he had no chance of ever attaining. At least, not with her.

  Again, he wondered what might’ve happened had they met under different circumstances, say while he and his twin were walking about the village together. He imagined how her eyes would’ve widened the way so many people’s did upon seeing them together. Might he have been able to wrest her attention from his oblivious brother? Charm her into transferring her affections to him instead?

  He let out a snort of self-contempt. I’m the sort of man she’d cross to the other side of the street to avoid having to greet in passing. Indeed, he was everything she did not desire.

  But perhaps, with time and a bit of brotherly assistance from his twin, they might have gotten to know each other and become friends. And then maybe, just maybe…

  Maybe what? intruded the cold voice of reason. Maybe she’d have fallen in love with a hardened rake? Because that’s what he was. He knew the time spent in his brother’s shoes had changed him, but not enough to merit the high regard of one such as Mary.

  Even if he were to confess to her the truth this instant and beg forgiveness, it would be to no avail. She’d never trust a man who’d so thoroughly deceived her. And the very idea of what might happen if she told anyone about the ruse was enough to make him break out in a nervous sweat.

  Stay the course. There is no other choice that does not lead to disaster. This is simply how it must be.

  No matter how much he might wish it otherwise.

  Oh, how he wished Daniel had simply been blunt with her to begin with! Had he done so, all this doubt and discomfort might have been avoided.

  Anger seethed in his gut, burning there like a hot coal. Anger at Daniel for being such a coward. Anger at himself for being an even bigger one.

  …

  Friday

  Mary fussed with her appearance, smoothing a wrinkle out of her gown’s skirt, picking at the lace on her cuffs, and pinching her cheeks to refresh their bloom.

  “You’ll bruise your face if you keep doing that,” warned Augie from her perch on the windowsill.

  Turning, Mary faced her with unconcealed anxiety. “Do you really think I have cause for hope?”

  “Dear Mary, there is always cause for hope. In truth, I think our good reverend is in imminent danger of falling madly in love with you, if he is not already. I saw the way he looked at you.”

  There was no need to pinch her cheeks to make them rosy now. “He did turn and look back at the house as he was leaving,” Mary mused, smiling.

  “My Mr. May does that,” said Augie, eyes alight. “Every time, without fail.”

  Mary adopted a dry expression. “If your Mr. May does not soon bend knee and ask for your hand, I shall have to speak with him.” A look of such dismay filled her friend’s face that she relented, laughing. “It’s high time he spoke his mind and made known his intent.”

  Instead of defending her beau’s lack of urgency, however, Augie dropped her gaze to the floor, blushing furiously. “I believe he shall, and soon. He has taken himself to Whitlow this week and will be gone several days. He would not say what was his errand, but I suspect he went to purchase a ring. He has been hinting at his purpose for nigh on a fortnight now. Even my mother believes he is soon to offer for my hand.”

  “Oh, Augie! How happy I shall be when you bring news confirming it,” Mary said, embracing her. She did not give voice to the qualm in her heart. The man who’d betrayed her had done something similar just before dashing her heart to pieces. Reason told her Mr. May was not that sort of man—she’d seen him with Augie and knew he’d given her his heart in whole. Even so, her distrust persisted, and she worried on behalf of her friend.

  Downstairs, Mary waited for their guest to arrive. Again she smoothed her rose and amber brocade skirts. The sun was already low. What if he didn’t come? What if he did, but was returned to his former detachment? She didn’t think she’d be able to withstand it.

  When the bell rang at the front door, her heart gave a great leap. He had come! Now to ascertain his state of mind. The moment their eyes met across the salon, she knew his detachment was a thing of the past. But this knowledge did little to calm her spirit. Dark circles beneath his eyes showed he’d not been sleeping well, and his uncertain gaze told of a conflicted mind.

  He’d come, but he was anything but happy to be here.

  Fear crept in on shadowy feet to infect her heart. Forcing a smile, she rose and came forward to greet him. Leaning on his cane—he’d traded in his crutches—he bent over her hand, careful not to touch its back with his lips. Even so, she felt the flesh there ignite. Just his nearness was enough to elicit longing of a most indecent sort. No, she didn’t need to pinch her cheeks anymore. Heat rose in them readily enough in his presence.

  “Reverend Wayward, how delighted we are to have you with us this evening,” she said dutifully, withdrawing.

  Setting aside his support, he sank into a chair, folded his hands in his lap, and gazed everywhere but at her as he delivered a polite response.

  Look at me, she silently cried, willing him to do so. But his eyes remained fixed elsewhere.

  No. I will not allow this to happen. I will not
lose him!

  He’s not yours to lose. He never has been, retorted the logical part of her mind.

  She didn’t want to listen to logic, however. “How nice it is that the weather appears to be clearing. Perhaps it will be warmer by the time Sunday arrives.” The weather, Mary? Is that the best you can come up with to engage him?

  “Indeed,” he replied, finally raising his eyes. But they were unreadable. “It appears as though winter may not keep its grip on us for much longer. I saw a few snowdrops blooming on my way here.”

  Panic pounded against her rib cage. If spring came early, she’d be leaving for London sooner than planned. Did he hope for such an event? Or was he, like her, dreading it? “I suppose the emergence of the crocuses will tell us when true spring is on our doorstep. They never fail to herald its imminent arrival.”

  He shifted slightly, sat up a bit straighter, and cleared his throat. “Too right, you are.” Some unnamed emotion sparked in his eyes, or was it her imagination? “I’ll wait to pack away my heavy coat, then, lest I find myself wanting.”

  The heart that had raced with trepidation a moment ago now beat with growing hope and burgeoning affection as her father took up the thread and began relating plans for the garden landscaping at the new bridge he was building. Ostensibly, such plantings were meant to anchor the soil, but her father both had an eye for beauty and loved flowers. When the men rose to continue their discussion by the salon window, she, Augie, and her mother clustered together to talk among themselves.

  Her mother wore a satisfied smile. “I begin to wonder if we’ll even need to go to London this Season,” she murmured with a meaningful glance in the gentlemen’s direction. “You may find yourself making the trip without us, Augusta.”

  Augie shot Mary a conspiratorial smile. “I have faith that all will be as it ought.”

  They talked then of the upcoming Belmont ball and other trivial matters until a servant announced dinner.