Devil Takes A Bride

by Gaelen Foley

  Mrs. Rowland looked at her in sober awe, then gave a determined nod and trudged off to carry out her mission with no further questions.

  Augusta hobbled back to bed, her heart light. When she blew out the candle, her contented sigh hung in the darkness; then a small note of satisfied laughter escaped her.

  Papa would have been so pleased.

  Dev paced the perimeter of the oak-paneled library, sipping a cordial of cherry brandy and pretending to read a large atlas, which he balanced on one arm. Where the devil was she?

  Surely she would come. He had almost suggested a rendezvous, but he had dared not mention it in front of his aunt—and then it was too late. He hoped against hope that she’d come anyway, for he refused to believe she could be any more content with that thoroughly unsatisfying good-bye than he was. He blew a strand of his long hair out of his eyes with growing exasperation. The long-case clock with its painted face of sun and moon soon read eleven, and still there was no sign of her. Suddenly, he froze, hearing footsteps in the hallway. At last.

  He pivoted, his heart skipping a beat, but he remembered at the last moment to look casual. The footfalls came closer. He glanced toward the door, lifting his eyebrows in suave inquiry.

  Ben’s brown face appeared in the doorway. “My lord?”

  Dev cursed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ben, what is it?”

  “Everything is prepared for our departure tomorrow. May I advise the driver what time you wish to be under way?”

  “Six, I suppose. That should get us into Town by midnight if the roads are clear.”

  “Very good, sir. Is there anything else you require?”

  Lizzie, he thought with a crestfallen gaze.

  Ben raised a dubious eyebrow at him. “Sir? Perhaps you’d best retire. Six o’clock comes frightfully early.”

  Dev shut the atlas with a massive sigh. “You’re probably right.” He paused, staring absently into the cozy fire crackling in the fireplace, then waved him off with a dismissive gesture. “You’re free to go, Ben. Get some sleep.” God knows I won’t.

  Ben collected Dev’s black tailcoat, which he had shed and had tossed over the back of a side chair, then bowed to him and withdrew.

  Dev listened very hard in the silence of the house, but all there was to hear was the vague moaning of the wind in the eaves. Beyond the elegant windowpanes lay a deep, black, cold country darkness, and he was very much alone.

  He set the atlas he had been restlessly perusing on the library table and ambled over to the seating area, plopping down into the brown, leather club couch. He leaned his head back and slouched low amid the deep cushions, fingering his small crystal cup and staring sullenly into the fire. Not once had she asked him to stay. What was he to make of that?

  Women were always asking him to stay, a final step in the mating ritual and one that he despised, but he had to admit that his disgust at their nagging made it all the easier to leave. But Lizzie had not breathed a word of the usual whining, confounding his expectations, as usual.

  Maybe she doesn’t want you to stay, you arrogant ass. Did you ever think of that?

  He yanked out the knot of his cravat in annoyance, then smirked at Pasha, who jumped up onto the couch’s arm and sat there staring at him, his eyes agleam, his fluffy tail twitching.

  “Why do you always look so smug?” he asked the cat after a moment.

  “Meow.”

  “I figured you’d say that.” He took a drink. “Bloody hell.”

  Silence.

  He could not stand the quiet. Pasha walked with delicate steps along the back of the couch and tickled Dev’s ear with his whiskers as if telling him a secret.

  “I see. Yes. Perhaps I should,” he said more determinedly. He was Devil Strathmore, after all—more than that, he would soon be a full member of the wicked Horse and Chariot Club. Shocking behavior was practically second nature.

  He tossed back another swallow of cherry brandy for added courage, his mind made up. The worst he could get was slapped, was it not? He knew full well when a woman wanted him.

  “Well, my boy,” he said to the cat as he heaved himself up off the couch, “it seems the mountain must go to Muhammad.” With that, he left the library and ventured stealthily through the house. The flickering glow from the fireplace in the library reached only as far as the doorway. The marble hallway beyond was dark.

  He made his way through the slumbering villa, trailing his fingertips up the cool smooth banister of the staircase. On the third floor, he ambled down the carpeted corridor, his heartbeat quickening as he came to a bedchamber where light still glimmered under the door.

  He ignored the brazen chance that he was taking and grasped the knob. It turned easily. Unlocked. He cocked an eyebrow. Practically an invitation, he remarked to himself half in jest. Silently opening the door, he peered in, saw her, and immediately felt his belly quiver with want.

  Sitting at her desk on the far end of the room, working on her translations, she was stripped down to a filmy white negligee, silky and sleeveless and cut very low in the back, with naught but blue ribbon shoulder straps to hold it up—a bit of delicious frippery that was not in a hundred years what he would have expected little Miss Sensible to wear to bed. Yet again, the girl continually surprised him.

  He was utterly charmed as he took in the sight of her. Her long hair tumbled free about her lovely shoulders, and she was chewing idly on the frame of a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, her head bent over a large book. She sat at her desk with one dainty foot tucked under her shapely bottom. Seeing her like this brought a sweet, heavy warmth flooding into his loins. It pleased him to imagine she had left her door unlocked for him, but he knew this was delusion.

  Genteel, trusting young ladies like Miss Carlisle had perhaps heard but did not fully understand that there were men in the world who were perfectly comfortable ignoring the dictates of propriety. Indeed, there was one in this very house. A narrow smile curved his lips.

  One at the very threshold of her chamber…

  The cheery glow from the ivory candle on her desk danced over her translations, but so far, Lizzie had accomplished little, staring into space and doodling with tiny ink blobs on the margin of her page. Her elbow sprawled on the corner of her desk, her chin rested in her hand, and all that she could think about was Devlin. Her distracted sigh made the candle flicker. She thrust her quill pen back into its holder in defeat and rested her chin on her forearm, watching the little flame tremble and gyrate. Maybe she should have just checked to see if Devlin had been waiting for her in the library again. What harm was a bit of dalliance, after all, if no one was the wiser? God’s truth, it was awfully boring around here a lot of the time. His visit had been the most excitement they’d had in ages….

  She suddenly felt a presence in the room with her. She lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder, then gasped. He was leaning in the doorway, staring at her.

  Blast the man’s wilderness ways—she had not even heard him open her door!

  “Devlin, what are you doing here?” she exclaimed.

  He lifted his finger to his lips as he slipped into her chamber.

  Her heart pounded like cannon fire as he shut her door behind him with a quiet click, then leaned against it, keeping to the shadows. Shirtsleeves rolled up loosely over his forearms, he slid his hands down into his black trouser pockets.

  Lizzie stared at him, acutely conscious of her state of undress. She did not stand up, but half hid her scantily clad self behind her chair.

  “I came to say good-bye.” His gaze traveled over her in vague awe. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  A blush filled her skin at his words. She was quite sure no one had ever called her beautiful before. Searching his sculpted face from across her dim chamber, she wondered what had driven this fierce, untamed wolf of a warrior to approach; but then she felt the loneliness that emanated from him, as if in answer to her own. Her initial shock forgotten, she discerned the aching need in the depths of h
is pale eyes.

  Everything within her longed to fill it.

  Slowly, she stood, showing herself to him.

  He flinched slightly, his face etched with yearning as his stare traveled over her. “If you tell me to go, I will,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  She shook her head, unable to fight the pull of her desire. She didn’t even want to try. There was only this moment, this night. Only him. Just this once, her body begged. She was so lonely, as he was, so hungry for a man deep in the core of her. Whatever his faults, she knew Devil Strathmore could give her a night of pleasure the likes of which she would surely never have the chance to experience again.

  She lifted her arms to welcome him.

  His eyes caught fire. He locked the door and crossed the room to her in four swift strides, sweeping her off her feet. She twined her arms around his neck as he took her mouth with his own and carried her toward her bed.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  The hunger in his openmouthed kiss reverberated through her reeling senses. She could do naught but cling to him as he laid her on her bed and reclined beside her, caressing her body. His kiss seduced and ravished her; her skin caught fire, her breasts, her whole body rising toward him.

  Surely he felt the drumlike pounding of her heart, she thought as his left hand stroked across the bare expanse of her chest; then it slipped inside her silk negligee. She gasped against his mouth as his large, warm hand cupped her breast snugly in his palm. Her chest heaved. He ended the kiss slowly, but did not remove his hand from her breast. Holding her gaze, he watched her reaction as his thumb circled her nipple. His eyes darkened at the way she shuddered in response.

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do,” he breathed.

  “I know, Devlin. I trust you.” She laid her hand gently on his square jaw and drew him back down to kiss her.

  With smooth expertise, he untied the blue shoulder ribbons holding up her negligee, kissing her all the while. His finesse confirmed her suspicions that he was surely one of the most skilled seducers in England as he peeled the slinky garment down her quivering body, baring her to the waist. For a moment, he stroked her breasts, then pulled back a small space to gaze at them. When his glance climbed to meet hers once more, his eyes glittered with hunger. He bent his head and claimed her mouth again, harder now, easing partly atop her.

  With an eager growl, his pace gathering speed, he kissed his way down her neck and captured her nipple in his mouth. His rhythmic sucking filled her senses with a sweet, heavy languor, bringing to life a wantonness in her that she had not known existed.

  She pushed his waistcoat off his broad shoulders. He shrugged out of the elegant garment, casting it off smoothly behind him; as his touch returned to caress her, the small lace ruffle of his shirtsleeve trailed intoxicatingly over her skin.

  He bent his head again to lavish her other breast with the same attentions. Watching him with a smoky gaze, she stroked his head, then freed the queue that held back his long, black hair, running her fingers through its silky waves.

  She was a little astonished by how natural it felt to be with him this way. His golden earring winked in the candle’s secretive glow. After several more minutes of his play at her breasts, his ardent attentions had her fairly squirming beneath him, but when he started to work her negligee lower, she stopped him.

  “Not fair,” she chided in a coy whisper. “Your turn, my lord. Why don’t you do away with this?” She plucked at his white shirt.

  He answered with a smoldering half-smile. She came up onto her elbows, watching as he pressed up to a kneeling position and lifted his fine white shirt over his head.

  At once, Lizzie’s jaw dropped at the sight of him. Just when she thought the man couldn’t get any more beautiful, the chiseled splendor of his body towered before her, bathed in golden, flickering candlelight. As he tossed the shirt carelessly onto the floor, she caught the wafting scent of clean, inviting cologne on his warm skin. Her dazed stare traveled over him in helpless admiration.

  Around his neck, suspended from a thin strip of worn, brown leather, hung the ferocious-looking fang of some awful predator. Startled by the savage trophy, yet fascinated, she sat up and hooked her finger through the leathern necklace, examining the yellowed fang.

  “Mountain lion,” he informed her in a husky murmur.

  She lifted her gaze slowly to his, awed anew by his size, prowess, and power. He was—what did the poets call it?—sublime. Yes.

  Beautiful and terrible.

  And she wanted him.

  “Give me your mouth,” he whispered, leaning closer. He captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head back.

  He kissed her again. Her heart pounded madly, her finger slipping free of the leather strip to slip down his lovely chest in a slow, exploratory caress. How strange it was to do this with him—to participate in something so dangerous, and yet to feel so safe in his arms.

  “May I kiss you…here…as you did me?” she asked after a moment, running her fingertips boldly over his small, taut nipple.

  “My dear Miss Carlisle, you have my permission do with me whatever you please.”

  “I like that answer,” she told him with a sultry smile. “Lie back.”

  He obeyed, offering himself up for her enjoyment. Caressing his glorious body, she lowered her head and kissed his chest, studying with her lips and fingertips the mesmerizing sculpture of his chiseled abdomen, before chastely kissing his nipple. Growing bolder by the second, she touched the tip of her tongue to it, and to her delight, felt the little nub harden beneath her delicate licking. He wrapped his arm around her in a loose half-embrace, watching her and merely letting her play.

  She moved lower, easing onto her knees between his legs to nuzzle and taste the rippling muscles of his rock-hard belly. She caressed his steely thigh, but after a moment, he groaned low in his throat, his hand tangling almost roughly in her hair.

  He brought her back up to devour her mouth, pulling her into his arms. She simply melted at the feel of his naked chest against hers and returned his kisses, certain she would never get enough of the man. He lay back slowly on the bed, pulling her with him. Her hair swung down around him, veiling them both from the candle’s feeble glow. It was then that she felt something hard jutting against her belly.

  Daft man, was he carrying a pistol in his pocket? she wondered, startled, for lusty London rakes were ever ready for a duel. “Devlin, what is this?” she started before one of them ended up accidentally getting shot. But when she rolled back and poked it with her finger, her eyes widened. “Gracious!”

  He laughed at her scandalized gasp. “See what you do to me?”

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, chérie. Don’t be.”

  “Is that your—?” She could not bring herself to complete the sentence.

  He looked at her with a sardonic arch of his eyebrow. “Well, it’s not my folding telescope.”

  His jest jarred her out of her initial shock. She smacked him lightly on the biceps.

  As he chuckled at her blush, she bit her lower lip, eyeing him in wicked speculation. “May I see it? After all, you know…one wonders.”

  “Does one, indeed?” he whispered, his eyes dancing. But he obliged her without further teasing, climbing out of the bed to stand before her. He unhitched his trousers with a bold stare and a justifiably proud lift of his chin.

  “You’re shameless,” she remarked.

  “You’re staring. Go on,” he whispered in a taunting challenge. “Touch it.”

  She considered refusing, but could tell by his tone that he didn’t think she had the nerve to continue. Well, then.

  Telling herself it was merely in the spirit of scientific inquiry, she reached out ever so cautiously and ventured an experimental contact of her fingertips. Immediately, she thrilled to the way the slight caress made his big body flinch with pleasure.

  “Interesting,” she murmured. She
had yanked her hand back, but now, emboldened, she touched him again.

  “Like this,” he whispered, showing her. He wrapped her fingers around the hard silken flesh. “And stroke it.” He watched her every move. “Go on. It won’t bite you.”

  “Like this?”

  “Yes, just like that,” he forced out, panting slightly.

  His dimensions swelled, his angle rising farther, like a clock that read five minutes to midnight. He stopped her hand with a gentle touch.

  “What now?” she queried in genuine curiosity.

  “Now kiss it,” he whispered.

  Was he serious? she wondered, glancing up at his shadowed face.

  “Like this.” He leaned down and kissed her mouth, his tongue richly stroking hers. He kissed her so deeply and so well that when he pulled away, she could have cried out at the denial. His flaming eyes pleaded with her, urged her on. With an understanding of his need born of pure instinct, she grasped his throbbing member and gave in to his desire.

  The second her mouth touched him, she comprehended the profound pleasure the act gave him. He reached out to brace his hand against the bedpost, playing with her hair as she tested out her brand-new skill.

  The pleasure they shared shimmered in her veins with all the brilliance of an intricately cut diamond, each facet a scintillating, very earthy joy: The first pleasure was in the secrecy of their scandalous rendezvous. The second, as her heart beat faster, was that of feeling him under her power. But the third pleasure was the act itself. The more she tasted him, the more she wanted, and soon, she was in a trance of outrageous desire, her tongue sliding up and down him, her lips—moist and hot, acutely sensitized—feeling every fevered throb of his response.

  He stopped her without warning, flattening her back onto the bed. He pinned her hands over her head against the mattress, swooped down on her and took her mouth in a wild, claiming kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth with such total dominance that she was sure there would be nothing left of her by the time he was done, and she didn’t even care. She could feel his heart pounding against her body and his candied length rubbing deliciously against the place where she most longed for him.