The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  Grace had heard nothing from Merryton in the days since the disaster, not a single kind or unkind word. Not that she expected it, for what would it be? My dear Miss Cabot, thank you kindly for utterly ruining my life.

  No, she didn’t expect anything, really, and had tried to push aside her conflicting and terrifying thoughts by methodically packing her belongings into her trunk. She’d folded her stockings into neat little squares, her gowns into bigger squares. Today, she had dressed for her wedding, hardly caring that she broke with tradition by putting away her mourning garb. Wasn’t black too macabre, in spite of how somber she found this day? Didn’t the silver gown seem too sprightly for such an unbearable event? She’d chosen the pale blue gown Mercy had once declared went very well with Grace’s hazel eyes and the brass tones in her hair. Subdued, and yet, it would not appear as if she’d crawled out a dark tomb to wed.

  Grace added a chemisette with a collar so that no skin was revealed to her future husband. She knew it was absurd to feign modesty now, but it seemed the thing to do. She pulled her hair into an austere knot at the nape of her neck, and the only jewelry she wore was a strand of pearls about her neck. It had been a gift from her mother on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday, and it made her feel close to her mother now.

  A light rap on her door signaled the time had come.

  “Oh, dear. I suppose it’s time,” Beatrice said fretfully.

  At least there was one bright spot to Grace’s day—she would soon be out from under Beatrice’s tearful gaze. If there was one thing she could not abide, it was the female penchant for the tearful gnashing of teeth. So much time and effort spent in crying! Grace wouldn’t cry. She’d created this mess and, heaven above, she’d suffer the consequences with her head held high. And if she couldn’t manage that, she’d certainly cry in private.

  She opened the door to the Brumley butler. “I’m to bring your trunk, miss,” he said.

  Grace pointed to it; she couldn’t find the will to even speak. As the butler and a footman took her trunk down, Grace wrapped a cloak around her and picked up her bonnet. She turned to Beatrice and smiled. “Thank you, cousin—for everything.”

  Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears. “How lovely you look, dearest. I wish your mother was here to see it.”

  Grace smiled ruefully. “I don’t.”

  “Tsk,” Beatrice said. “Not even this day could make you any less lovely. You are your mother’s daughter, a true beauty. That man is quite fortunate if you ask me.”

  Grace almost laughed. He was so fortunate his life had been ruined.

  Beatrice hugged Grace to her. “Mr. Brumley and I will be there to serve as witness, of course.”

  Grace gave her a wan smile. She didn’t care who saw her now. All she could think about was marrying him, then being spirited away to Blackwood Hall, which sounded as bleak as her life stretching all the years before her. She toyed with a fantasy that when the scandal had died down, she would run away—from him, from society, surviving by her wits in the wild—

  “Oh! I almost forgot! A letter has come for you this very morning!” Beatrice said.

  “A letter?” Grace said, brightening.

  Beatrice took the letter from her pocket and held it out. Grace instantly recognized Honor’s handwriting. “It’s from Honor!” she exclaimed. “How could she have received my letter so soon? I sent it only yesterday.”

  “This one came late last night,” Beatrice said. “It passed yours in the post.”

  Grace’s excitement instantly flagged. There would be no proposed escape for her, no promise of help knocking at her door at any moment. She tucked the letter into her reticule.

  “Chin up, darling,” Beatrice said as she wrapped her arm around Grace’s shoulders and began to walk with her. “I hear that Blackwood Hall is a grand estate with a dozen guest rooms. After things settle, you might find it to your liking.”

  Grace would never find it to her liking, she was certain of that.

  In the foyer, Grace fit her bonnet on her head, low over her eyes so that she’d not have to see any happy people walking about, and followed the footman to the small carriage.

  “Mr. Brumley and I will be along behind you, darling!” Cousin Beatrice called from the walk when Grace had settled herself inside, and waved her handkerchief at Grace as the carriage pulled away, as if she were going on holiday.

  In the carriage, Grace retrieved Honor’s letter and broke the seal.

  Dearest Grace,

  I pray this letter finds you well. You must forgive me, dearest, for I have been remiss in my duty to write you faithfully as I promised. We’ve been quite well occupied in London. Mamma is no better, but seems to retreat into her private world a bit more each week. It’s rather difficult to keep her calm at times. Hannah was given a tincture by a woman in Covent Garden, of which I did not approve. It does seem to help when Mamma is particularly agitated, and yet I don’t care for it, as the ingredients are not known to us.

  Prudence and Mercy are very well. They were made very happy with an invitation to dine at Lady Chatham’s. She has invited all the girls not yet out. I suspect she wants a preview of next Season’s debutantes so that she might begin to meddle before anyone else is allowed the privilege.

  I do have a bit of joyous news and I hope you will not be cross with me. Easton and I have married! I regret that I could not get word to you in time, for I would have liked nothing more than to have my dearest sister stand up with me. However, owing to a bit of bothersome scandal, time was of the essence.

  Grace gasped. “You didn’t!” she cried. “When?”

  We were married a fortnight ago at Augustine’s insistence. We are residing at Easton’s house on Audley Street, but I must honestly inform you that my poor dear husband is near to penniless as he has lost his ship, and he is determined that we will relocate to more modest housing. I do have his word that there will be room for the Cabot girls wherever we might land. When you return from Bath, you must join us! I cannot bear to be apart from you, and you have surely determined by now that yours is a fool’s errand. Come home, Grace, please do come. We all miss you so and we need you desperately. I know you won’t care for this news, but truly, I love Easton with all my heart and I couldn’t possibly be happier than if he were king.

  There was more to the letter, mostly having to do with how deliriously happy Honor was with Mr. Easton, and how Grace might hear some talk of what happened in a gaming hell in Southwark, but that Honor would prefer to explain it in person, as it was far too complicated to write.

  Grace hardly cared what Honor had done, or that she was penniless and happy about it. Had Grace known a fortnight ago that scandal had touched the Cabots and there was no hope of saving them from it, she never would have put her own foolish plan into motion.

  To think Honor might have spared her this fate. “Oh!” Grace cried, and kicked the bench across from her.

  That did not help at all. And it seemed she had injured her toe.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE CARRIAGE BEGAN to slow, and Grace leaned forward, looking out the small window. They’d come to a plain building, but up the road, she could see a small chapel next to a field where sheep grazed. When the carriage came to a halt, the Brumley footman opened the door and held up his hand to assist Grace.

  She stepped out and looked around. “What place is this?” she asked, peering up at the building.

  “Office of the magistrate, miss,” he said, and shut the carriage door.

  The door of the building swung open, and a portly gentleman stepped outside. “This way, if you please,” he said, gesturing to Grace.

  Grace slipped Honor’s letter into her reticule, picked up her skirts and walked up the uneven path to the door. The gentleman showed her into a small dark office and gestured to a wooden bench against the wall. “If you would, miss. Someone will be along to collect you when the time has come.”

  “What is—”

  He’d already shut the
door.

  Grace looked around the room and sat reluctantly. A few minutes later, she was startled to her feet when the door swung open.

  Merryton stepped through the door. He seemed surprised to see her; he was still wearing his cloak—as was she—and boots muddied from his ride. She wondered where he had come from.

  His green eyes scraped down her body and up again. A shiver ran through Grace; she thought of that darkened tea shop, the feel of his body hard against hers, his lips soft but demanding. She looked down, uncertain what to do in this situation, and afraid he would somehow read the memory in her face.

  Why did he not speak?

  She couldn’t bear the silence and lifted her gaze.

  The man whom she had dishonored was staring at her, his gaze dark and devouring. She didn’t understand it completely, but she felt the intensity of it, and her hand fluttered self-consciously to her neck.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. But he did not speak.

  “My name is Grace,” she said, her voice sounding too loud in this room. “Grace Cabot.” The moment the words came out of her mouth, she realized how absurd she must sound. As if he’d not gone to the trouble to find out who, precisely, he was marrying. But whatever Merryton thought, she would not be allowed to know. His expression did not change.

  Grace’s heart began to pound in her chest. She suddenly imagined him taking her in hand, taking her on the small, cluttered desk. Isn’t that what his gaze meant? “I, ah, I realize we’ve not been properly introduced.” She nervously cleared her throat. “I wish I knew how to...to adequately express my deepest apology,” she said with an uncertain gesture.

  One of his dark brows arched slightly above the other, which she assumed meant he found her effort to apologize lacking.

  “I can’t begin to apologize enough, my lord,” she quickly amended, trying to convey the depth of her regret. “But I am truly and deeply sorry for what I have done.”

  Still, he did not speak. He had piercing, all-seeing eyes, and she wondered if he could sense how uncomfortable, how uncertain, she was. She didn’t want him to see it—she knew instinctively that to show this man any weakness would be like dangling meat before a lion. So she tried to smile a little. “So...here we are.” She nervously shifted up onto her toes and down again. “What shall I call you?”

  He almost looked surprised by the question. “My lord,” he said, as if that were perfectly obvious. “Excuse me.” He turned around, his cloak swirling behind him, and walked out of the small room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Leaving Grace alone in that small dark office, staring at the place he’d just stood.

  She snatched in a deep breath she hadn’t even realized she needed until that moment, and sank heavily onto the wooden bench. “My lord?” she repeated to the closed door. “That’s what I’m to call you? My lord?” Would he loathe her always? Would he ever speak?

  Her mind raced alongside her heart for the next several minutes. Or hours—who knew? It seemed an interminably long wait, and she did not move from that bench. Her limbs ached, her head ached more. She wished someone had opened the blinds and given the room a bit more light, but it was as bleak and as dark as her mood. She did not feel at liberty to open them herself.

  Occasionally, Grace would smooth out Honor’s letter from its crumpled state and read it again, but her sister’s words filled her with an overwhelming desire to stab a pen into the hard wood of the desk before her, or kick it with both feet until it broke in two. How different this day would have been had she known! How different her life would have been had Honor written her sooner!

  Grace almost sobbed out loud with relief when the door swung open, and Merryton stepped inside. He stood just at the door, one fist clenched at his side, lightly tapping against the jamb. One two three four five six seven eight. He dropped his hand. “It is time, Miss Cabot,” he said simply.

  “Well. Here it is, then,” she said, resigned. In the time it took her to stand, the life Grace had known flashed before her. A privileged childhood, three sisters whom she loved more than anything else. An elegant, sophisticated mother. A life at the brilliant center of London’s highest society.

  Merryton, she noticed, tapped the jamb again, eight times.

  Grace shoved Honor’s letter into her reticule. She tried to avoid his fierce green eyes. His jaw was clenched, his expression cold. The feeling was mutual, she supposed, and swallowed down the lump of trepidation that was choking her.

  Merryton glanced at a small mantel clock. “Come now.” He spoke as if she were a servant.

  “I’m coming as quickly as I can force myself.”

  “It would behoove you to force yourself a bit faster.”

  She could scarcely look at him as she moved past him, taking care not to brush his clothing with hers as she did. She stepped out and winced when she heard the door shut resoundingly behind her. She clasped her hands tightly before her and walked beside him, aware of his physical presence so much bigger and powerful than she.

  Another shiver raced through her, and honestly, Grace could not say if it was a shiver of fear, of revulsion or, if she were perfectly honest with herself, of titillation. As heartsick as she was about this wedding, that night in the tea shop was still very much on her mind.

  How in heaven had she managed to create such a prodigiously complicated shambles of her life in such a short amount of time? She would write Honor straightaway, as soon as the vows were said, and beg her to come. If she were allowed to post letters, that was. Grace wasn’t entirely certain what to expect any longer.

  Merryton paused before another door in the back of the small offices. He rapped on the door, and as they waited for it to open, he tapped the jamb with his fist.

  Grace glanced heavenward and sent up a silent prayer for courage.

  The door opened, and a man of the cloth stood behind it. He was the same height as Grace, and his disdainful gaze slid down to her toes and up again. “This way, my lord,” he said to Merryton, and gestured behind Grace to the front door of the offices.

  Merryton swept his hand before him, indicating Grace should precede him. She followed the clergyman out of the offices and up the road to the little chapel. She could hear Merryton walking behind her, but she could not see him. She glanced over her shoulder at him. His gaze was locked on her.

  Why did he not speak? At the very least he might tell her he was so angry he did not intend to ever speak to her. Surely she deserved at least that explanation.

  Grace slowed her step so that he had to walk beside her. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, debating what she might say to somehow improve this wretched situation. “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “this...arrangement...won’t be as bad as one might fear.” She looked at him hopefully.

  Something dark flashed in his eyes.

  “I mean only that, sometimes, it is best to look for hope than to find fault.” Oh, that sounded ridiculous.

  He must have thought so, too, because he said nothing. Grace was beginning to think his silence might be the worst of it all—that he would never utter a word.

  Cousin Beatrice and her disagreeable husband were waiting inside the chapel for them, and Beatrice looked again as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Grace sincerely hoped she would not.

  There was no one for Merryton, she noticed. Not even Amherst.

  Her heart was pounding as they moved up the aisle to the altar. She’d never felt so alone—they may as well have been leading her to the gallows and her execution.

  The clergyman spoke in near-whispers to Merryton, almost as if Grace was not even present. He announced he would begin. He drew a breath and fixed his gaze on Grace. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God,” he said, as if Grace wasn’t aware that God was watching. As if she needed to be reminded. As if she wasn’t acutely aware of how dreadfully she must have disappointed her maker.

  She surreptitiously pressed her damp palms against the skirt of her
gown. She felt a little light-headed as the weight of what was happening began to sink in, and fixed her gaze on the stained glass over the vicar’s head, of Jesus on the cross. Her thoughts jumbled and raced ahead to her duties as this man’s wife. She was aware when Merryton shifted beside her, felt the heat in his much-larger hand when he took hers—literally picking it up from her side to hold it when Grace failed to hear the vicar’s instruction. The vicar began to read the assumptions of a married couple, including fidelity and honor. She noticed that Merryton’s eyes seemed to narrow the more the vicar spoke.

  “My lord,” the vicar said, his voice soft and even kind, “will you take this woman...” He began to rattle off the requirements of him. To hold her from this day forward. To honor and cherish, for better or worse—

  Now there was a laugh. There was no accidental honoring and cherishing at this altar. The notion that he should have to vow such a thing was so absurd that Grace could feel a slightly hysterical, completely irrepressible smile begin to curve her lips.

  As the vicar continued to speak, Merryton looked at her curiously at first, then crossly. He undoubtedly did not find any of this amusing, and in spite of her attempt to hide her hysterical smile, neither did Grace. But the more the vicar spoke, the more absurd it all seemed, and Grace’s laughter was rising in her like a storm tide, threatening to explode on the gentleman standing before her. She bit her lip, but she couldn’t keep that damnable smile from her lips.

  “I will,” Merryton said curtly.

  Grace hadn’t even realized the question had ended.

  “Miss Cabot,” the vicar said, “will you take Jeffrey Thomas Creighton Donovan to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, to honor and obey until death do you part?” he asked quickly, his gaze on the book he held.

  Oh, dear. Until death parted them seemed an awfully long time. Grace thought of her fantasy of escaping, of running away. She would do that long before death ever thought to part them, and that, therefore, begged the question—