The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  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 but
terfly 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.

  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.

  So did his wife.

  He ate a bit of the beefsteak, aware of the oppressive silence in that room. “I understand you have asked that Hattie serve as your lady’s maid,” he said.

  She looked up, her gaze wary. “I did. I rather like her and I think she would suit me.”

  “Be that as it may, I cannot allow it.”

  “Pardon?” She put down her fork. “Why ever not?”

  Jeffrey had intended to suggest that as he did not care about the expense, perhaps she might write someone in her family and ask for a referral. He did not expect to argue, and honestly, he didn’t know how to argue. What was he to say? The truth? Because she will be replaced with a comely lass, and I will think of nothing but her body, of bending her over the basin and sliding into her over and over again.... He swallowed and glanced at his plate. “She is a chambermaid,” he said. “She is not a lady’s maid.” It seemed an obvious explanation to him.

  His wife was not satisfied with that, clearly. She twisted in her seat so that she was facing him. “Why is it that men seem to believe a lady’s maid requires a mysterious skill? That’s not the least bit true, you know—Hattie is perfectly capable of helping me dress and undress. I am confident she is acquainted with a corset and is adept at folding undergarments.”

  Jeffrey picked up his glass of wine and drank generously.

  “I don’t want another lady’s maid. I like Hattie.”

  He could see the spark of ire in his wife’s eyes, but he couldn’t help her in this. He wanted—he needed—Hattie for himself.

  When he did not speak, she made a sound of exasperation. “It seems a trifling thing to me.”

  “I beg your pardon, but are you accustomed to argument?”

  His wife blinked. And then she unexpectedly grinned. Her smile illuminated her face and shone in her eyes and Jeffrey was surprisingly moved by it.

  “You cannot possibly imagine how accustomed I am to argument, my lord,” she said gaily. “I have three sisters and a stepbrother. We argue about most things.”

  “I see,” he said.

  Now she responded with a gay little laugh that shimmered down Jeffrey’s spine. “Oh, I’m rather certain you don’t see at all.” She picked up her fork. “I think you would be quite shocked by the arguments I have witnessed at the supper table. Once, my youngest sister Mercy—she’s thirteen years—appeared in the dining room wearing my sister Pru’s new gown, only just delivered from the modiste. Prudence was quite upset, and my sister Honor tried to reprimand Mercy for her thievery. But Mercy cleverly turned the tables on Honor with the mention of having seen her in Hyde Park in the company of Lord Rowley.” She grinned. “You’re not acquainted with my sisters, so it is perhaps a bit difficult to understand the terrible crimes that were committed that evening, but I assure you, they were terrible crimes. Nonetheless—yes, my lord, I am accustomed to argument.”

  She seemed pleased with herself for mysterious reasons that completely bypassed Jeffrey. He wasn’t even sure what she was talking about now and struggled to find his place in this argument, this discussion, whatever the bloody hell it was that was happening at this table.

  “In spite of your apparent joy in arguing, you may not have Hattie as your lady’s maid,” he said. “Choose any other lass in the land, but not her.”

  Her joviality left her then. “Ah,” she said, nodding. “I see.”

  “See? Judging by the tone of your voice, you think you have stumbled on to something. There is nothing to discover other than I am ultimately the one who will assign the servants their posts.”

  “Of course,” she said, far too agreeably. She turned her attention to her plate. “But I do understand how men such as yourself will seek...comfort.” She gave him a very coy sidelong look.

  That took Jeffrey aback—was she suggesting he kept Hattie as his lover? If he’d not been so surprised, he might have laughed. “You could not be more wrong.”

  “Oh, I suppose not,” she said with such mock gravity that it was clear she didn’t think herself wrong at all. She forked a generous bite of beefsteak, and popped it into her mouth.

  This woman, his wife, was not like any woman in Jeffrey’s acquaintance. Mary Gastineau would have been far better suited to him—she hardly spoke at all. But this one? Jeffrey couldn’t even say what she was, precisely.

  She saved the rest of her remarks for the food, proclaiming the beefsteak the best she’d ever eaten. She ate with gusto, her appetite clearly having returned to her. Jeffrey finished his meal and began to count the minutes until he might reasonably take his leave of her.

  When she had finished her plate, she leaned back and put her hand on her belly. “I feel quite full.”

  It was a wonder she hadn’t popped. Jeffrey put aside his linen napkin. “If you have finished your meal, I shall give you leave.”

  His wife slowly brought her attention away from the table and to him. “Then I shall take it.” She stood abruptly, catching the chair with her hand before it toppled over.

  Jeffrey quickly found his feet.

  She walked to where he stood, tilted her head back and looked up at him. She stood so close he could see the
storm in her eyes, could smell the sweet scent of her perfume. It was at once unbearable; his pulse began to pound as his mind filled with the thought of burying his face in her hair, his body in her wet warmth. He envisioned the arch of her back as she found her release, the curve of her neck as she dropped her head back in ecstasy. He clenched his fist, tapped eight times against his leg.

  “You’ve done exceedingly well in conveying your disdain, and really, I can scarcely blame you,” she said, sounding almost cheerful about it. But then her brows dipped into a V. “However, for better or worse, we are inextricably bound to each other, and my name is Grace.”

  Surprised again, Jeffrey arched a brow as he took her in, from the pert tilt of her nose, to the high cheekbones and slender chin. How innocent she was, how unaware of his ugly thoughts, of how he saw her, with her legs spread wide, her pink lips glistening, beckoning. The yearning for it was thrumming in him now, pushing him past reasonable thought.

  “Good night,” she said pertly, and stepped around him, headed for the door.

  “You’re right,” he said, and took some pleasure in having unbalanced her, judging by the hitch in her step and the way she twirled back to him. “We are inextricably bound for all of eternity. And, as such, I see no point in putting off the inevitable.”

  The color bled from her face. “By that do you mean conversation?” she asked hopefully.

  “No.” He walked closer, peered down at her mouth. “I will come to you tonight as your husband, as is my right...Grace.” He struggled to say her name. He had not been able to say it, to be so familiar, and the sound of it from his throat sounded harsh, untried. He spoke so roughly that he sounded as if he was taunting her.

  She looked truly horrified. Her lips parted, and he was certain that his expression betrayed the terrible thoughts that were slamming through his head in that moment. If she meant to speak, she thought the better of it, for she merely nodded and went out.