The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  It was curious, Grace thought as she left him to go and find the lost kitten, how fate could take something so wretched—the night in Bath, in particular—and make it so right for so many.

  She heard the kitten’s meow and spotted it in the corner, near the umbrella stand. She scooped it up and held it to her chest, felt the reverberation of the kitten’s purr against her, felt the strength of her feelings for a lonely earl sink deep into her roots.

  EPILOGUE

  1816

  IT WAS SUMMER at Blackwood Hall, and the long, dark hallways had been transformed by the children who now gathered here. Jeffrey no longer used the main corridor to count his way to sanity—how could he? It was littered with toys and forgotten blankets and bits and pieces of a house that seemed to him to being slowly dismantled by tiny hands.

  Jeffrey loved the children, all of them. They had lightened his heart in a way he never would have believed was possible. He would have dozens of them if he could, and sometimes, he wondered if he might—he could not seem to keep his hands from his wife. His salacious and perverted thoughts were still very much part of him, but they were all reserved for Grace.

  How fortunate he was that his wife had a rather amazing appetite of her own. She’d never been anything but an eager partner, no matter how far they slid down into the depths of his imagination.

  Grace wanted more children, too—but their collective mayhem made his affliction rather difficult to manage. His fear of hurting Grace had been channeled into a very real fear of hurting the children. They were so small, their bones so fragile. And so many of them.

  At present, there were eight of them in his house, which helped in that strange way eight had of soothing him. Two born of his brother, John, two from his sister, Sylvia. Three of the children belonged to Honor and George Easton. Easton had rebuilt the fortune he’d lost with a ship at sea several years ago, and now apparently believed that childbearing was something that should be done per annum, when the ships’ receipts were counted.

  The last child was his own fine young son, James Donovan, Viscount Ashton. Grace was due to bear their second child in the autumn of that year.

  The large and extended family dined in the newly renovated dining room every night, where Jeffrey made it a point not to look at the paintings along the eastern wall. Two of them had been hung incorrectly, but there was no way in which he might convince Grace of it. She had insisted they’d been measured four times. She tried her best to see things his way, but she drew the line at measuring eight times.

  Nevertheless, Jeffrey had managed to overcome the discomfort of the paintings and could concede that Grace was right—the rooms were far less somber than they’d been when he’d lived alone.

  After the family dined, they repaired to the grand salon, where Grace was refused a turn at the pianoforte, given that her skill had not the least improved. Mercy, now seventeen, played as badly as Grace and was perfectly content to do so. “If one does not play the pianoforte well, one is not invited to play,” she’d explained to Jeffrey, staring up at him with big blue eyes behind round spectacles. But as Mercy was not yet out, her sisters insisted that she play each night, presumably with the hope that she would improve. Jeffrey had tried to point out the flaw in her logic to Mercy—she was being asked to play more because of her lack of skill—but Mercy could be quite obstinate when she was of a mind. He understood perfectly why there was some discussion about sending Mercy to a young ladies’ academy on the Continent. Privately, he feared for the academy.

  Her playing was so awful that the dogs—there were four of them now, all with various flaws—took to howling. That annoyed the cats. Jeffrey wasn’t entirely certain how many of them there were, as some remained outside, but he had seen at least three lurking about the house.

  After Mercy’s wretched song, generally Prudence would play, much to everyone’s delight. Prudence was clearly the most talented of the Cabot sisters, and Jeffrey would say abundantly so. But Jeffrey had noticed that in the past fortnight, Prudence’s play had seemed a bit disheartened. He had suggested to Grace that the burden of their mother’s care, which had fallen to Prudence these past few years, weighed on her. Grace and Honor had children to care for, and Mercy was...well, she was Mercy.

  “But Mamma is living with us now,” Grace had pointed out. “Pru is free of the responsibility. I should think her disposition would be improved.”

  Unfortunately, Lady Beckington’s situation had worsened dramatically. She rarely spoke now, and was peculiarly attached to a ball of twine.

  Together, all of her children and their spouses had decided that she should come and live at Blackwood Hall. There was no hope for her in London, as even the doctors had given up on her. Here, two women from Ashton Down had been employed to give her around-the-clock care in addition to Hannah. The burden was no longer to be on Prudence’s shoulders.

  But something was bothering Prudence. Perhaps it was that she was in her twenty-first year and had yet to be made an offer. Prudence was a stunning beauty, but Sylvia, who had been in London the past two Seasons now that her children were a bit older, had confided in Jeffrey that in spite of Prudence’s fine looks and charming demeanor, there were no offers for her hand. “Too many scandals,” Sylvia had said.

  Jeffrey felt particularly uncomfortable about that. He was fond of Prudence.

  One evening, after supper, after Mercy had pounded the ivory keys into submission, and Prudence had played a melancholy song that caused George to double the whiskey he poured into his glass, a mention was made that Miss Amelia Hawthorne, an acquaintance of the Cabot sisters, would be joining her brother in India.

  “She’s traveling to India alone?” Mercy had asked, clearly excited by the prospect.

  “Not alone, silly girl,” Honor said. “In the company of a chaperone.”

  Jeffrey swallowed down an image that was beginning to form in his mind—a young woman and her governess. He generally didn’t think of other women now, but every once in a while—

  Grace touched her hand to his arm, and he realized he was tapping. It was her habit now, to touch him and reassure him when he began to fidget with his counting. He found it soothing.

  “Oh, dear,” said Sylvia. “I should not like to travel all the way there. It seems far too treacherous. It’s a long voyage and any number of things might happen. Why, George lost a ship on that voyage.”

  “True,” George said. “But hundreds of ships sail it uneventfully.”

  “That is something I should very much like to do,” Prudence said, and touched her fingers to a key of the pianoforte. “See a bit of the world.”

  “India?” Honor exclaimed, and laughed.

  “Why not India? It’s at least as interesting as Bath.”

  “Pru, don’t tease in that way,” Honor said as she peeled a figurine from her young daughter’s hand. “Think of the peril. Sylvia is right—the chance for mishap is too great.”

  “Yes, of course, Honor,” Prudence said curtly, and stood up. “God forbid I should put myself in the path of peril.” With a dramatic roll of her eyes, she had gone out, leaving several to exchange curious looks behind her.

  “What in heaven did I say?” Honor asked, exasperated.

  “You said peril,” Mercy answered matter-of-factly.

  “Why should that displease her?” Grace demanded.

  Mercy shrugged and adjusted her spectacles. “Perhaps she wants peril. It’s so dreadfully boring here.”

  Honor and Grace looked at each other and laughed. “Mercy, you say the most preposterous things,” Grace said.

  Jeffrey noticed that Mercy didn’t laugh along with her sisters. He supposed Mercy knew something about Prudence’s ill humor and was unwilling to share.

  Good God. He thought of his son in his nursery, only two years old. He thought of the weeks and months and years to come. How would he ever let James into the world? How would he ever bear it? How could he ever let go of the fear of harm coming to him? God hel
p him, what if the next child was a girl?

  He glanced up, caught Grace’s eye. She smiled and rubbed her hand over her belly, their second child. He couldn’t possibly bear it, not possibly.

  Grace laughed at something Mercy said, which did not please Mercy in the least, and now they were arguing. Such chaos was this family!

  But in all the chaos grew a love unlike any he had ever known, and for that he was profoundly grateful.

  It was perfect.

  * * * * *

  Be sure to watch for Prudence’s romance, coming only to Harlequin HQN in 2015.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE TROUBLE WITH HONOR by Julia London.

  “London knows how to keep pages turning.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  If you loved The Devil Takes a Bride, be sure to catch The Trouble with Honor, book one in New York Times bestselling author Julia London’s acclaimed Cabot Sisters series.

  And don’t forget to look for book three, The Scoundrel and the Debutante (May 2015).

  Available wherever ebooks are sold.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  THE TROUBLE BEGAN in the spring of 1812, in a gaming hell south of the Thames, a seedy bit of Southwark known to be thick with thieves.

  It was beyond comprehension how the old structure, originally built in the time of the Vikings, had become one of the most fashionable places for gentlemen of the Quality to be, but indeed it had. The interior was sumptuous, with thick red velvet draperies, rich wood and low ceilings. Night after night, they came from their stately Mayfair homes in heavily armed coaches to spend an evening losing outrageous sums of money to one another. And when a gentleman had lost his allotted amount for the evening, he might enjoy the company of a lightskirt, as there were ample private rooms and French women to choose from.

  On a bitterly cold night, a month before the start of the social Season—when, inevitably, the gentlemen would eschew this gaming hell for the Mayfair assembly rooms and balls that had become a spring rite for the wealthy and privileged—a group of young Corinthians were persuaded by the smiles and pretty pleas of five debutantes to have a look at this gaming hell.

  It was dangerous and foolish for the young men to risk forever marring the reputations of such precious flowers. But young, brash and full of piss, they’d been eager to please. They did not allow the hell’s rule of no women to deter them, or that any number of mishaps or crimes could befall the young women in the course of their lark. It was a bit of adventure in the middle of a gloomy winter.

  It was in that Southwark gaming hell where George Easton first made the acquaintance of one of those debutantes: Miss Honor Cabot.

  He hadn’t noticed the commotion at the door when the young bucks had arrived with their prizes, flush with the excitement of their daring and overly proud for having convinced the man at the door to give them entry. George had been too intent on divesting thirty pounds from Mr. Charles Rutherford, a notorious gambler, in the course of a game of Commerce. He didn’t realize anything was amiss until Rutherford said, “What the devil?”

  It was then that he noticed the young women standing like so many birds, fluttering and preening in the middle of the room, their hooded cloaks framing their lovely faces, their giggles infecting one another while their gazes darted between the many men who eyed them like a paddock full of fine horses.

  “Bloody hell,” George muttered. He threw down his cards as Rutherford stood, the poor lass in his lap stumbling as she tried to stop herself from being dumped onto the floor.

  “What in blazes are they doing here?” Rutherford demanded. He squinted at the group of them. “Bloody unconscionable, it is. See here!” he rumbled loudly. “This is not to be borne! Those girls should be removed at once!”

  The three young gentlemen who had undertaken this adventure looked at one another. The smallest one lifted his chin. “They’ve as much right to be present as you, sir.”

  George could see from Mr. Rutherford’s complexion that he was in danger of apoplexy, and he said, quite casually, “Then, for God’s sake, have them sit and play. Otherwise, they’re a distraction to the gentlemen here.”

  “Play?” Rutherford said, his eyes all but bulging from their sockets. “They are not fit to play!”

  “I am,” said one lone feminine voice.

  Ho there, which of them dared to speak? George leaned around Rutherford to have a look, but the birds were fluttering and moving, and he couldn’t see which of them had said it.

  “Who said that?” Rutherford demanded loudly enough that the gentlemen seated at the tables around them paused in their games to see what was the commotion.

  None of the young ladies moved; they stared wide-eyed at the banker. Just as it seemed Rutherford would begin a rant, one of them shyly stepped forward. A ripple went through the crowd as the lass looked at Rutherford and then at George. He was startled by the deep blue of her eyes and her dark lashes, the inky black of her hair framing a face as pale as milk. One did not expect to see such youthful beauty here.

  “Miss Cabot?” Rutherford said incredulously. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  She curtsied as if she were standing in the middle of a ballroom and clasped her gloved hands before her. “My friends and I have come to see for ourselves where it is that all the gentlemen keep disappearing to.”

  Chuckles ran through the crowd. Rutherford looked alarmed, as if he were somehow responsible for this breach of etiquette. “Miss Cabot...this is no place for a virtuous young lady.”

  One of the birds behind her fluttered and whispered at her, but Miss Cabot seemed not to notice. “Pardon, sir, but I don’t understand how a place can be quite all right for a virtuous man, yet not for a virtuous woman.”

  George couldn’t help but laugh. “Perhaps because there is no such thing as a virtuous man.”

  Those startlingly blue eyes settled on George once more, and he felt a strange little flicker in his chest. Her gaze dipped to the cards. “Commerce?” she asked.

  “Yes,” George said, impressed that she recognized it. “If you desire to play, miss, then bloody well do it.”

  Now all the blood had drained from Rutherford’s face, and George was somewhat amused that he looked close to fainting. “No,” Rutherford said, shaking his head and holding up a hand to her. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot, but I cannot abet you in this folly. You must go home at once.”

  Miss Cabot looked disappointed.

  “Then I’ll do it,” George said and, with his boot, kicked out a chair at his table. Another murmur shot through the crowd, and the tight group of little birds began to flutter again, the bottoms of their cloaks swirling about the floor as they twisted and turned to whisper at each other. “Whom do I have the pleasure of abetting?” he asked.

  “Miss Cabot,” she said. “Of Beckington House.”

  The Earl of Beckington’s daughter, was she? Did she say that to impress him? Because it didn’t. George shrugged. “George Easton. From Easton House.”

  The girls behind her giggled, but Miss Cabot did not. She smiled prettily at him. “A pleasure, Mr. Easton.”

  George supposed she’d learned to smile like that very early on in life in order to have what she liked. She was, he thought, a remarkably attractive woman. “These are not parlor games, miss. Have you any coin?”

  “I do,” she said, and held out her reticule to show him.

  Lord, she was naive. “You’d best put that away,” he said. “Behind the silk neckcloths and polished leather boots, you’ll find a den of thieves between these walls.”

  “At least we’ve a purse, Eas
ton, and haven’t sunk it all in a boat,” someone said.

  Several gentlemen laughed at that, but George ignored them. He’d come to his fortune with cunning and hard work, and some men were jealous of it.

  He gestured for the lovely Miss Cabot to sit. “You scarcely seem old enough to understand the nuances of a game such as Commerce.”

  “No?” she asked, one brow arching above the other as she gracefully took a seat in the chair that a man held out for her. “At what age is one considered old enough to engage in a game of chance?”

  Behind her, the birds whispered fiercely, but Miss Cabot calmly regarded George, waiting for his answer. She was not, he realized, even remotely intimidated by him, by the establishment or by anything else.

  “I would not presume to put an age on it,” he said cavalierly. “A child, for all I care.”

  “Easton,” Rutherford said, his voice full of warning, but George Easton did not play by the same rules as the titled men here, and Rutherford knew it. This would be diverting; George had no objection to passing an hour or so with a woman—anyone in London would attest to that—particularly one as comely as this one. “Are you prepared to lose all the coins you’ve brought?”

  She laughed, the sound of it sparkling. “I don’t intend to lose them at all.”

  The gentlemen in the room laughed again, and one or two of them stood, moving closer to watch.

  “One must always be prepared to lose, Miss Cabot,” George warned her.

  She carefully opened her reticule, produced a few coins and smiled proudly at him. George made a mental note not to be swept up by that smile...at least not while at the gaming table.

  Rutherford, meanwhile, stared with shock at both Miss Cabot and George, then slowly, reluctantly, took his seat.

  “Shall I deal?” George asked, holding up the deck of cards.