The Devil Takes a Bride Page 15

As there was no servant, Jeffrey put her in her chair. She daintily slipped into it, arranging her skirts just so. Standing above her as he was, Jeffrey could see her breasts nestled in the bodice of her gown. He put his hand on her shoulder before he knew what he was doing and brushed his fingers across her collarbone. Her skin left a searing heat in his fingers, made worse when she glanced up at him and smiled.

  Jeffrey took his seat.

  A moment later, the service door swung open and Cox entered with a silver tray. Behind him was Ewan, who carried the bread. Jeffrey observed the young footman as he served, watched him lean over his wife and put bread on her plate. He was certain he saw the footman’s gaze move to her bodice.

  He closed his eyes against the hideous image of the young footman at his wife’s breast.

  Cox ladled fish stew into their bowls, and with a curt bow and flourish of his hand, he sent Ewan out and followed him. Jeffrey made a note to have Ewan removed from service in the dining room, to some other, more obscure part of the house. Chimneys, he thought idly. He picked up his spoon.

  So did Grace.

  Jeffrey dipped his spoon into the stew and tasted it. He was right; he had no opinion of it, good or bad.

  “Well?” Grace said eagerly.

  Jeffrey looked at his bowl.

  “It’s all right to say you don’t agree with my assessment of fish stew, you know. I won’t bite,” Grace said.

  A sudden and lurid image of her mouth on him, her teeth nibbling his skin, suddenly flashed through his mind and rushed to his chest in a dark heat. He looked up, startled.

  “I meant it in jest,” she said, looking at him curiously. “Of course I’d not bite you.” She smiled.

  No, but he would. “It is...good.”

  She laughed. “If that is good, I shudder to imagine your expression if you found it not to your liking.”

  The same, Jeffrey thought.

  “Well, I like it very much,” she said, and took several bites. “By the by, I wanted to thank you for allowing me to ride with you today. I was very happy to feel the sun on my face, and it was a pleasure to meet your tenants.”

  Funny, but she had not seemed very pleased earlier today.

  “I believe there must be more society here than I originally believed,” she continued, clearly determined to converse. “And many more of your tenants who haven’t the slightest notion you’ve married.”

  He shrugged.

  She put down her spoon. “Perhaps we might invite a few of your friends to dine and perhaps announce it.”

  He balked at the very idea. Of course, Blackwood Hall had seen quite a lot of balls and supper parties, but as long as he’d been earl, they’d all been overseen by his sister, Sylvia. But now that Sylvia was at her home in the north with babies, she couldn’t make the trip to Blackwood Hall as often she once had. Frankly, it seemed none of his family—his siblings, his cousins and aunts—came round as they once had. He assumed it was because Blackwood Hall was quite far from them. He didn’t like to think that it was because of him.

  Jeffrey was a wretched host, he knew, and he couldn’t possibly do anything like Sylvia had done—he feared he would lose his mind completely in the uneven numbers, the dizzying array of colors, in the perfumes of women. He feared he would say something entirely offensive under the duress of hosting. “I think it not necessary,” he said flatly. “Word has spread without any formal announcement.”

  Her smiled seemed to dim a bit. “Not a large affair, but something small,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your closest friends.”

  His friends? What friends? “I don’t care to host a...soiree,” he said.

  A moment of silence passed. But only one dizzyingly short one. “Haven’t you any friends?” she asked.

  That was impossible, given his depravity. He put down his spoon and looked at her. “As I said, it is not necessary.”

  “Perhaps it is not necessary for you, but it is for me. I will wither away without some sort of society, something to occupy me. And really, this is something you need not worry with the details—with Cox’s help, I will take care of everything. I’ve a lot of practice.” As she ate her stew, she began to speak of all the soirees that had been held at Beckington’s house in London. This one with a small string quartet, that one in the garden, this one again, with a marzipan made to resemble a bowl of fruit. She was very pleased with her hosting, and was careful to stress how meticulous she was with the details, so much so that even her mother had not had cause to fret that something was undone.

  How could he possibly explain to her that details were precisely the thing he had to worry about?

  She mistook his silence for disagreement. “Please,” she said. “I should very much like to have a friend or two.”

  Her eyes were pleading with him, tugging at his conscience. Of course, she should have some friends. He couldn’t allow his depravity to keep her from it. Perhaps that was the thing—if she had friends, if she had places to go, to be, she would be removed from his sight. God help him if her friends proved to be as alluring as she. He tried to push down the images of women in his house with their perfumes and silken hair and flawless skin. Women who would entice him. His fist curled in his lap and he tapped against his knee. “Then you should have them,” he said.

  Her face instantly lit with pleasure that illuminated some place deep inside him.

  “Make your friends, invite them to dine if you’d like. But don’t expect me to join you.”

  He turned his attention to the stew.

  “But that’s the point,” she said. “I thought if we had some friends in common, we might...well, we might become friends, too.”

  She would never understand that his mind was not his own. That because of the carnal images that possessed his mind, he must keep his distance from her or risk destroying their fragile union. Friends? Routine may seem unfeeling to her, but it was entirely necessary to him. He put aside his spoon. “Grace—”

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Miller again, and this time, he was carrying a silver tray. He bowed. “A letter has come for her ladyship,” he said.

  Grace sat up and eagerly took the letter from his tray. “Honor!” she said breathlessly, and looked at Jeffrey. “Will you excuse me?” But she was already standing, hurrying from the dining room, leaving the scent of her perfume behind to torment Jeffrey.

  When she’d gone, he looked down the empty table, at his empty bowl of stew. Apparently, he liked fish stew more than he knew. Cox entered and began to clear the dishes.

  “Cox...Ewan should find another post in this house,” Jeffrey said.

  Cox stopped what he was doing. “My lord? Has he done something to displease you?”

  “No,” Jeffrey said. “But I prefer someone older in the dining room. Billings—he’ll do.”

  “Billings,” Cox repeated, his voice full of disbelief. “If you will forgive me, my lord, but old Billings can scarcely lift a tray.”

  Jeffrey felt the flush of remorse, but he could not abide a young and handsome footman near his wife. Not because he doubted the loyalty of his servant or, even at this early stage of his marriage, the loyalty of his wife. But because he couldn’t trust himself. “He’ll do,” he said. “And...give Ewan an extra pound or two this annum.”

  Cox looked at the dishes he held. “Yes, my lord,” he said, and went out through the service door, leaving Jeffrey alone.

  Until several days ago, this had been the pattern of his evenings. He dined alone. He ruminated alone. He allowed his fantasies to roam about his head, all alone. He looked around at the stark dining room and was reminded of another meal in this house, many years ago. He’d been a boy, perhaps ten years of age. He couldn’t any longer recall if his family had gathered for breakfast or luncheon, but the sun had been streaming through the windows, and he could remember thinking that bright sunlight seemed so wrong for such a menacing day.

  Sylvia and John had been at the table, as well as his p
arents. His mother had received a letter, not unlike Grace had tonight. Jeffrey never knew who’d sent it. Not that it mattered—the letter had sent his father into a rage. He’d banged the table so hard with his fist that glasses tumbled and platters rattled. He bellowed that Jeffrey’s mother had dishonored him, and took the letter before she had the opportunity to read it.

  His mother had gotten up from the table and run, and his father, his face red with anger, had instructed his three children to remain at the table until he had said they might stand. He went after his wife, and the three of them could hear his father’s vile shouts, his mother’s screams. Doors had slammed and furniture had toppled, all of it audible to the children in this room. The physical struggle between their parents and the disgusting victory of their father over their mother had been heard by nearly everyone at Blackwood Hall.

  The children, Jeffrey remembered, had been too frightened to leave their chairs, too afraid of what their father would do to them. Even the footmen had stood against the wall, too afraid to leave their posts, all of them listening to the same wretched event.

  Jeffrey remembered feeling responsible for it. That made no sense to him now, but he could remember the feeling of helplessness, and the belief that he should do something. But what he’d done was remain seated, his head down while his father brutalized his mother, tapping his fists against his knees to keep from crying before his siblings. Sylvia was weeping, and John so young he wanted to be down from his chair to play. Jeffrey forbade him, and kept tapping. Eight times. Pause. Eight times, again.

  Why eight?

  He wondered now, twenty years later, how much time had actually passed before his father had returned wild-eyed, his clothing askew, his lip bleeding. He had stalked into the dining room, had looked each child in the eye. “Never,” he said, his voice quavering with anger. “Never dishonor me, for the consequences will be dear. Ask your whore of a mother if you don’t believe me.” And then he’d ordered them all from the room and had resumed his meal, as if brutalizing his wife had given him an appetite.

  Jeffrey swallowed down the horrid memory, which, in retrospect, was only one of many.

  It was little wonder that he preferred to dine alone.

  Unfortunately, that was now impossible.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  What mad thing have you done? Oh, Grace, dearest Grace, how could you do such an extraordinarily foolish thing? How could you have made such a terrible, terrible mistake? The moment I received your letter I wanted to come to you straightaway, but Easton says we haven’t the funds for it, and besides, there is the matter of our mother to consider. She can’t possibly travel now—I fear we would lose her, and even if we managed to hold her close, there is her unfortunate tendency to engage others in nonsensical speech. Augustine tells me he and Monica have decided to marry in private before the summer and that we must make accommodations for Mamma. What am I to do? I must obviously remain in London for her and our sisters until all is settled. I can’t possibly come to you now.

  Oh, dearest, I don’t know how you will bear it! Your situation sounds truly wretched. My only advice is to make yourself as willing a wife as you are able. You really must try, and above all, keep a pleasant countenance! Easton says that a man is made pliable to his wife’s wants if he is kept well occupied in the marital bed. My face burns at the mere mention of it, but I don’t know what else to advise you. I’ll come as soon as I am able. Take heart, darling, and be strong. Remember Mamma always said a woman makes her own place in this world, and now you must make yours. Our love and sympathy, and do be patient until I can come to you! Fondly, Mrs. George P. Easton

  WELL OCCUPIED IN THE marital bed? Grace rolled her eyes—Honor’s advice was not always helpful. How exactly did Honor think Grace was to do that with a man who had his way and then left? A man who was as cold to her outside of these rooms as a hard winter? The marital bed, as Honor put it, seemed to be the only thing he wanted from her. He clearly didn’t care to know her otherwise.

  If her sister only knew how Grace longed to know more of the marital bed, to experience more, to be swept away on that cloud of pleasure. But something was missing from Grace’s introduction to intimacy, although she couldn’t say exactly what. She only knew if he continued to be aloof and distant with her, she didn’t care to experience more at his hand—no matter how pleasurable it felt in the moment.

  Because even when she enjoyed the sensations, she felt as if she were scarcely more than a vessel to him.

  A rap at the door startled her. Before she could stand, her husband walked into her room. He had that darkly lustful look about him that made her heart skip and her blood race. It almost felt as if her clothes fell away every place his gaze touched. He shut the door at his back, then reached for his neck cloth and unknotted it. “You have not yet prepared for bed.”

  “No.”

  He glanced around her rooms, as if he thought Bother would hop out of Grace’s dressing room to surprise him.

  “How do you find your new maid, my lord?” Grace asked as she slyly moved around to the end of her bed, putting some distance between them.

  “What?” he asked, his attention on her once more.

  “Your maid.”

  He seemed perplexed by the question. His gaze slid down her body, lingering on her breasts and her abdomen. She noticed that he held one hand clenched at his side. Always clenched or tapping. He reached for her, taking her hand in his and drawing her into him.

  “Hattie has done very well for me, if that was what you had wondered,” she said.

  “I hadn’t.”

  “Why did you give her to me?”

  “Why?” He said it as if the answer was obvious as he moved toward her. “Because you wanted her.”

  Grace opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head. “Any more conversation on the topic is unnecessary.”

  “Unnec—” she started, but he cut her off with a kiss. Grace wanted to resist, but his fingers splayed across her chin and his lips were so soft. His hand slid down her back to her hip, and Grace felt herself softening....

  Until she heard the word unnecessary in her head. She suddenly brought up a hand between them and pushed on his chest. That was it, the thing that seemed so wrong—she was only a body to him. Everything else was unnecessary. “No,” she said sternly.

  Merryton’s brows dipped into a dark V above his green eyes. “No?”

  “I want to talk—”

  He sighed impatiently heavenward.

  “It is not an unreasonable request,” she said, trying to keep control of her temper.

  “Talk, then,” he said, and gestured impatiently, as if she was to present a list of sentences.

  She wasn’t going to be put on the spot like that. “Would you like to play a game?” The idea just came to her, but there seemed no better option at the moment than to force him to sit and actually speak to her.

  “No.”

  “Cards,” she insisted. “You do know how—”

  “I know how, Grace. I don’t understand the purpose.”

  “If you know how,” she said, mimicking the stern tone of his voice, “then I have a challenge for you. Do you accept it?”

  “How can I possibly accept it? I don’t even know what it is.”

  “And therein lies the fun!” she said with false brightness. “Do you accept?”

  He sighed, clearly debating. But if he were like every other man Grace had ever been even slightly acquainted with, she knew he would not refuse a challenge of any sort.

  For once, her instincts proved right, for he said tersely, “Very well.”

  She beamed, delighted to have won a tiny battle. “Shall we play Vingt-et-un?” she asked. “The first player to reach the value of twenty-one with his or her cards wins the hand.”

  “I am familiar,” he said. “Have you a purse, or do you expect I will not only indulge you in this game but pay your debts, as well?”

  “I pay my own debts,” she said s
martly. “I’m not as clever with cards as Honor.” She suddenly thought perhaps it was best not to mention Honor and her antics in the early stages of their marriage and laughed. “Honor has always been rather unique in society. Well, that’s neither here nor there,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “I had in mind gambling with something far more diverting than coin.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You needn’t look so suspicious,” she said. “For every hand I win, you must answer a question. Truthfully,” she hastily added.

  “What sort of questions?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Questions about you.”

  “That again, is it?” he said. “And for every hand I win?”

  “I’ll answer whatever you like,” she said.

  He withered her with a look. She hadn’t thought far enough into this impetuous plan to know what she would do if he didn’t want to indulge her. But she knew if she didn’t present something quickly, he would deny her. So she seized on the one thing she knew he desired. “For every hand you win...you may point to an article of clothing that I must remove.”

  Her suggestion had the desired effect; one dark brow rose slowly above the other. “That certainly makes your proposition more interesting.” His voice was smooth and deep, and Grace could imagine any number of women would swoon at the sound of it.

  “Are you up to the challenge?” she asked, taking another step back. “Will you answer truthfully?”

  “Do you suppose I would answer any other way? Have I not been truthful with you?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Grace said with a shrug. “You want to remain a stranger to me.”

  “Yes, well...” His gaze was suddenly piercing.

  “This will be diverting. You’re not opposed to diversion, are you?”

  He looked entirely opposed to a diversion and even a little tense at the suggestion. Lord—she’d not asked to look at the household books, she’d not asked for money, she’d not done anything but ask that she might know more about him. She impulsively reached out and touched his arm; he flinched.