The Devil Takes a Bride Read online

  Jeffrey waited until he could no longer hear her footfall, clenching and unclenching his hand, over and over again, his eyes closed as torrid images filled his head. He had to keep his wits about him, had to breathe. He would devote his attention to his duty and his privilege, and nothing else. Nothing else.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JEFFREY WAITED A suitable amount of time so that she might prepare herself, pacing, tossing back a pair of whiskies.

  His fear was unfounded, he knew that, and yet he couldn’t relieve himself of its grip. He was no stranger to lying with women—fortunately for him, there were women in this world who at least appeared to relish a man’s firm hand or peculiar thirsts. But none of them ladies, none of them innocents, none of them proper debutantes.

  Jeffrey removed his coat and neck cloth, his waistcoat. He pulled his shirt from his trousers. The fear of harming her, of his lust blinding him to his actions, made him miserable. But it had to be done. He could not take a wife and not put a child in her. It was expected, it was his duty, it was necessary. He stalked down the hall to her rooms and rapped twice on her door, resisted the urge to rap six more times, and abruptly opened the door.

  She was standing at the foot of her bed. She’d taken her hair down, and it hung to her waist in gold silken waves. She was wearing a silk dressing gown, and Jeffrey was instantly seized with the vision of what she must look like underneath—long, slender limbs, a dark thatch of hair between her legs, voluptuous breasts.

  He noticed that her chest was rising and falling with each breath, her nerves apparently having the best of her.

  Jeffrey shut the door and turned the key. He didn’t speak at first, certain that his voice would give away the desire that already raged through him. How could he help it? His gaze wandered over her form, a woman’s shape, the core of his ravenous desire. She was a beautiful woman, quite extraordinarily beautiful, and this woman’s shape, this woman’s body, belonged to him and him alone.

  He would have this over with sooner rather than later—to dally was to lose his control. “Remove your gown,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  He gestured to her dressing gown. “Remove it.”

  She did not remove it; she folded her arms tightly across her body.

  A lamb to slaughter, that’s what she was. Jeffrey fixed his gaze on hers, reached for one end of the tie that held her dressing gown together and pulled it.

  Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if she dreaded this above all else, and yet all Jeffrey could think of was how her lashes would flutter shut in the throes of ecstasy—

  No. No matter how they had come to be here, she was an innocent, and he was a beast. He abruptly took her by the elbow and turned her around, so that her back was to him. He slid his arm around her waist and dipped his head, touched his lips to her neck. Her skin was soft and fragrant; his desire slipped into his veins and began to snake through him, a translucent thread of heat. His wife stiffened; Jeffrey tightened his hold, and moved his mouth down, to the point where her neck curved into her shoulder. He lightly bit the taut skin, felt the thread of heat in him spread and grow, rooting in his groin and making him thick and hard.

  The sensations were torturous; he turned her around again, his mouth finding hers. They were soft, moist, and he was reminded of the night in the tea shop, the way she’d felt in his arms, of how he’d fallen so quickly, unable to find any traction as he’d slipped and slid into the pit of his lust. His desire threatened to swallow him whole—she was so lithe, so soft. Jeffrey cupped the side of her face, and teased her lips open with his tongue. The stiffness in her began to ease.

  He deepened his kiss, his body wanting more, wanting it all, and his mind pushing back. But when his wife began to kiss him back, Jeffrey felt his tenuous hold on restraint begin to disintegrate. His desire rushed to the surface; he wanted to rip her gown from her body, put her on her back on the bed, spread her legs and drive into her with a roar. He groped for her breast, squeezing it, the buoyancy of it fanning the flames in him. He slid his hand down her side, to her hip, and pressed her into his cock. She shifted away from him, but he pulled her back into him, made her feel his arousal, feel what she had unleashed that night in the tea shop.

  She began to squirm.

  Was he hurting her? He had to make quick work of it, have it over and done before it ruined them both. He pushed her dressing gown from her bare shoulders, but she clutched at it, desperately trying to hold it to her naked body.

  The dressing gown would not stop him. With one hand around her waist, he lifted her off her feet and put her on the bed. He crawled over her and stared down into her eyes.

  She was frightened of him, perhaps even repulsed, but her revulsion could never match what he felt for himself. He put his knee between her legs and pushed them open, then unbuttoned his trousers. His wife gasped and turned her head, her hair falling over her eyes and shielding her sight.

  “Be easy,” he said. He had no idea how to calm a virgin. He only knew how to incite women to lust. He nudged her legs farther apart. She clutched her gown tightly to her, her breath coming in short gasps now, as if her lungs had filled. With his cock in hand, he pressed lightly against her sex. The folds of her flesh were thick and warm, and he inwardly convulsed with want.

  But her legs were tensed and shaking around him. “Be easy,” he said again. “I don’t want to hurt you.” How did he instruct an innocent? He could feel his muscles tensing, his body straining to keep from shoving into her. He slid the tip of his cock to her sheath, tried to establish some distance and slowly pushed.

  She gasped; her body tightened around him.

  Every muscle in him tensed, constricting, holding his lust in check. He pushed again, moving her leg, trying to ease inside of her. But with no help from her, it was almost impossible to do. He moved again and felt her maidenhead.

  She had told Dr. Linford the truth, then.

  Jeffrey gripped the counterpane on either side of her. He clenched his hips and pushed past the barrier.

  His wife gasped softly. He clenched his jaw and slid deeper, withdrawing to the tip, sliding slowly again so as not to hurt her or frighten her. It was excruciating work, the anxiety of harming her and the pace of his movements depriving him of any pleasure. But as he neared his release, he began to move faster, wanting it done.

  When his release at long last did come, he quickly withdrew. He was acutely aware that she’d found no pleasure in it. He knew of no bridge between his beastly desires to giving her maidenly pleasure. He was disgusted with himself for not knowing how to ease her into the carnal world. Perhaps, in time, after she had given him an heir, she would discreetly find a kind man who might please her.

  He stood, and watched her roll onto her side, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her, covering herself. Her hair still obscured her sight of him.

  Jeffrey buttoned his trousers. “Do you require any...anything?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Please go.”

  He reviled himself in that moment. He had done what he feared and he’d hurt her.

  Eight panes of glass in the window. Eight steps across the dressing room. Sixteen stalls in the carriage house, forty-eight hours since he’d married.

  Jeffrey walked to the door and unlocked it, then stepped out, shutting the door behind him. He closed his eyes, pressed his fists against his temples.

  Sixty-four miles to London, eighty tiles in his bath, eight horses in the stable.

  * * *

  SINCE HER HORRIBLE misstep in Bath, Grace cried for the first time. Really cried, with big hot tears and a leaky nose. She buried her face in her pillow lest anyone hear her, for she could think of no greater humiliation than to be found sobbing on the night she had been made a wife.

  She was appalled by what had happened in this bed. Appalled.

  But not hurt.

  She pounded her pillow several times with great frustration.

  The experience had been nothing as Ellen Pendleton had whispered to Grace and Honor one evening at a supper party. Ellen had insisted there was an awful pain and tenderness associated with the wedding night. Grace had felt a prick, and the discomfort of a foreign object inside of her, but she would not call it painful.

  It was, however, the most wretched thing she’d ever endured. Was this what she was to look forward to for the rest of her life? Was this what she had heard women titter about all her life? She’d found nothing to titter about!

  Just waiting for her husband to come to her room had been exhausting in and of itself. He’d been tender with her in the beginning, and she’d thought perhaps it might be as pleasurable as before. She’d been hopeful when his first kiss had felt...exotic. But then suddenly, something had changed, and he was aloof, detached. And when he’d entered her, he could hardly look her in the eye.

  Grace miserably supposed she deserved that lack of attachment seeing as how she had forced this marriage. Be that as it may, she couldn’t do that again. She couldn’t bear to feel him so thick and hard inside her, or his hands and mouth on her skin, no matter how arousing it might feel. Those actions were lustful. Lust was what men did with ladies of the night. Not their wives. Not that she had any particular knowledge of it, but she firmly believed at least a bit of affection was to be expected.

  But once again, what else could she expect? She had brought this on herself.

  She slept fitfully, and the next morning, as she stared at the shadows beneath her eyes, she decided it would not do. She was married to an indifferent man, yes, but she would not become the strained and downtrodden woman she was beginning to resemble. She wasn’t quite sure how to keep it from happening, but Grace would be damned if she was going to curl up every night and cry herself to sleep.

  She dressed and went downstairs to a breakfast place setting for one. Nights with a cold stranger, lonely days with nothing to occupy her? No, she would not accept it. Theirs was not a love match, clearly. But she was still his wife, and she would assume the privileges of that role. She suddenly pushed her plate away.

  The footman looked uncertain what to do.

  “Please take it,” Grace said, and stood. She walked out of the breakfast room, determined to find something, anything, to occupy her.

  In the foyer, she paused as she had yesterday, looking at the crystal vases that were in their precise places. She found the perfect symmetry of their arrangements vaguely annoying. Before her mother had gone mad, she would bring in big blooms from the hothouse and stuff them into vases without regard for arrangement, creating what looked like a fountain of flowers. Grace much preferred that than this perfection.

  She walked on, pausing to look in the various rooms as she had the day before, and seeing nothing new, nothing to divert her, moving on to the next.

  At the end of the hall, she noticed that the door to Merryton’s study was open. Mr. Cox had pointed out the closed door to her yesterday and told her that Merryton did not like to be disturbed while he was working.

  She assumed he was not there as the door was open, and quickened her step, wanting to peek inside. But when she reached the open door and looked in, she must have gasped with surprise—Merryton was seated at his desk, his head bent over a document. When he heard her, he started and came instantly to his feet. He gripped an ink pen in his hand. Tightly. Grace had obviously and accidentally intruded, and he did nothing to put her at ease.

  For that reason alone, she was not leaving.

  She stepped across the threshold. That’s when she noticed something curious. Merryton appeared to be flustered. A man as uncaring as he would not be flustered, would he? She ought to be flustered, especially after last night, but she was quite beyond that—she felt nothing but indistinct irritation racing through her veins.

  “Madam?”

  “My lord,” she said, finding herself again. She looked around her at the austere decor and bare walls. “This is your study?”

  The grip of his pen tightened, she noticed. He glanced around, too. “Obviously so.”

  Everything was pristine, everything set perfectly, the chairs at the hearth at identical angles. His desk, Grace noticed, was placed in the center of the window. To her right was a small writing table and, on its surface, four ink pens lying neatly in a row. She absently picked one up, needing something to do with her hands.

  Merryton’s gaze went immediately to the pen. He put his down.

  She looked at him, then at the pen she held. His gaze was fixed on it; she put the pen down. What had she done?

  “If there is something you wish—”

  “As it happens, there is something I most desperately wish. I wish to know what I might do.”

  He blinked. “Do?”

  “Yes, do!” she said, taking a few more steps into his study. “I need something to occupy my time. If I don’t have it, I will wander about like a madwoman.”

  He stepped out from behind his desk, walking around to the front. “Madam, do as you like. You are mistress here.” He was moving toward her and the door. He meant to show her out.

  “I feel as if I am mistress of nothing but long and empty hours. There must be something—”

  “You may inquire of Mr. Cox,” he said abruptly, and gestured to the door. He stood at the writing desk, and as he waited for her to take her leave, he put his hand on the pen and moved it slightly, so that it was perfectly aligned with the others. Then he clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, if you will excuse me, there are matters that require my attention.”

  Yes, but she required his attention.

  He looked at the open door, then at her. He wanted her to leave.

  Grace wasn’t leaving, not like this. She folded her arms and stared up at him. “Is this how it shall be?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This marriage,” she said. “So formal and...distant. Is there nothing we might enjoy together? No society we might enjoy?”

  He looked astonished by her straightforward question. “My family is my society. Beyond that, I don’t find society either particularly comfortable or redeeming in any way.”

  “If you are never in society, how do you know? I happen to find society redeeming in many ways.”

  His gaze darkened. He leaned closer, so that she could see how deep the green of his eyes seemed to go. “Have you not altered the course of my life enough?” he asked low. “Did you somehow believe that after the manner in which this marriage has come about, we would somehow live as a happy couple, forever united, hosting parties to satisfy you? I suggest that you might turn your attentions to charitable works if you would like to mitigate the damage you have done, and not seek society.”

  Grace felt the nick of pain those words were intended to inflict. She felt herself shrink with guilt, and that made her angry.

  “Please do see Mr. Cox,” he said curtly. “If you will excuse me.”

  He seemed so tense, so ill at ease. But Grace was angry. She reached for the pen and, with the flick of her finger, moved it out of alignment again.

  He stiffened. “That was a childish thing to do.”

  “And so is assuming that things should go only your way.” She whirled away from him. “Good day, Lord Merryton,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  “Madam.”

  “Grace!” she said, and went out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GRACE MARCHED ABOUT in a bit of a snit, but found nothing to do. The household was run far too efficiently; nothing—nothing—was left undone. So Grace spent another tedious day peering out windows and trying to read the dry books from the library. There was not a fictional title among them.

  In the afternoon, Mr. Cox presented two girls from the village whom he’d deemed suitable to be her lady’s maid. The girls both were cheerful and eager to please. Grace was happy to speak to someone other than Mr. Cox and inquired after their families, and of the various activities one might find in Ashton Down. She prolonged the conversation as long as she could, until one of them began to squirm as if she needed to heed the call of nature.

  When the girls were sent back to the village, Mr. Cox came into the green salon and bowed. “May I inquire, madam, if you found either of the girls to your liking?”

  Grace absently drummed her fingers against the arm of her chair, debating. “They are fine girls, Mr. Cox. But I prefer Hattie.”

  Cox, the poor man, was entirely discombobulated by that. “Yes, well, I... Shall I speak to his lordship?”

  “Please,” she said with a sunny smile.

  Grace took her time dressing for supper. It hardly mattered what she wore, as she would see no one but him. She chose one of her favorite gowns, the pale green silk with the tiny embroidered pink birds. She put up her hair as best she could, fastening it with pearl-tipped pins, and wore a long pearl necklace.

  She arrived in the dining room before him, and nodded to the footman to pour wine for her because, yes, husband, she did indeed enjoy wine.

  Merryton arrived a few moments later, and as cross as Grace was with him, she couldn’t help but note that he looked resplendent in his formal tails and snowy white collar. He was a handsome man in spite of his piercing green eyes. He was trim, his shoulders broad. She tried to imagine his smile, tried to picture how his eyes might shine with it, but it was impossible. He looked distant and stoic and she was fairly convinced he never smiled.

  His gaze flicked over Grace, from the top of her head to the tips of her slippers.

  “Good evening,” she said with only the slightest dip of an irreverent curtsy, still holding her wineglass.

  “Good evening.” He looked at Cox and nodded, indicating the supper was to be served.

  The footman stepped forward and held out Grace’s chair. With a sigh, she took her place. She set her wineglass on the table; Mr. Cox quickly swept behind her and moved it to match the glasses at Merryton’s setting. That small, innocuous movement rankled Grace. She considered it tiresome that every blessed thing in the house had to be in its proper place. She instantly reached for the wineglass to move it and, in her haste to claim a bit of imperfect space, spilled a splotch of the red wine onto the white tablecloth.

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