Devil Takes A Bride (13 page)

He smiled. “Not if you get started soon planning your next ruse. But I warn you, I'm on to you now….” His voice trailed off in chagrin at his own halting attempt at humor. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Straightening up, he gave a helpless shrug. “I'm not very good at good-byes.”

“It's all right.” She smiled bravely at him, hiding her dread of how empty the villa would seem once he had gone. “It's been fun,” she said simply.

“It has.” Dev nodded earnestly and gave her a rueful smile in answer, but wondered,
Fun?

The word did not begin to approach his experience of the past few…magical days. But if that was how she saw it, then he was glad he had managed to keep his craving for her under reasonable control. Perhaps it seemed strange, but he was anxious not to overstep his bounds with her. Somehow over the past few days she had become more to him than just a girl. She had become a
friend
to him in some deep, mysterious sense of the word, and he had so few of those, he was loath to jeopardize it by letting his hunger for her slip the leash. And so he struggled to hide his desire, feeling a little bewildered by it all.

How ironic to think back on how he had schemed to seduce her that first night—teach the chit a lesson, he had vaunted like a fool. Now he was the one seduced—and she wasn't even trying. He was embarrassed by how much he wanted her, frankly. Every time he looked at her, he itched to breed. He could think of nothing else but laying her white body across his bed, spreading her legs, and claiming her again and again by the firelight.

Half blinded by the image, he could not bring himself to meet her innocent gaze at the moment, though her gray eyes smoldered with unconscious invitation as she watched his every move. Never had a woman been so ripe for the taking, he thought in feverish certainty. But with the deadly swirl of intrigue he had left behind in London, and to which he must return in the morning, he could not afford the distraction, nor could he make her the kinds of promises that a girl like her deserved. Though he sensed her willingness, he refused to pluck that particular flower, but God knew the perfume of it was driving him mad.

Lowering his head, he slowly wiped the liniment oil off of his hands with an old rag and cleared his throat in the awkward silence. “Elizabeth?” he forced out softly.

“Yes, Devlin?” she asked, sounding a trifle faint.

You're such a special girl. You're so different—
God, how clumsy that sounded. He lost his nerve, swallowed hard, and forced a smile. “We should probably go in.”

Before I ravish you.

“Right, yes, of course.”

Resist,
he warned himself as he grabbed his gloves off the side of the stall and pulled them back on, doing his best to clear his head with a slow exhalation.

As he turned to leave the stall, she watched him with a smoky stare, but a welcome interruption appeared in the form of a wee stableboy in a tweed cap, lugging a fresh bucket of water for the gelding. The child nearly sloshed it all over himself, for the full bucket probably weighed as much as he did. He looked nine or ten at the most, one of Mrs. Rowland's countless descendants.

Dev smiled at the child. “Let me help you with that,” he murmured, lifting the pail out of the boy's hands.

“Thank ye, sir!” The boy raced off to fill the next bucket, leaving them alone in the aisle.

Carrying it in one hand, Dev hung the pail on an iron hook in the stall. Star moved over and lipped at the frigid water. He bade farewell to the horse with an affectionate pat on the flank.

Lizzie stepped aside to admit him from the stall, but just when he thought he was in the clear, he felt her quiver slightly as he brushed past her. His control dissolved.

He stopped, turning to her.

She held his stare. Her cheeks flushed; she did not back away.

In the next moment, he swept her into his arms and drove her back against the stall door, bracing her there with his body and kissing her senseless. She had thrown her arms around his neck and was returning his kisses with eager abandon, neither of them noticing or caring that they had spooked the horse with the suddenness of their passionate embrace.

Dev raked his gloved fingers almost roughly through her long hair while she gripped his lapels as if to pull him even closer, pull him into her. She was an eager partner, caressing him, breathing him in, drinking of his kiss with urgent, thirsty greed. He groaned with delight at her responsiveness and wrapped his arms more tightly around her waist, savoring the soft, moist warmth of her mouth. He grasped her breast, or tried to, through the thick wool of her brown pelisse, and though he noticed she did not protest, he froze at the sound of a throat being cleared somewhere near the end of the stable aisle.

They broke apart, flushed and panting, and both looked over just in time to see Mac, the head groom, leaving discreetly. The warning came mere seconds before the young stableboys turned the corner, bringing the wheelbarrow with the sacks of sweet grain.

Dev stepped back quickly from Lizzie as the youngsters began disbursing the grain into each horse's feed bucket with a metal scoop. His conscience spiraled. Good God, if the stableboys had seen her in his arms, her reputation would have been in tatters by the morning, and by the time she took Aunt Augusta to church on Sunday, she would have been the talk of the village.

They exchanged a frazzled glance; then Dev somehow managed to collect his wits. Damn, she was beautiful, he thought, staring at her tumbled-down hair. Its disarray could be blamed on the wind, he assured himself. While she tugged her pelisse back into place, her cheeks quite crimson, he gestured to her to go ahead of him. “After you.”

She cleared her throat slightly, and they left the stable, passing the young apprentices, who had no interest in them whatsoever, too busy bickering over who got to feed the horses and who had to wheel the barrow.

Their boyish voices trailed off behind them as Dev and Lizzie left the warm, cozy nest of the stable and walked outside, where full night had descended. The night was frigid, black, and moonless, but he welcomed the cold bite of the winter air. It helped to clear his head as they strode back across the courtyard, side by side.

Both of them were silent with their thoughts. Lizzie folded her arms across her chest, shivering a little; Dev swallowed the urge to warm her and looked away, wondering in despair how he could ever be satisfied with such a fleeting glimpse of bliss. It was torture. The girl put dangerous thoughts in his head, like abandoning vengeance, his duty to his family. She made him want to shake off the chains of the past, give up the awful burden of hate; she made him want to live, and be happy.

Too bad I don't deserve it.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

That night at dinner, Dev and Lizzie forced merriment in their determination to amuse the dowager, but both were excruciatingly aware that tomorrow they were to part. Their last supper together was the most lavish the kitchen had sent up yet, starting with a steaming vermicelli soup with an hors d'oeuvre of oysters, followed by a first course of pork cutlets with sauce, salmon, Scotch collups, prawns, and veal pie. The second course was scarcely less rich, with hare and morels, roast sweetbreads, lobster, artichoke bottoms, pear tarts, and maids of honor.

The wine flowed; the gilt on the china before them and the exquisite Adam ceiling above them glistened as if the whole world flickered in a magic spell; the tongues of flame atop the candles danced like fairies. Lizzie had donned her favorite evening gown, abandoning all her spinsterish protests of a few days ago—it seemed a lifetime ago, and she, a different person. Bold pleasure smoldered in Devlin's pale eyes as his gaze roamed over her, taking in the small, lace-trimmed bodice of her Neptune-blue velvet gown. She knew it looked better on her than anything else she owned. Why it mattered what he thought was not a subject on which she cared to reflect.

After all, he was still a viscount, she a mere land agent's daughter. If the youngest son of a duke, a mere commoner, had been too far beyond her reach, then a viscount in his own right was ten times more so. She was not about to lose her head over a man she could not have. But she could certainly enjoy his company.
And his kiss.

The sweet course included a delicate-flavored almond cheesecake, an assortment of flaky pastries, and a splendid trifle constructed from layers of Naples biscuits, macaroons, and ratafia cakes; each striation was laden with wafer-thin slices of fruit and spread with various jellies; then the whole was soaked through with sack and sprinkled on top with colorful nonpareils from the best confectioner's shop in Bath.

They retreated to the drawing room after their feast. Devlin drank port and idly talked politics with his aunt, while Lizzie, half-listening, provided tolerable music on the pianoforte with a few charming airs by the popular Irish composer, John Field. All too soon, however, the clock struck ten. In her reluctance to relinquish her nephew's presence, Lady Strathmore had already stayed up an hour past her usual bedtime. Once more, the two of them cooperated to help the old woman up the stairs.

In the upper hallway, Devlin eased his aunt back into her Bath chair while Lizzie gripped the handles. As Lady Strathmore smoothed her skirts, Lizzie and Devlin exchanged a glance. She forced a haphazard smile, realizing her expression had gone somber now that it had come time to say good-bye. His gaze read her face deeply; then he bent to give his aunt a kiss.

The dowager patted his clean-shaved cheek. “It's been wonderful having you here, darling. Don't be a stranger.”

“I won't, ma'am. Take care of yourself.” He kissed his aunt's forehead and straightened up, sending Lizzie an uncertain look as he bowed to her. “Miss Carlisle.”

“Lord Strathmore.” She reached out and offered him her hand. “Safe journey.”

Instead of shaking her hand, he bent and kissed her knuckles with tender reluctance. “Well, then, ladies,” he said, releasing her after a long moment, “I shall bid you adieu.”

“Come along, Lizzie,” his aunt clipped out.

“Yes, ma'am,” she murmured, then turned Lady Strathmore's chair around and began wheeling her toward her chamber. Unable to resist, she glanced back over her shoulder for one more look at him. He was still standing where they had left him, staring after them, the picture of lordly elegance in his black and white evening clothes, his white-gloved hands clasped politely behind his back. She flinched a little, looking forward again with a pang in her heart.

Doing her best to focus her mind on her duties, she helped Lady Strathmore to change into her warm woolen nightclothes. As usual, Margaret came to see if they needed any assistance. She had tucked the hot-water bottles under the covers half an hour ago; by now, the dowager's bed was warm and toasty.

“Send Mrs. Rowland up when you go downstairs, Margaret,” Her Ladyship ordered the chambermaid. “I have a few instructions for her on tomorrow's meals.”

“I can convey them to her, ma'am. It is no trouble,” Lizzie offered, perhaps looking for an excuse to run into Devlin one last time before he left, but the old woman shook her head.

“No need. I must speak with Mrs. Rowland personally. She may need to make a special trip to market. No doubt the larder is run low after all our excess these few days.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Margaret said. “I'll send her right up. Good night, ma'am.” The skinny maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried out while Lizzie pulled back the coverlet and assisted the dowager in climbing up the two wooden bed stairs.

At last, the dowager rested snugly atop her thick, high mattress. Her frail body looked tiny under the ceiling-high draperies of the damask canopy.

“Is there anything else, my lady?” Lizzie asked, going over to snuff the oil lamp on the far end of the room.

“No, no, dear. Off you go.”

Thus dismissed, Lizzie curtsied to her employer and let herself out of the chamber, telling herself it was for the best. Even if her soul and body burned for his caress, men like Devil Strathmore could only give her grief. She had not come so far in mending her heart just to have it broken again by a beautiful charmer. She told herself their flirtation was naught but an idle amusement; that, far from London, the notorious rake had probably just needed
some
form of entertainment to help pass the otherwise dull visit he would have spent with his invalid aunt. For Lizzie's part, she assured herself that he meant nothing to her, that his flattering attentions had merely been a sweet salve to soothe the last, lingering hurt of Alec's rejection.

Her heart whispered otherwise, but she ignored it.

Clinging fast to her self-preservation instincts, she stared straight ahead, walking quickly down the hallway to her quarters. She had a feeling that Devlin was waiting for her once again in the library, but, determined to resist temptation, she did not even glance down the staircase as she passed.

 

The moment her young companion had gone, Lady Strathmore reached for her cane with a mighty effort. “Come on, old legs, work for once,” she muttered. “It's now or never.” She struggled out of bed, determination gleaming in her eyes. After easing herself inch by inch down the wooden bed steps, she walked over slowly to her writing table, leaning heavily on her cane.

At last, with a sigh of exertion, she sat down and after resting a moment, took out a piece of her finest ivory linen paper engraved with her family crest. She had never been a meddling woman, but it was astonishing how, even in the eleventh hour, new habits could be formed.

The idea had taken hold, a divine inspiration, and it filled her with devilish glee—the perfect farewell prank of an old eccentric dragon lady—but there was a lifetime's wisdom and a great deal of love behind it. Dev's charm and Lizzie's kindness. His aristocratic fire tempered by her gentry virtue. Miss Carlisle knew the value of a shilling. She would never let Dev squander Papa's hard-earned fortune. More important, both of them had wounded hearts.

Dev would need a great deal of loving-kindness when she was gone, but not from some vapid Society chit who would let the handsome brute walk all over her. No, Lizzie was the only one who could be trusted with the solemn task of making sure the darkness did not claim him.

It would not be easy for her, a girl of ordinary origins marrying into the aristocracy, Augusta knew. As a young bride, she herself had had firsthand experience of the ton's snobbery, but if she could do it, so could Lizzie.

That her nephew and companion had known each other for only a few days did not trouble her. She had eyes. She saw what was happening between them. For another thing, she trusted her matchmaking instincts; besides, her own marriage had been arranged by her father. She had never laid eyes on Jacob until a few days before their wedding. Her formidable mind made up, she dipped her quill pen in ink and wrote out a revised version of her last will and testament.

When a light knock sounded on the door, she looked up from her work. “Come.”

Mrs. Rowland bustled in. “Evening, ma'am. Margaret said you wished to discuss tomorrow's meals?”

“No.”

The housekeeper frowned. “Ma'am?”

“Come in, Mildred. Shut the door.”

She obeyed. “Is something wrong, ma'am?”

“On the contrary,” she said half to herself. “Everything at last is going to be all right.” She turned to her befuddled servant. “My dear Mildred, you have been in my employ these thirty years. There is no one I trust more. That is why I am entrusting you with a task of the utmost importance.”

“Milady?”

“Come and sign this document.”

The housekeeper eyed her skeptically, but approached, wiping her hands on her apron. Augusta handed her the pen.

“What is it?” she asked uncertainly.

“A slight revision to my will. With your signature, you shall vouch as witness that I am of sound mind and that this is indeed my signature.”

“Aye, you are. It is.”

“Then sign here.”

The housekeeper obeyed without further question, carefully scrawling her name at the bottom.

“Excellent. Now, Mildred, you must set out at first light and take this to Charles Beecham, my solicitor in London.”

“London, ma'am?” she exclaimed.

“His offices are in Fleet Street. Oh, I know it is a dreadful inconvenience, but you must do this for me. You're the only one to whom I can possibly entrust such a momentous task. This document must be personally hand-delivered by you to Mr. Beecham, and have Cook sign it, too, before you go. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lady, but—”

She thrust a pouch of gold coins into Mildred's hands. “Keep this for your pains, old friend. Run along—and know that your errand is of the greatest possible consequence to the future of this family.”

Mrs. Rowland looked at her in sober awe, then gave a determined nod and trudged off to carry out her mission with no further questions.

Augusta hobbled back to bed, her heart light. When she blew out the candle, her contented sigh hung in the darkness; then a small note of satisfied laughter escaped her.

Papa would have been so pleased.

 

Dev paced the perimeter of the oak-paneled library, sipping a cordial of cherry brandy and pretending to read a large atlas, which he balanced on one arm. Where the devil was she?

Surely she would come. He had almost suggested a rendezvous, but he had dared not mention it in front of his aunt—and then it was too late. He hoped against hope that she'd come anyway, for he refused to believe she could be any more content with that thoroughly unsatisfying good-bye than he was. He blew a strand of his long hair out of his eyes with growing exasperation. The long-case clock with its painted face of sun and moon soon read eleven, and still there was no sign of her. Suddenly, he froze, hearing footsteps in the hallway. At last.

He pivoted, his heart skipping a beat, but he remembered at the last moment to look casual. The footfalls came closer. He glanced toward the door, lifting his eyebrows in suave inquiry.

Ben's brown face appeared in the doorway. “My lord?”

Dev cursed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ben, what is it?”

“Everything is prepared for our departure tomorrow. May I advise the driver what time you wish to be under way?”

“Six, I suppose. That should get us into Town by midnight if the roads are clear.”

“Very good, sir. Is there anything else you require?”

Lizzie,
he thought with a crestfallen gaze.

Ben raised a dubious eyebrow at him. “Sir? Perhaps you'd best retire. Six o'clock comes frightfully early.”

Dev shut the atlas with a massive sigh. “You're probably right.” He paused, staring absently into the cozy fire crackling in the fireplace, then waved him off with a dismissive gesture. “You're free to go, Ben. Get some sleep.”
God knows I won't.

Ben collected Dev's black tailcoat, which he had shed and had tossed over the back of a side chair, then bowed to him and withdrew.

Dev listened very hard in the silence of the house, but all there was to hear was the vague moaning of the wind in the eaves. Beyond the elegant windowpanes lay a deep, black, cold country darkness, and he was very much alone.

He set the atlas he had been restlessly perusing on the library table and ambled over to the seating area, plopping down into the brown, leather club couch. He leaned his head back and slouched low amid the deep cushions, fingering his small crystal cup and staring sullenly into the fire. Not once had she asked him to stay. What was he to make of that?