Devil Takes A Bride (6 page)

“What is going on? I demand that you tell me right now—”

“I missed you,” he whispered. “That's all.”

Staring at him with deepening wonder, thoroughly mystified, Lizzie shivered with some strange, vaguely frightening emotion. Why did he not speak out? He could have exposed her, could have mentioned her letter, but he had not. At least not yet.

“There, there, my sweet boy,” his aunt chided, petting his sleek raven hair for a moment. “You know I'm always here for you. Tell me what's the matter, Devlin. I shall fret with worry till you do.”

“I…had a dream you were sick.”

“Well, I daresay I'm in better shape than you. Put your mind at ease. Dr. Bell was here a short while ago and said I'm as right as rain. Didn't he, Lizzie?”

At the mention of her name, his head snapped up. His eyes narrowed.

Lizzie tensed, awkwardly holding the towel. His gaze fixed on her, and the coldness that came into his pale, glittering eyes made her gulp.

Oh, yes, it seemed he had figured it out.

Lady Strathmore did not appear to notice the sudden hostile tension that crackled in the air. “Dev, dear, you have not met my young companion. Allow me to present Miss Elizabeth Carlisle.”

Rising with a smooth motion, he stared at her, for all the world like a big, bristling wolf.

“Lizzie, this is my Devlin.” Beaming, the old lady clung to his gauntleted hand.

He moved in front of his aunt slightly—as if to protect the dowager from Lizzie!

“My lord.” Her heart thumping, she managed a stilted curtsy.

“Miss…Carlisle.” The way he held her in an arctic stare, it seemed she was not so invisible, after all; all things considered, she rather wished at the moment that she were. His sea-bright eyes brimmed with dangerous fury and a rich promise that she was in for it.

Still waiting on the very knife edge for him to expose her lie, she swallowed hard and ventured forward with her peace offering. “Um, towel?”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

What the hell was going on? Raw nerved and jittery with exhaustion, his heart pounding, head reeling with the aftermath of shock and fear, Dev took the towel warily but kept his outraged glare pinned on her as he ran it over his damp hair. His relief upon finding his aunt well was so complete, he could have wept, but his fury grew as the evidence of how he had been duped sank in. A trick! But how? And for God's sake,
why
? He did not know this chit. He had never wronged her. Why would she torture him like this?

“Shall we repair to the parlor, children? I'll have the servants draw you a bath, Dev, dear. It will be but a moment.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he growled, his gaze still fixed on the young deceiver—this “Lizzie” person—this stranger who had invaded the only home he'd known in years and seemed to have taken it over.

She dropped her gaze, all cool serenity, turning away from his fiery glower. Veiling her dove-gray eyes beneath the sweep of her dusky lashes, she grasped the handles of his aunt's Bath chair and assisted her without a word, wheeling the dowager into the parlor.

Dev tracked them slowly, keeping a guarded distance. He was ravenously hungry, soaked to the skin, and did not own a muscle that did not ache, but the day would never come when he was too hungry or fatigued to notice a shapely young female in his sights, especially one that he knew now to be dangerously clever.

Good God, the chit had played him like a harpsichord.

He was in no mood to admire the sheer brazenness of it. At the moment, her mysterious allure only added insult to injury. Inspecting her rudely from behind, he hoped that she could feel his stare and that it unnerved her. Her prim, beige gown, high-necked and long-sleeved, was sprigged with small white flowers, but Dev's practiced eye took in the way the soft, light muslin draped her round bottom and flowed against her hips with her gliding walk. The floppy white house cap that hid her hair was better suited to a spinster twice her age, but a few soft-brown curls escaped the ugly thing to play at her nape, as though beckoning him to tear it off and loose the rest of her tightly suppressed locks.

Upon reaching the parlor, she maneuvered the Bath chair around so that his aunt could face him, then went to the table and brought the old woman her tea. Dev watched her every move. For a moment, he did not hear a word his aunt was saying. Time seemed to slow in his fascination as his gaze drifted down to the young woman's gentle, white hands.

Steady and soft, unerringly capable, they fluffed the pillow behind his aunt's back, then snugged the old woman's shawl more closely around her bony shoulders. The demure simplicity of those hands, and the tiny lace ruffle at her dainty wrists, did something strange to his insides.

His hungry stare traveled up her slender arms until it came to her breasts, round and smooth and tantalizing. Between them dangled a small, plain crucifix on a gold strand. No sign of vanity, this. Not like the glittering whores he slept with in Town.

This was something altogether new…and very, very dangerous.

As she bent down to pick up the handkerchief his aunt dropped and handed it back to her with a smile, there was such tender sweetness in her eyes, such dignity and quiet strength in her manner that Dev, exhausted, felt something in him break.

He was so tired and hungry and cold.

Bleary-eyed, he stared at Miss Carlisle as if she might know better what to do with him than he knew what to do with himself.

Slowly, she looked over and met his gaze in guarded uncertainty.

Their eyes locked, and Dev forgot all about her drab clothes.

Elizabeth Carlisle had the flawless complexion of a woman whose daily habits were beyond reproach. Only plenty of sleep, wholesome food, fresh country air, and a stainless conscience could have produced such creamy perfection, naught but a tinge of roses in her cheeks. She had a high forehead, a prominent nose that thrust forth at a decisive angle, straight and true, and finely shaped eyebrows of walnut brown. The left curved slightly higher than the right, giving her a quizzical expression, as though she were perpetually mulling over some intriguing notion. But her mouth was soft and sensitive, her lips plump, silky pink, and Dev had to jerk himself roughly out of her spell.

On your guard, man.
The lying little baggage was a menace. His scowl returned just as the sound of clip-clopping hoofbeats approached, grinding carriage wheels clattering up the drive.

“Who can that be?” Aunt Augusta murmured, turning toward the window.

Through the lace curtain, Dev saw his shiny black traveling-coach roll up in front of the house, Ben peering out the carriage window.

He shook his head to himself in disgust. So much for his haste. The luxurious traveling coach was a larger, slower vehicle, but obviously whatever time Dev had gained by taking his fast, ill-fated curricle had been lost again in sorting out the accident. He wished he had saved himself the trouble and had traveled in comfort, when a familiar voice from the doorway broke into his churning thoughts.

“Excuse me, my lady?” Mrs. Rowland, the housekeeper who had served his aunt for thirty years, popped her head in the doorway with a questioning look. She was a short, stout, ruddy-cheeked woman of sixty in a white house cap and apron. “Might I trouble you for a moment, ma'am?”

“Yes, Mildred?” Aunt Augusta asked.

Dev gave the housekeeper a weary smile and nod in greeting.

“My lord,” Mrs. Rowland said fondly, sketching a heavy-limbed curtsy, then glanced at her employer again. “His Lordship's staff has just arrived, and I've a question about their accommodations—as well as this evening's supper,” she added meaningfully.

“Ah, I'm on my way!” The two old women exchanged a conspiratorial look and would no doubt soon be plotting to make his favorite dessert for him—it pleased them to treat him as if he were still nine years old—but that suited Dev quite well.

A moment of privacy with Miss Carlisle was all that he required. He would soon get to the bottom of this.

The girl seemed eager to flee. “Let me get your chair for you, ma'am.” She started to follow, but Aunt Augusta shooed her off.

“No need, dear. Children, I shall return in a trice.” Gripping the wheels, the dowager rolled her chair easily out of the parlor.

Immediately, Miss Carlisle mumbled some excuse, but Dev grabbed her arm as she tried to dart past him. “A moment of your time, mademoiselle!” He swung the door partly shut and met his captive's look of alarm with a glower. “Whoever you are, you had better start talking. What in the hell is going on around here?”

She looked down slowly at his leather-gloved fingers wrapped around her elbow, then flicked a defiant glance back up to his face. “You are no longer among the heathens, Lord Strathmore. Pray, do not act like one.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“I am not inclined to say anything until you unhand me. Do please try to calm down.”

“Calm down? I wrecked my carriage and nearly broke my neck—for what? My aunt is fine! There's nothing wrong with her!”

“And is that not cause for rejoicing?”

“That is not the point.”

“No, my lord, that is precisely the point. Her Ladyship has more money than time. I care not what you do with the former, but pray, use the latter well.”

“How dare you take the high moral ground with me after sending me such a pack of lies?”

“I did not lie, sir. Not if you read my note closely—”

“Oh, but I did, my dear! Many times—before it dissolved to a pulp in my pocket, thanks to the snowstorm! ‘Come at once,' you said. ‘If you love her, come at once.' Well, I'm here, aren't I?” He threw his hands up at his sides, presenting himself with an insolent glare. “Now, if it would not be too much trouble, perhaps you would not mind telling me why!”

 

Lizzie struggled to maintain her famous patience, perfectly willing to hold a civilized conversation with the man, but if he was going to behave like a domineering barbarian, it hardly encouraged her to cooperate. His grip around her elbow had not hurt, but it had offended her; freed now from his grasp, she rubbed her arm while shooting him a look of reproach. Deeming prudence the better part of valor, however, she took a step backwards just to be safe—then drew in her breath when he advanced.

She took another step back, sending him a vexed look of alarm.

“Tell me, my clever Miss Carlisle,” he asked in a rather sinister purr as he pressed his advantage, stalking her aggressively through the room. “Are you in the habit of deceiving my aunt as you did me?”

“Obviously, you have not heard a word I've said. I see there is no point in trying to reason with you in your present state.” She cleared her throat, determined to bring the situation under control, backing away as he advanced step by slow, tantalizing step. “Wh-why don't you go upstairs, change out of your wet clothes, and have something to eat? Then perhaps you will be in a more receptive humor—”

“Don't…manage me, little miss,” he taunted, just as she found her retreat blocked by the sofa behind her.

She blanched, bending back as he leaned closer, trapping her against the couch. Her heart pounded wildly.

All dressed in black and wickedly handsome, he loomed a foot taller than her, his shoulders so broad, she could no longer see the door behind him. She gasped and froze when he reached out and captured her chin between his black-gauntleted fingers, raising her face to inspect her.

She stared up at him, wide-eyed. A cynical smile full of menace and mockery curled one side of his lips as he studied her at close range, his pale eyes gleaming with dangerous intelligence.

Lizzie felt absurdly faint, a trifle dizzy. He smelled of winter and leather, wet horse and warm, ruthless male. For a moment, she could only watch, transfixed, as an ice crystal melted off of his long, jet lashes with the throbbing heat of his body. Her mesmerized gaze tracked the droplet's trickling course down the scratched side of his sculpted face to the corner of his hard, beautiful mouth. When he licked it away, she caught her breath abruptly, then looked away, jerking her face out of his light hold.

His velvety laughter at her electric reaction to him snapped her back to her senses. “Well, now that I've met you, I wish I had
not
written to you!” she muttered, looking away with a fierce blush. “If I had known you'd take such amusement in chasing me around the parlor, I wouldn't have bothered, believe me!”

“Ah, but you did,
chérie
—you summoned me, and here I am. The question is, what are you going to do with me now?”

“You are indecent!” She slipped around the couch, putting the furniture between them. “I summoned you here for the sake of your aunt. Stop it!” she cried when he began to move around the couch, sauntering toward her again.

Miraculously, he obeyed.

Letting out a weary sigh, Lord Strathmore lowered his chin and clasped his hands behind his back, knitting his raven eyebrows together as he studied the floor. For a long moment, he was silent. “Your letter, Miss Carlisle, quite scared the hell out of me. No small feat. I confess, at the moment, I do not know what to believe. Is my aunt ill or no? Tell me—and by God, speak the truth.”

Somewhat reassured that the decadent nobleman was done playing with her for the moment, she shook her head earnestly. “All that ails Her Ladyship is loneliness, my lord. Is that so hard to understand? I do my best to entertain her, but I am not her flesh and blood. You are all she talks about. She misses you desperately—not that she'd ever complain. I'm sure you must realize this, and yet you ignore her.”

“I don't ignore her!” A shadow of some dark emotion tautened his chiseled features. Perhaps it was guilt. “She is always in my thoughts.”

“I'm afraid that is not good enough,” she told him softly. “Good intentions cannot replace your spending time with her. If you could see how she sits here—at this table—playing solitaire for hours on end, day after day after day, with nothing to break the monotony but her weekly visits from the doctor—I can't bear it!”

Her pained words hung on the silence as Devil Strathmore studied her in keen perception. “If my aunt is unhappy, you could have simply said that in your letter. You had no cause to lie to me.”

“I did not lie! Merely—exaggerated slightly—and if I hadn't, you wouldn't have paid any heed!”

“What makes you so sure?” he challenged her. “You never even gave me a chance.”

“What chance?” she cried, but flushed at the grain of truth in his accusation.

“Men like you don't concern themselves with the health of their aged relatives.”

“Oh-ho, men like me? And what, pray tell, do
you
know about me?”

“More than you realize,” she bit out, her voice turning tight and prim.