Devil Takes A Bride (7 page)

“Like what?”

“I know of—of your travels. A-and your preference in tailors. And the fact that you have no head for three-card loo! Really, you must be the worst gambler on the planet!”

“And how, exactly, do you know that?” he asked with the most ominous arching of his eyebrow.

She stared at him in stubborn silence, cursing herself for saying too much.

“Miss Carlisle?” he prodded, folding his arms slowly across his chest. “I'm waiting. Or shall I inform my aunt of your deception? A word from me, and she'll throw you out on your sweet derriere,
ma chérie
.”

She bristled at his deliberately lewd threat. “Very well. You want an explanation, my lord? You shall have one!” Rattled now and dangerously angry, she pivoted with her chin high and marched out of his looming shadow to Her Ladyship's desk. She glanced at the door to make sure they were still alone, reached into the desk with trembling hands, and returned with a stack of his bills. “Your aunt is the one who should be demanding an explanation, but since she will not, I will do it for her.”

He regarded her in suspicion as she strode back to him with a pile of his shameless bills in her hand.

“Explain these, if you can! Two hundred guineas for a diamond cravat pin?” She flicked the jeweler's bill at him as if she were pitching cards. “Or this? A thousand guineas to Hoby's for ten pairs of boots. Ten!” The cobbler's bill bounced off his lean stomach and glided across the smooth surface of the nearby worktable. “Or Tattersall's—fifteen hundred quid for a matched pair of Cleveland bays—never mind the dozen horses already languishing in your stable. Oh, but here is my favorite!” she exclaimed then quoted aloud from his scrawled note. “ ‘IOU—Strathmore agrees to pay Damage Randall twenty-five hundred quid for losses at three-card loo.' Explain that, if you dare!”

“You read my aunt's mail?” he asked, staggered.

“A small transgression compared with yours! For shame, sir! You spend her money like there's no tomorrow, but you can't even be bothered to write her a letter now and then, let alone visit of your own free will! The measures I took were extreme, I admit, but a grown man should not need to be given such a jolt to remind him of his duty!”

He stared at her, looking flabbergasted. For a second, he opened his mouth as if to speak, then apparently thought better of it and snapped his jaw shut. “I am leaving,” he clipped out, “because I am a gentleman.”

“Ha!” she replied as Devil Strathmore pivoted and stalked out, his greatcoat swirling around him.

The door slammed, startling her. Lizzie blinked, suddenly realizing she had won their argument. Then she grinned. She twirled around on her heel, but the second she faced forward again, her heart racing, the first thing her gaze fixed upon was the trail of large, muddy footprints that Lord Strathmore had tracked across the floor.

Her smile of victory promptly went flat.

The big dark footprints seemed to mock her—the very symbol of the male race that went treading so carelessly over female hearts, not caring what kind of mess they left in their wake. But even more keenly, they vexed her because they brought into focus her own greatest flaw—her automatic impulse to bend down and start cleaning them up. She refused—aye, utterly, from the very depths of her soul.

Never again would she serve as doormat for any beautiful, highborn man. Those days were over.

Eyeing the doorway through which her mighty opponent had made his exit, she suddenly heard the dowager's voice in the hallway. Rushing to gather up the bills she had flung at him, she quickly put them back in the drawer and sped away from the region of the desk mere seconds before Lady Strathmore rolled back into the parlor wearing a breezy smile.

“Devlin's gone to clean himself up for supper, dear. I just saw him in the hall. Tut, tut, the poor thing. We'll dine at half past five. I've arranged with Mrs. Rowland to make a floating island for dessert!” she added in a girlish whisper. “It's his favorite. Isn't he as handsome as I said?”

Lizzie's eyes shot sparks, but she conceded the obvious in a mutter. “That he is, ma'am.”

“Is everything all right, dear? I thought I heard arguing coming from this room a moment ago.”

The question startled her, as did the shrewd look in the dowager's blue eyes. Goodness, she had forgotten that Her Ladyship still had excellent hearing.

“No, ma'am. Everything is fine.” She forced a smile, but Lady Strathmore wasn't fooled. She let out a knowing chuckle and clucked her tongue.

“Dear Lizzie, did Devil tease you about your gown?”

“A little,” she agreed. It was as good an excuse as any.

“Well, we shan't give him cause to do so again, shall we?” Lady Strathmore's managing smile broadened. “You have lots of pretty things from when you lived in London—you just never wear them. Tonight I expect you to dress for dinner, do you understand? And
no
house cap. That is an order.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She kept her chafing gaze down, but maybe her employer was right.

In her former, lifelong post as companion to the sparkling young Lady Jacinda Knight, Lizzie had attended enough Society ballrooms to know how to play the game; she had always simply chosen not to play it. But since she was even more certain of losing her job now that she had trounced Darling Dev—the male ego, after all, could not withstand such defeat without retaliation—why not go down in a blaze of glory?

Meanwhile, Lady Strathmore glanced sardonically at the big, dark footprints. “Dear me—ring for Margaret, Lizzie. I see my nephew has tracked mud through the house.” She looked up brightly. “Ah, well, boys will be boys. Mud or no, it's still so nice to have a man around the house, don't you think?”

Lizzie just looked at her.

 

“My
own
fault?” Dev bellowed as he dressed for dinner a while later in his usual quarters, a handsome bedchamber done in maroon, dark blue, and gilt. “What's the matter with you, Ben? I can't believe you're taking her side! My curricle's in splinters, I nearly cracked my head open, and it was all just a—a dirty trick!”

“Well, you really shouldn't have had four horses hitched to a vehicle meant only for two,” Ben chided.

“Especially with snow and ice on the roads. It was rather reckless.”

“Speed!” Dev said in exasperation as he wrenched on a pair of black trousers and angrily buttoned the falls. Elizabeth Carlisle might be in the right, but he sure as hell didn't have to like it. Nor did he like recalling his hasty retreat from the parlor and the chagrin of knowing that a mere slip of a girl had kicked his arse. It was even worse than recalling the debacle of the accident.

At some point in the middle of the night, he had taken a curve too fast and hit a patch of ice. His light curricle had rolled. If he had not jumped clear of the crash at that precise moment, he probably would have been killed. After ascertaining that he was still alive with no broken bones, only a few cuts and scrapes from an ill-tempered bramble bush, he had had to work alone in the blackness of a winter night, pushing his battered curricle back up onto its broken wheels. Then he'd had to recapture the horses, who had fled in terror, dragging the broken whiffletree behind them. He had walked the team to the nearest livery stable, where he had been forced to answer a great many questions about the mishap and to pay a large sum for the supposed damage to the horses.

After dispatching a few hirelings to see to his broken-down curricle, he'd had to buy a mount to ride the rest of the way to his aunt's house because the livery owner refused to rent him another horse—he was obviously too “careless” to be trusted.

Just another flaw to add to the roster of his faults that Lizzie Carlisle had so kindly endeavored to list for him.

“Smug, self-righteous little conniver—”

“If you're so angry at the girl, why didn't you speak out when you had the chance to inform your aunt of her deceit?” Ben asked, collecting the shaving accouterments from the side of the nickel-plated bathing-tub which Dev had just left and placed them back in the square, leather
necessaire
. He took Dev's cologne out of the traveling box and handed it to him. “Could it be because, deep down, you know the girl is right?”

“Aunt Augusta has never complained of my treatment of her,” Dev huffed, but his cheeks flushed, for in truth, his anger at himself for neglecting his aunt equaled if not exceeded his indignation at having been so ill-used. He pulled the stopper out of the small, silver-braced bottle and slapped on some of the cleanly pungent clove-and-rosemary water.

“True, Her Ladyship has always let you slide by on minimal effort,” Ben said mildly. “Apparently, Miss Carlisle is not so prepared to indulge you.”

“Judas,” Dev muttered, scowling as he gave the bottle back to his valet.

With a look of amusement, Ben put it away, closing the traveling box and flipping the brass latches once more. Then he took out a neatly pressed square of white muslin and began the intricate process of folding it for Dev's cravat.

“Obaldeston,” Dev ordered. The knot style was his aunt's favorite.

He bent slightly as Ben slipped the prepared cloth around his neck. Dev studied the white plaster ceiling as his valet worked his careful magic, then shook his head to himself, plagued by the memory of lucid gray eyes and soft charcoal lashes. What a maddening creature she was!

Most women blushed and fluttered and flipped their hair around him, but this one took dead aim at him with her frank, cool gaze and hit him right between the eyes with a wallop of honesty that he was in no mood to hear. Who did she think she was to judge him, to manipulate him, to heap him in guilt—even if he deserved it?

He quite believed he was still in shock.
Nobody
treated Devil Strathmore that way. “Where did she come from, that she must now plague me?” he wondered aloud as Ben finished tying the cravat and handed him his light-blue silk waistcoat. He slipped it on. “What the hell does she want?”

“Merely to teach you a lesson, I think.”

“A lesson, eh?” He sauntered away, buttoning his waistcoat and cuff links in front of the mirror. “Perhaps it's time I taught her a thing or two.”

“What do you mean?” Ben asked uneasily, holding up Dev's black tailcoat for him.

“Nobody makes a fool out of me. And I'll tell you another thing.” He slipped his arm into the impeccably cut garment. “This little schemer has just thrown down the gauntlet to a foe she should have known better than to challenge.” Pulling on the formal evening jacket, Dev inspected himself in the mirror.

“You intend to have her dismissed?” Ben eyed him warily.

“No.” Dev shook his head. “She serves her purpose here. Even I can see that. She takes good care of my aunt.” With this begrudging acknowledgment, he considered for a moment. “No, this is between Lizzie Carlisle and me.”

“What do you mean to do to the girl?”

Dev's eyes gleamed in the reflection as he ran his hand over his still-damp hair, smoothing it. “She is rather a tasty little thing.”

“Sir!” Ben breathed. “You mustn't!”

Dev turned elegantly to him, feigning innocence. “Hm?”

“Oh, no. I know that look. You leave her alone!” Ben took a step toward him. “She's just a young lady. She meant no harm!”

“Neither do I.” Dev smiled cynically and turned back to the mirror, making a last adjustment of his cravat.

“It's just a bit of sport, Ben. Teach the chit a lesson.” Giving his reflection a cool, final glance of approval, he ignored Ben's protests and left his chamber. He headed down to the drawing room, where he had been instructed to meet the ladies before dinner. Hands in pockets, he was sauntering down the hallway toward the grand staircase, assuring his stung male pride that he would very soon even the score, when suddenly, he stopped in his tracks—and stared.

Coming down the hallway from the opposite direction was Miss Carlisle. For a heartbeat, he almost did not recognize her.

The floppy white house cap was gone, its owner quite transformed.

He watched her dazedly. Her silky hair shone in the candlelight, a rich and lovely shade of warm, walnut brown; it was curled and pinned in an elegant topknot that showed off the clean line of her jaw and the graceful arc of her white neck. Her frumpy beige day-dress had been replaced by a charming, high-waisted dinner gown of rose-pink satin. The low candlelight from the wall sconces played over her pearlescent complexion and the rich fabric of her dress, giving the material a liquid shimmer as she strode toward him, her ankle-length skirts belling slightly over her matching pink slippers.

His entranced stare feasted on the expanse of creamy skin that the wide-scooped neckline of her dress displayed, the tempting hint of womanly cleavage. The girl was well made, he thought in admiration as she came nearer. Beautifully well made, with soft, generous curves ripe for his skilled seduction.

He lowered his chin a bit to continue holding her gaze as she joined him at the top of the stairs. She stopped a foot or so from him, hanging back at a wary distance.

In spite of himself, he offered her a rueful half-smile; it smoldered with approval. She regarded him in trepidation, but the blush that bloomed in her cheeks was almost as pink as her gown. He thrilled to the way her dove-gray eyes darkened to a smoky deep blue as her gaze skimmed him, in turn.

His desire to get her alone quickened apace, but suddenly it was not so much for the sake of teaching her a lesson as it was for his own sensual enjoyment.

“Well,” she said, veiling the sparkle of interest in her eyes behind her demure long lashes, “I trust you are in a better humor, my lord.”

“I am now,” he agreed in a caressing tone. “You, my dear Miss Carlisle, are a very rose in this dark winter.” He stole her hand gently from her side and lifted it to his lips, bending his head to place a courtly kiss on her knuckles.