Devil Takes A Bride (8 page)

“Don't even try,” she advised softly, and at the smile of chiding amusement she sent him, Dev felt her feminine power with every fiber of his being. Withdrawing her hand from his light grasp, she turned away, daintily lifted the hem of her skirts, and started down the staircase.

“Try what?” he countered, pouncing down a couple of steps to land in front of her.

The move allowed him to block her path and put them on eye level, since she stood two steps above him. He rested his foot on the step beside her, edging nearer. Near enough to kiss her.

Or to get slapped. She did neither, inspecting him with a skeptical stare.

“Look here,” she said briskly, taking the situation in hand with a businesslike air that he found thoroughly adorable. “We seem to have started off on the wrong foot, you and I. I think it's safe to say we both acted badly in the parlor, but it does not signify. All that matters is your aunt.”

He gazed at her lips as she spoke. “On that, we are in perfect union.”

She blushed at the silken innuendo and pretended not to understand his meaning. “Good. Then let us both do our best to be agreeable at dinner, hm? After that, you stay out of my way and I shall stay out of yours.”

“Not a chance,” he whispered.

She gave him a look and then went around him, as steady as his weatherly little brigantine in an Atlantic gale.

Dev's eyes flickered hungrily at the challenge as she flounced off ahead of him. His Cherokee friends had taught him that there were certain beasts in the forest from whom one must never run. Flight only triggered the predator's instincts to chase.

Somebody should have warned Miss Carlisle.

With another pantherlike jump, he landed agilely in her path and leaned on the banister with a pleasantly flirtatious smile. “As it happens, I have a proposition for you, my dear.”

“Oh, I'm sure you have a whole repertoire of them, my lord.”

“I speak in earnest. Hear me out.”

She gave a bored sigh, but her eyes sparkled as she met his playful gaze. “Very well.”

“I propose a truce,” he said. “I shall concede that you sent your
deceitful
letter with admirable intentions if you admit, in turn, that I indeed care for my aunt, not just her money, as evidenced by the speed of my arrival. What say you?”

“Hmm.” She feigned indecision, holding his stare. “I suppose we ought to at least try to get along, for it would upset Her Ladyship if we were cross with each other at table.”

“Precisely.”

“But under the terms of this truce, am I still in danger of losing my job?”

He gave her a sardonic smile. “I never had any intention of getting you sacked,
chérie
. Pity, though, how you make me show mercy. I'm sure I could have used the threat to wrest any number of interesting favors from you.”

“Hmm, no doubt.” Gazing at him for a moment, she lifted her hand to his cheek and inspected his cut in fretful sympathy. “Your poor face. This is all my fault,” she murmured. “Does it hurt very much?”

For a moment, Dev could not breathe let alone speak, electrified by her feather-light caress. “No,” he managed to force out, his voice gone a trifle hoarse. Her innocence ravished his defenses; his whole being begged her in a silent whisper,
Take me
.

“I'm glad it wasn't worse.”

He flinched at the denial when she took her touch away, lowering her hand again to her side, but the artless smile she gave him was nearly his undoing. It dimpled both her glowing cheeks and lit her gray-blue eyes like silver sun-shafts piercing through a dark cloud-lattice. He could not tear his gaze away. It was the most generous, radiant smile he'd ever seen, and the kindest. He had the strange feeling he was out of his depth as a thousand questions about her exploded through his mind, fireworks on a midsummer's night. Who was this angel? Where had she come from? He suddenly wanted to know everything about her.

“Very well,” she resumed brightly, “I shall accept your truce, Lord Strathmore. And now we really should hurry. Your aunt will be waiting.”

“May I?” He offered her his arm.

She smiled again, flicking a cautious glance over his face as she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. Dev sent her his own heated smile, absorbing the sheer lightning when they touched like a jolt from a Leyden jar. She seemed to feel it, too, quickly looking away with a fiery blush in her cheeks. They exchanged another guarded look full of fascination, but spoke no more as they went down together to dine.

 

Wistfulness—this maudlin sentimentality—was a most unaccustomed caprice for an old dragon lady who prided herself on her eccentricity and her ability to terrify rude young persons. But as Lady Strathmore gazed into the crackling fireplace, waiting for the others to join her, she was filled with the sense of time slipping away. And so it was. She would not live to see the spring. She could feel it in her tired old bones, no matter what that beardless whelp, Dr. Bell, had to say on the subject.
Tut-tut,
she scolded herself.

Death, after all, did not scare Augusta Strathmore. Any woman who had flouted the Patronesses of Almack's could hardly tremble before the Reaper. In any case, she was not sorry to go, for there had been a woeful lack of amusing conversation for some years now, all her most interesting friends having gone senile or hopped off into the afterlife ahead of her.

What mattered was that she could look back in pride on a long life well lived. The heiress of an iron ore tycoon, she had crowned her ambitious papa's efforts in life by snaring a penniless viscount for a husband, God rest his soul. She had never borne Jacob any children, for the odd duck had foolishly died shortly after their wedding. Ah, but she had led a merry life—had taken the Grand Tour before the war—why, once she had even danced with the now-mad old king, poor fellow. Such days! Oh, yes, she had given the ton a shock or two in her time, she mused as she toyed with her jet beads. She had countless fine memories and no regrets….

But one.

He walked in at that moment, tall, dark, and dashing in his black formal clothes—Augusta opted to ignore the earring. The white flash of his grin was as charming as ever, but she knew better than anyone that her beloved nephew was unreachable, locked within himself these twelve years behind fortress walls of pain. After all that he had been through, she shuddered to think of how he would take it when it came her time to go. She could not bear to think of leaving him so all alone.

To her surprise, however, he came in escorting Lizzie. Augusta smiled, charmed to see her shy young companion looking more her age in the pretty pink satin. Why, the child could be perfectly lovely when she wasn't trying to blend into the wallpaper. She gave Lizzie a regal nod, discreetly acknowledging her compliance with her request; but, privately, Augusta was bemused to see the two of them together after the mysterious tiff she had overheard in the parlor.

They made a comely pair as they crossed the drawing room to her: Devlin dark and suave, Lizzie fair and sweet. They looked as natural together as if they had known each other all their lives. Soon she was surrounded by the rosy glow of their youthful vitality; Augusta, however, eagle-eyed as always, was quick to note the subtle glances that passed between them.

My, my,
she mused. Now here was a curious state of affairs. Come to think of it, there was something altogether mysterious about her nephew's unannounced visit today, bloodied and covered in mud. It was peculiar behavior, even for Dev.

Between his odd visitation and the whispered battle she had heard coming from inside the parlor earlier, Augusta was reminded again of Lizzie's outraged reaction a few days ago to the arrival of Dev's latest gambling IOU.

The girl apparently had some strange aversion to gambling.

When the post-boy had brought the note, the chit had grown so furious in her silent way that she had actually begun shaking. Her lips had turned white, and she'd made an excuse to leave Augusta's side, taking a few minutes alone to becalm her rage. Augusta had marked her reaction closely because it was unlike the steady girl to lose her temper over anything.

Now she began to wonder if tranquil Lizzie had not taken matters into her own hands in bringing Augusta's errant nephew to Bath. The girl was very loyal, after all. What had she done? the dowager wondered with rising curiosity and growing amusement.

Then she noticed Dev gazing at Lizzie with a golden luster in his eyes and a telltale softening of his aquiline features. For her part, Lizzie, the would-be spinster, returned his stare with one of her gentle smiles, blushing a little.

Good heavens!
thought Augusta.

It was only a look—just a fleeting glance—ah, but one look was all that a first-rate matchmaker required.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

How did he do it? Maybe by some dark magic he had learned in an exotic land? Lizzie wondered. How did Devil Strathmore fill her mind with the most improper thoughts? The wine at dinner seemed to go straight to Lizzie's head; the evening was a swirl of sensory opulence, and she couldn't take her eyes off him.

Candlelight danced over sparkling silver and fine china plates on a field of snowy white damask; it glittered in golden spangles over crystal wine goblets and was cast back by large gilt-framed mirrors hung from plum-colored walls. The hearth fire crackled cozily beneath a white marble chimney piece, and liveried footmen manned their posts by the wall, ever ready to serve. The table was richly laid, the dining room a setting of luxurious elegance for the unspoken interplay between the two of them.

Lady Strathmore sat at the head of the table, unwittingly giving Devlin and Lizzie an unfettered view of each other through the intimate glow of the candelabra. Though they had based their truce on an agreement that what mattered most was the viscountess, Lizzie feared his aunt would soon notice they were entirely engrossed in each other.

She was stunned to find herself capable of capturing the notice of such a gorgeous specimen. Dressed to perfection and utterly dashing, he was elegant and savage with his swarthy skin and formal clothes, dangerously seductive. His coal-black hair was tamed back in a sleek queue, but his golden earring and the long, thin scratch on his cheek added to his aura of untamed male power. Every move he made mesmerized her—the slow, sensuous drumming of his fingertips at the base of his wine goblet; the way he stroked his chiseled jaw in thought; his languid pose as he leaned back in his chair, the very picture of lordly leisure, his broad shoulders slouching, his hand tucked contentedly into his waistcoat.

Watching him eat did strange things to her in some deep, primal layer of her being, but his aunt was right—the man had a lusty appetite. He had made short work of the first course of peas-soup, roasted beef, and salmon with smelts. For her part, Lizzie had such butterflies in her stomach that she could only pick at her food, though she felt half-starved. She could barely comprehend her own mood, all eager and trembly. She feared she was a trifle smitten, which she knew was absurd, because men like him flirted with everyone. It meant nothing.

And yet he was wonderful with his aunt, irresistibly charming; he was kind to the servants; and the way he looked at Lizzie made her wonder if any man had ever truly seen her until now.

If there was any doubt that he was flirting with her, he removed it the moment he stretched his long legs out under the table and slowly rested his crossed heels between her slippered feet. Her eyes widened in shock, but he gave no outward sign of his mischief, resting his chin on his hand as he listened to Lady Strathmore telling him the local gossip.

Subtly, oh so subtly, he slid Lizzie a roguish look from under his long, black lashes. She nearly moaned aloud at the banked sensuality in his glance, but she quickly smothered the sound, so all that came out was a small cough.

Though she did her best to hide her desire, she suspected he knew exactly what was going on in her mind—for he was as smooth and worldly as they came—and this thrilled her despite herself.

“I hope you do not mind our country hours, Dev, dear,” his aunt was saying. “I'm sure you do not dine till ten in Town.”

“Not to worry, ma'am, I can always eat. The question is, will you?”

The dowager pooh-poohed his pointed glance at her thin, frail figure. “What news of London, darling? Any juicy
on-dits
?”

“Let's see.” With a rakish smile playing at his lips, he took a leisurely sip of his wine. “Prinny has shaved off his side-whiskers,” he declared, setting his glass down again.

“Has he, indeed?” Lady Strathmore asked with interest. “And what of Princess Charlotte? Is she breeding yet? Oh, don't blush, Lizzie—if the princess does not bear a child, there will be chaos in the line of succession. I daresay England should get
something
out of that German prince the gel wed last summer, in light of all we've given him.”

“No word yet, ma'am, but I'm sure the newlyweds are doing their best. After all, they say it is a love match.” Devlin sent Lizzie a mirthful look over his wineglass.

“And what of Gloucester's wedding to Princess Mary? I heard they held their first at home. How was it?”

“Exceeding dull, nor will I discuss the new theater season until you eat something more than a few drops of soup. Really, Aunt Augusta, a good breeze could blow you away. But enough of those royal buffoons. They're not half so interesting as present company. Miss Carlisle, for instance. My dear, you must allow me to improve my acquaintance with your fair self. Where do hail from? Who are your people? What was your last position before you came to be in my aunt's employ?”

“Is this an interview, my lord?”

“Yes,” he declared with a grin. “A belated one. I must make certain you are a worthy companion for my aunt.”

He sent her a playful wink while the dowager scoffed. “Oh, Devlin.”

Lizzie smiled back at him, but before she could answer, the second course arrived, slightly lighter fare of game and pastries and stewed fruits. The parade of footmen uncovered silver-domed dishes of woodcocks, hare, and scalloped oysters. There were stewed pippins, a dish of jelly, muffin pudding, and a pear tart with a fine flaky crust.

After refilling their wine from crystal decanters, the servants withdrew.

Devlin regarded her expectantly. “Well? I am all ears, Miss Carlisle.”

She set down her fork, yielding to the spirit of fun he had cast over the table. “Well, then, let's see. I was born in Cumberland, where my father served as land steward to the Duke of Hawkscliffe, as did his father before him, and his father's father, and so on. Unfortunately, Papa died when I was four. His heart gave out while overseeing the June haymaking. My mother had preceded him the year before, of yellow fever. But I have little memory of either one.”

“I am so sorry,” he said quickly, looking genuinely taken aback.

She merely shrugged and gave him a hapless smile.

“What became of you after they died?”

“I was made the ward of the present Duke of Hawkscliffe—Robert.”

“I've met him. Excellent chap,” he murmured.

“The best of men,” she agreed with a reverent nod, though she rather doubted the straitlaced Robert would have approved of
him
. “Upon my joining the ducal household, I was designated as companion to His Grace's young sister, Lady Jacinda Knight. She was three and I was four, and we have been best friends ever since. We grew up together, had all the same tutors. The family has always been extremely good to me,” she said fondly. “I accompanied Jacinda into Society from the night of her debut ball, charged by His Grace with the solemn duty of keeping the mischievous creature out of trouble.”

“Did you succeed?”

“For the most part, yes, but then Jacinda met her Billy, and I passed my duties on to him.”

“Who's Billy?” he asked in amusement.

Lizzie chuckled. “Actually, it's William, Marquess of Truro and Saint Austell. He dotes on her so—it warms my heart. They were married last summer. He just finished building her a villa on Regent's Park. I have not yet seen it, but knowing Jacinda, I am sure all is in the first stare of fashion.”

“I haven't met them, but I have seen them in Town,” he remarked. “She's very beautiful.”

Lizzie nodded in unstinting agreement. “More than that, she's smart. Much smarter than she prefers to let on behind all that sparkling vivacity. At any rate, once Jacinda married, I knew it was time for me to move on.” Lizzie opted to leave out the part concerning A Certain Person. “In August, I came here, where I have had the good fortune of enjoying Lady Strathmore's company ever since.” She glanced affectionately at his aunt, who had been unusually silent throughout the meal, watching and listening to their exchange.

“It sounds like you miss your friend,” he observed.

“A little,” she admitted. “We write to each other every week. But what of you, my lord? Any further adventures planned?”

He shook his head. “The
Katie Rose
is up on blocks in a London shipyard, having her barnacles scraped.”

“The
Katie Rose
?” she echoed, charmed.

“The brigantine Aunt Augusta bought me for my twenty-first birthday,” he explained with a rueful smile. “I named her for my mother. Her name was Katherine, but that's what my father used to call her when he was trying to talk her down from flying up into the boughs, as she was wont to do. To me, she had only one name, and it was: ‘Yes, ma'am.' ”

She laughed softly. “Temper?”

“An Irish one,” he answered with a shadow of a smile.

“I didn't realize you had Irish blood.”

“Half. Don't tell anyone,” he said dryly; then he seemed to notice that his aunt was staring at him.

The two exchanged a wordless look that made Lizzie wonder if she was missing something, but the awkward pause vanished as a nod from Her Ladyship caused the footmen to clear the table for the third course. Plates and trays were whisked away; wineglasses and candelabra held clear while the white damask tablecloth was removed, exposing the rich mahogany table beneath with its silky patina of beeswax polish.

Again glasses were refilled, this time with a sweet dessert wine.

“Tea, coffee, or chocolate, ma'am?” the first footman asked the dowager gravely.

“Coffee,” she clipped out.

Devlin requested the same, but Lizzie declined, content with her glass of Madeira.

The first footman retreated to fetch the freshly brewed coffee while the others marched in with the third course: a small maple-cured ham that all of them were too full to taste, blanched almonds and raisins, an assortment of biscuits, and lastly, set down with great pride in the center of the table, a magnificent floating island.

“You spoil me,” Devlin declared, turning to his aunt.

“Indubitably,” she agreed with a chuckle.

In a silver soup epergne—filled with sweet heavy cream that had been thickened with sack wine, whipped to a froth, and sprinkled with nutmeg and the bright yellow shavings of a lemon rind—floated three French rolls, cut sliver-thin and piled high with colorful layers of jelly, fruit, and sweetmeats. Mrs. Rowland and Cook had truly outdone themselves. The floating island was divine, as were the other delicacies. Savoring the lavish dessert, Lizzie was just reflecting on what a success the evening had been when everything began going wrong.

“Miss Carlisle, I know you mentioned Hawkscliffe is the ducal title, but what was it you said your Lady Jacinda's family name was?” Devlin asked as the footmen brought in the coffee service on a gleaming silver tray. “Was it Knight?”

“Yes.”

“Hang me, I knew that sounded familiar.” He leaned back in his chair with a broad smile. “I went to school with her brother.”

“Which one?” The startling news instantly made her a trifle uneasy. “She has five.”

“Alec,” he said, and then let out a sudden, roguish laugh. “Of course. Lord Alec Knight, or, pardon, ‘Alexander the Great,' as he used to insist on being called in those days.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds just like him,” she uttered faintly, but she felt as though she had just got the wind knocked out of her. Good God, it couldn't be—they were friends!

But of course. Alec knew everyone, and the two were of an age. Devlin only seemed older because he had gone places, done things, while Alec had remained in London playing cards and breaking hearts. She lowered her gaze to hide her shock.

Lord Alec Knight. Her best friend's brother, whom she had worshipped from the age of nine. The youngest of the five Knight brothers. The one she had always dreamed she'd marry. Her blue-eyed darling, who had answered her lifetime's devotion with a humiliating rejection last summer in the coldest possible terms.

“Lord, we used to get into so much trouble together,” Devlin was saying, but she barely heeded his nostalgic chuckle.

Her heart had begun pounding, a knot of bitter hurt forming in the pit of her stomach at the mere mention of her former idol's name. The elegant meal had turned to ashes in her mouth, and the euphoria she had felt all evening rose up to mock her.
God, what am I doing?

Idiot! Did she intend to make the same mistake twice? Was she mad?

“We were great mates back at Eton—and at Oxford, before I flunked out. God's bones, I haven't seen him in years. How is the blighter?”

Trembling, Lizzie lifted her gaze and stared at him, at a loss. She could not think of a single word to say.

Alec.
Her chest felt squeezed in a great vise at the thought of his sunny grin and sapphire eyes, but there were no more tears left in her. Gambling was Alec's first love; she had finally learned that the hard way. He had the beauty of a fallen archangel and had used it last summer to pay off his debts, had whored himself out to a rich baroness so he could go back and gamble some more. Oh, it had been the jest of the Season, how the captain of all London rakes had become the glamorous Lady Campion's kept man for a while.