The Devil Takes a Bride. Julia London
time Grace thought of it, she shuddered. The moments with Merryton in that darkened room had been the most exciting thing she’d ever experienced. He had stoked something fiery in her, something that felt as if it meant to consume her. But the moment Grace had realized those passions had been stirred by him, she’d been repulsed and intimidated.
Just thinking of it now, she shuddered again. Titillation. Revulsion. It was enough to make her head spin.
“Oh, dear, you are afraid,” Cousin Beatrice said, and hurried to Grace to rub her hands on Grace’s bare arms. “I would that I could repair this situation for you, darling, but I cannot. There is nothing I can do, you must surely see that.”
“I see it quite clearly, cousin. No one can help me now.”
“Please, let us send for Beckington!”
They’d had this argument several times in the past few days. “I can’t!” Grace exclaimed. “Can you not see? There is nothing that can be done for this predicament. I can’t recover from it, cousin—never! No one will have me after this. No doubt word has already spread, and I am already ruined. And I haven’t even begun to contemplate the consequence to him. I will marry him today. There is nothing more to be said.”
At least she assumed a wedding would take place today, that all the necessary arrangements had been made. After her spectacular fall from grace, Grace scarcely knew of or cared about the negotiations for her marriage to Merryton. Mr. Brumley conducted them on her behalf with a scowl and air of disapproval about him.
Grace understood it had been mutually agreed that Beatrice would gift ten thousand pounds to Grace as her dowry—which was the figure Grace recalled her mother had once set aside for her—with the full expectation that the new Earl of Beckington would be quite happy to reimburse the money to avoid a wider scandal.
Grace’s task was to send a letter to her stepbrother requesting the dowry. That was the easier letter to write. Grace imagined that Augustine would be happy to see her wed—not in this way, of course, but to have it done—and would take the dowry from the money Grace’s mother had brought into the marriage.
The letter to Honor was much harder to pen. Grace spent the better part of an afternoon crafting it, imagining her sister’s horror when she read what had happened, as well as the sum that her family must now pay. Perhaps the hardest thing to write was that Honor was right. Honor had warned Grace that the plan would never succeed, but Grace had been so stubbornly sure that it would, that her plan was vastly superior to Honor’s. She’d been so certain that Amherst’s flirtations and playfulness with her person was indicative of a particular esteem for her, and that he would, when it was all said and done, be willing to accept it.
Even worse, far worse, Grace had thought herself rather clever with her daring subterfuge.
Fool. Wretched, naive, silly fool!
Well, then, she’d set her own course for calamity, hadn’t she? And now, she was entirely alone, cast out onto a rough sea without so much as an oar. What she wouldn’t give to hear Honor’s unsolicited advice now! To hear Prudence play the pianoforte, or Mercy’s gruesome tales of mummies. What she wouldn’t give to sit at her mother’s feet, lay her head on her lap and feel her mother’s sure hand stroke her hair, as she had done when they were girls.
The day of reckoning had come. Grace would be married to a humorless man. Lord, but he couldn’t be more ill-suited for Grace if he woke up every morning with that express desire.
Grace had heard nothing from Merryton in the days since the disaster, not a single kind or unkind word. Not that she expected it, for what would it be? My dear Miss Cabot, thank you kindly for utterly ruining my life.
No, she didn’t expect anything, really, and had tried to push aside her conflicting and terrifying thoughts by methodically packing her belongings into her trunk. She’d folded her stockings into neat little squares, her gowns into bigger squares. Today, she had dressed for her wedding, hardly caring that she broke with tradition by putting away her mourning garb. Wasn’t black too macabre, in spite of how somber she found this day? Didn’t the silver gown seem too sprightly for such an unbearable event? She’d chosen the pale blue gown Mercy had once declared went very well with Grace’s hazel eyes and the brass tones in her hair. Subdued, and yet, it would not appear as if she’d crawled out a dark tomb to wed.
Grace added a chemisette with a collar so that no skin was revealed to her future husband. She knew it was absurd to feign modesty now, but it seemed the thing to do. She pulled her hair into an austere knot at the nape of her neck, and the only jewelry she wore was a strand of pearls about her neck. It had been a gift from her mother on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday, and it made her feel close to her mother now.
A light rap on her door signaled the time had come.
“Oh, dear. I suppose it’s time,” Beatrice said fretfully.
At least there was one bright spot to Grace’s day—she would soon be out from under Beatrice’s tearful gaze. If there was one thing she could not abide, it was the female penchant for the tearful gnashing of teeth. So much time and effort spent in crying! Grace wouldn’t cry. She’d created this mess and, heaven above, she’d suffer the consequences with her head held high. And if she couldn’t manage that, she’d certainly cry in private.
She opened the door to the Brumley butler. “I’m to bring your trunk, miss,” he said.
Grace pointed to it; she couldn’t find the will to even speak. As the butler and a footman took her trunk down, Grace wrapped a cloak around her and picked up her bonnet. She turned to Beatrice and smiled. “Thank you, cousin—for everything.”
Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears. “How lovely you look, dearest. I wish your mother was here to see it.”
Grace smiled ruefully. “I don’t.”
“Tsk,” Beatrice said. “Not even this day could make you any less lovely. You are your mother’s daughter, a true beauty. That man is quite fortunate if you ask me.”
Grace almost laughed. He was so fortunate his life had been ruined.
Beatrice hugged Grace to her. “Mr. Brumley and I will be there to serve as witness, of course.”
Grace gave her a wan smile. She didn’t care who saw her now. All she could think about was marrying him, then being spirited away to Blackwood Hall, which sounded as bleak as her life stretching all the years before her. She toyed with a fantasy that when the scandal had died down, she would run away—from him, from society, surviving by her wits in the wild—
“Oh! I almost forgot! A letter has come for you this very morning!” Beatrice said.
“A letter?” Grace said, brightening.
Beatrice took the letter from her pocket and held it out. Grace instantly recognized Honor’s handwriting. “It’s from Honor!” she exclaimed. “How could she have received my letter so soon? I sent it only yesterday.”
“This one came late last night,” Beatrice said. “It passed yours in the post.”
Grace’s excitement instantly flagged. There would be no proposed escape for her, no promise of help knocking at her door at any moment. She tucked the letter into her reticule.
“Chin up, darling,” Beatrice said as she wrapped her arm around Grace’s shoulders and began to walk with her. “I hear that Blackwood Hall is a grand estate with a dozen guest rooms. After things settle, you might find it to your liking.”
Grace would never find it to her liking, she was certain of that.
In the foyer, Grace fit her bonnet on her head, low over her eyes so that she’d not have to see any happy people walking about, and followed the footman to the small carriage.
“Mr. Brumley and I will be along behind you, darling!” Cousin Beatrice called from the walk when Grace had settled herself inside, and waved her handkerchief at Grace as the carriage pulled away, as if she were going