The Devil Takes a Bride. Julia London
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Cox walked her down long hallways, showing her small salons and larger, more formal salons, the breakfast room, more than one dining room and one formal one that would seat sixty. There was a ballroom and so many guest rooms that Grace lost count. The house was magnificently constructed, but somber in its decor. There were no paintings on the walls, no familiar signs of family history, no evidence of ancestry for all to see. There were only identical vases of identical hothouse flowers—roses—cut at identical height.
In the main salon, Grace paused before the massive hearth and glanced up at the mirror that hung above it. “I have noticed there are no paintings,” she said to Cox.
“No, madam. His lordship prefers that the frames be made uniform, and if they cannot, he prefers they not hang.”
“Pardon?” Grace said, glancing over her shoulder at the butler.
Even though Cox’s hair was thinning, he was unexpectedly young for the position he held. He said again, “His lordship prefers uniformity,” he said.
What on earth did that mean, he preferred uniformity? She glanced up to the mirror, the only thing in the room to adorn the walls. Moreover, there were four chairs set before the hearth, two facing two, all of them at equal distance from the other.
How odd.
“Shall I show you your lady’s suite of rooms?”
“Please,” Grace said.
She was happy to see that her suite of rooms faced south and west, which promised sunlight to chase away the gloom of this house. The rooms themselves were tastefully appointed, painted a pale creamy pink, with white shutters at the windows and embroidered draperies. The wood floor had been covered with a thick rug. It was very inviting. Except that, again, there was nothing on the walls to brighten the room.
“Is there anything you might require?” Mr. Cox asked.
“Yes,” she said, and pressed her hands to her belly. “I am quite hungry, Mr. Cox. Might I have something to eat?”
Mr. Cox looked strangely uncomfortable at her request. “I beg your pardon, madam, but supper is served at precisely eight o’clock.”
Grace looked at the mantle clock. It was a quarter to five o’clock. “Do you mean to say that I may not have anything to eat until eight o’clock?”
Cox swallowed; his cheeks colored slightly. “His lordship prefers food be served at those hours. Breakfast is likewise served at eight o’clock, and luncheon at twelve o’clock, tea at four o’clock.”
Grace stared at the butler, thinking she would see the hint of a smile, discover that he possessed a jovial streak. But Cox merely stood, awaiting her direction.
“No exception might be made today?” she asked.
“If his lordship agrees, of course.” But he made no move, which led Grace to believe that she would have to be the one to inquire. If that was the case, she preferred to feel the pangs of hunger.
“Might I have a bath?” she asked. “Or...are there requirements for the time they might be drawn?”
“No, madam. I will have one drawn right away.” Mr. Cox gave her a curt nod and strode briskly from the room.
When he’d gone, Grace let her reticule fall to the floor. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do next—her belly was growling and she was exhausted from the strain of this day. A bath would help that, and then she would count every minute to supper and the moment she’d be allowed to eat something. After that, well...whatever came after that, she couldn’t contemplate without feeling a bit ill.
But also a wee bit intrigued.
After all, not every moment in the tea shop had been dreadful.
* * *
JEFFREY’S PRIVATE CHAMBER was situated in the front hall of the first floor, overlooking the entrance to Blackwood Hall. It was twenty-four steps long and sixteen steps wide.
The master suite, which Mr. Cox frequently brought up in the hopes that Jeffrey would one day occupy it, was at the southern corner of the first floor. It had two walls of windows, with three windows each, overlooking the more picturesque bits of his estate. It was also thirty-one steps long and twenty-three steps wide.
Mr. Cox believed that Jeffrey preferred not to sleep where his father had passed away, and Jeffrey was content for him to assume so. But in truth, he preferred it here, in the quiet comfort of eight. It settled him, made him feel at ease.
Until today. This room was uncomfortably close to the new Lady Merryton’s suite of rooms.
He had taken refuge in his rooms when they’d arrived from Bath, pouring himself a generous portion of whiskey and removing his boots. He’d sat down onto the upholstered chair before his hearth, had leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his mind racing around the improbable fact that he was now married to a woman he did not know.
As he sat there in his quiet, he heard the servants in the hall. “Have a care, Willie, mind you not make a noise,” one footman said harshly to the other. “I told you, one bucket, each hand. If Mrs. Garland notices you’ve sloshed water on the carpets, she’ll have you sent to the stables.”
Jeffrey slowly opened his eyes. He realized that they were hauling buckets of water so that Lady Merryton could bathe.
He downed the rest of his whiskey, clenched his jaw and closed his eyes again. He tried his best not to imagine her naked body sliding into steaming water, her breasts floating on the surface. But the more he tried to banish the images, the faster they came at him. He saw water swirling around her sex, caressing her as he ached to do. He saw her lifting a slender, tapered leg from the water and running her hands over it, then her breasts, then leaning her head against the back of the bath and sliding her hands lower to where he wanted to put his hands—
Jeffrey suddenly came up with a start. He walked to the windows and flung one open, leaning into the casing, taking deep breaths of air. He had to control himself and his ugly thoughts. He had to learn to exist in this house with that woman—that treacherous, beautiful woman.
He whirled around from the window, grabbed up his boot. He silently counted to eight, then shoved his foot in. Again on the other leg. And then he strode out of his rooms, bound for the study, his fist tapping in a futile effort to ease his racing thoughts.
There he remained, burying his thoughts in an avalanche of work. He reviewed invoices, examined the ledgers, wrote his own correspondence. At ten of seven, Cox entered the study. “Will you dress for supper, my lord?”
“No,” Jeffrey said without looking up from his work. His response no doubt caused Cox a bit of consternation, for Jeffrey was nothing if not habitual. “Quite a lot to be done,” he said vaguely, and looked at the papers before him. “Please inform her ladyship of when and where we might dine.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Jeffrey stared blindly at the page before him as Cox went out, counting the butler’s footsteps. Six. Only six. Everything around him was off-kilter, out of balance, and Jeffrey didn’t know how to get it back. He couldn’t avoid the feminine presence in his house. He could already feel it seeping in through the walls, surrounding him like a vapor. He had spent so much of his adult life carefully constructing the boundaries around him that he’d not thought of what he might do if those boundaries were breached.
He certainly didn’t know what to do now, and continued working, filling his head with figures and the problems of managing a large estate until the supper hour. As much as he would have liked to have dined alone in his rooms, his sense of order and habit was much stronger. He strode down the hallway—sixteen steps in all—to the family dining room. He walked in, and the woman, his wife, was standing at the buffet.
His entrance clearly startled her; she jerked around, knocking into the buffet and causing the stack of plates to rattle. She quickly put her hands around the plates to still them and smiled apprehensively.