The Devil Takes a Bride. Julia London
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of those fingers sliding into body orifices.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said with as much cheer as one could muster, given the day. Her voice sounded melodic.
“Good evening, Lady Merryton.”
“Ah...Grace,” she said, as if perhaps he hadn’t remembered it, as if he hadn’t signed a marriage book and a special license with her name clearly spelled out for all eternity: Grace Elizabeth Diana Cabot. Twenty-four letters in all.
“You will forgive me if I do not feel the familiarity necessary to address you by your given name as yet.” He thought he was being helpful. He couldn’t very well explain to her that certain things had to happen before he could call her by her given name—even he wasn’t sure what—but he couldn’t speak to her as if they were known to each other. As if he had courted her, had asked her permission to address her more intimately.
Clearly, his helpful explanation had not had the desired effect; he could see her delicate swallow course her neck. She pressed her lips together and nodded politely.
She apparently had given up any pretense of mourning her stepfather, as she was wearing a shimmering gold gown with intricate embroidery of crystals on the skirt. They caught the light and made it look as if she were sparkling. The gown hugged her body tightly, and her breasts, heaven help him, were two creamy mounds that looked as if they would burst from her décolletage at any moment. Her golden hair was swept up in a simple roll at her nape. Jewels that matched the glitter of those around her throat dangled at her earlobes.
She was, in a word, lovely.
Jeffrey gestured to a seat at the table; a footman instantly moved to hold the chair for her.
She sat elegantly, her hands in her lap, her gaze on the setting before her. Jeffrey admired her long neck, the tiny wisps of hair that were not caught in the roll of her hair. She took a deep breath, her chest lifting with it, then smoothly falling again as she silently released it.
Jeffrey sat heavily in his seat at the head of the table, prepared for what he assumed would be a difficult evening. He tried not to look at this stranger, this beauty, his wife. To look at her was to imagine the claiming of her, the possession of her body. It was within his right, but Jeffrey could not bear it. He feared what he would do, that he would lose control, that he could, God forbid, hurt her. It was one thing to seek the company of women who shared his appetites, or could be persuaded to like them with a generous purse. It was something else entirely when the object of his desire was a virginal debutante.
He couldn’t help himself; he tapped his forefinger against the table eight times as nonchalantly as he possibly could.
“Shall we serve, my lord?” Cox said behind him.
Yes, please serve, let this day be done! “Please,” he said, and leaned back, his fists on his thighs, his jaw clenched.
The place settings had been laid perfectly—the water goblet four inches above the center of the plate, the wine goblet four inches to the right of that. The china plate, purchased from a rather desperate aristocratic Frenchman, boasted a fleur-de-lis in the center of the plate. The top of the fleur-de-lis pointed to the center of the water goblet. Jeffrey did not look at the plate’s border; it was a terrible hodgepodge of scrolling evergreen boughs and tiny fleur-de-lis that made no sense to him and disturbed him.
“You have a lovely home.”
The dulcet tone of her voice slipped through Jeffrey; he risked a look at her. The first thing he’d truly noticed about her—the first time he’d seen her in light, in that wretched office before they were wed—was her eyes. They were hazel, more green than brown, and they reminded him of the colors of late summer. Her lashes were darkly golden but long, her brows feathery arches over her eyes. He’d been struck by her beauty, something that he’d failed to notice the night in the tea shop.
What he noticed tonight was that her fingers were tapping lightly on the stem of the wine goblet. She had pulled the goblet out of its place, closer to her, and that it was out of place gave him a feeling of uneasiness. “Thank you,” he said. He looked away.
“Have you always resided here?”
Bloody hell, conversation could not be avoided. He turned back to her, his gaze sweeping over her. She was wearing a choker of amber stones about her neck, and he could imagine himself removing that necklace, his hands sliding over her shoulders, the jewels sliding into her cleavage, followed by his fingers.
That image was inexplicably and unavoidably followed by one of him at her breast, his mouth surrounding the tip of it, his tongue flicking across the hardened peak.
She was speaking, he realized. Jeffrey pressed the heel of his shoe into the carpet to settle himself. “Pardon?”
“I was inquiring if your family has been long at Blackwood Hall.”
“Generations,” he responded tersely. “This has been the Merryton seat since the title was bestowed on us. I am the fifth earl.” Her lips were full, plush and an amazing shade of coral.
“Do you live alone here?”
He shifted in his seat. “Mostly.”
She looked as if she wanted to ask more, but thankfully, the serving of the meal ended any talk for the time being. When Cox had filled their plates with lamb and potatoes, and had filled their wineglasses, Jeffrey sent him and the footman out with a single gesture.
He picked up his fork and began to eat. He was aware that his wife picked uneasily at her food as if she had no appetite, but drank her wine with more enthusiasm. When he finished, he settled back in his seat and placed his napkin on the table beside his plate. He noticed she’d only taken a few bites. “Do you not find the food to your liking?”
“What? No, it’s perfectly fine.”
Then why did she not eat it? He shifted his gaze to the buffet. Eight drawers, four by four.
“If I may,” she said, “I should like to...offer an apology for what happened.”
She had apologized to him. He didn’t know what she thought he might do with another apology.
“The tea shop,” she said, apparently thinking it necessary to explain what she meant. As if something else had happened between them, as if she’d made some other catastrophic gash across his life.
He did not care to think of that night, of his complete loss of control. “It is unnecessary.”
“But I—”
“Madam, as I said, unnecessary,” he said, and shifted uncomfortably again. “You were there to meet Amherst. You mistook me for him. We have both made a mistake of enormous consequence that has linked us, inextricably, for eternity. What is done is done. Have you finished your meal?”
Her brows knit in frown. “Yes.”
“Then...if you will excuse me.” He stood.
His wife looked surprised. She moved to stand, too, and the gentleman in Jeffrey, bred into him at an early age, quickly moved to pull her chair away. She straightened, only inches from him. Her eyes blinked up at him, the candlelight making them seem to sparkle. Jeffrey felt a swirl of emotion and heat rising up in him. He had an unbearable urge to take her in hand, to kiss the plump, moist lips, to put his hand and his mouth on her chest, to bend her over this table and lift her skirts, bare her bottom to him, move his hand between her legs—
He stepped back, curtly bowed his head. “I will not come to you tonight, Lady Merryton.” He clasped his hands at his back so that she would not see the way his hand curled into a fist, trying to control his desire. “I will allow you the time to be comfortable at Blackwood Hall.”
Her eyes widened. An appealing blush rose in her cheeks as she glanced around them, as if searching for something. An exit, perhaps.
“You may inquire with Mr. Cox about the services of a lady’s maid.”
That