Julia London - The Devil Takes a Bride

“Well, yes, I—”

“Good, then it is settled,” Honor said cheerfully, and linked her arm through her stepbrother’s. “Shall we?”

As was often the case, Augustine was overwhelmed by his stepsisters. With a good yank on his waistcoat to bring it down over a belly that had gone a little soft, he muttered that he did not care for their revealing clothing but allowed them to lead him out all the same.

* * *

THE CLARENDONS’ GRAND SALON was so crowded that there was hardly enough room to maneuver, and yet, all eyes turned toward the Cabot sisters.

“As is ever the case,” said Grace’s friend, Miss Tamryn Collins, “all gentlemen are held in thrall by the Cabot sisters.”

“Silly!” Grace said. “I’d wager the only gentlemen held in any sort of thrall are those who have been pressed by their families to make an offer to a debutante who will bring with her a generous dowry.”

“You underestimate the appeal of a pleasing décolletage, I think,” Tamryn said dryly.

Grace laughed, but Tamryn was right. Honor and Grace, separated by only a year, had been out for more than a year. By all rights, they ought to have received and accepted an offer of marriage, for wasn’t that the point of coming out? But Honor and Grace were beautiful young women and had quickly discovered they enjoyed the chase far too much to give it up for marriage just yet—not chasing, mind you, but being chased.

And they were very well chased.

It was no secret that the alluring Cabot sisters were as good a match as any young gentlemen might hope to make—pleasing to the eye and in spirit, and backed by the wealth of the Earl of Beckington.

“Oh, no,” Honor said, and took hold of Grace’s arm. “Grace, you must intercept him.”

“Who?” Tamryn asked, standing beside Grace as she peered into the crowd.

“Mr. Jett!” Honor whispered loudly. “He’s coming across the room, straight for us.”

“For you, you mean,” Grace said, and slipped her hand into Tamryn’s. “We must flee, Tamryn, lest we be locked in boring conversation for the rest of the evening. Have a lovely evening, Honor.”

“Grace!” Honor exclaimed, but Grace and Tamryn had already escaped on a wave of giggling, leaving Honor alone to graciously rebuff Mr. Jett’s most ardent attention.

With Tamryn gone off to have a word with a friend, Grace wended her way through the ballroom.

Grace danced, too, one set after the other, never lacking partners. But when the odious Mr. Redmond cast an oily smile in her direction and began to move toward her, she was relieved that Lord Amherst should suddenly step before her and bow grandly.

“Come quickly,” he said, holding out his hand. “I mean to rescue you from Redmond.”

“My hero!” Grace said laughingly, and slipped her hand into his, following his lead onto the dance floor.

Grace liked Lord Amherst. As did every other debutante. He was handsome and always had a warm laugh for her. He never failed to charm, and in fact, that was his reputation; he charmed every woman he met with his outrageous flirting and suggestive innuendo. That’s why Grace liked him so—she rather enjoyed flirting and suggestive innuendo.

He bowed as the dance began and said, “I’ve been trying to reach you all night, fighting my way through this bloody crowd for you.”

“What? There were no other dance partners for you?”

“Miss Cabot, you tease me mercilessly. You know there’s not another woman in this room that can compare to you.”

“Not even one other?” she asked as they rose up on their toes and then down, twirling around and facing each other once more.

“Absolutely not,” he said, and winked.

“My lord, you are the king of compliments.”

“Can you blame me? A woman as beautiful and spirited as you deserves nothing less than to be continually flattered. My heart has been quite lost to you.”

Grace giggled at his silliness. “Confess—you’ve said that to every other girl in attendance tonight.”

“Miss Cabot, you wound me. I have not said that to every other girl in attendance tonight. Only the beautiful ones.”

Grace laughed. They turned to the right, then to face each other again as they made their way up the line.

“Lord,” Amherst suddenly muttered. He was looking at a point over Grace’s shoulder. When Grace glanced back, she happened to notice Amherst’s brother, Lord Merryton. She was surprised to see him here. There were never two brothers more unalike. Amherst was always about, but Merryton rarely came to town. Amherst was quite diverting, and his brother brooding. That’s what he seemed to be doing now, standing with his back to the wall, his hands behind him. He had dark, curling hair, his expression grim.

Grace turned back to Amherst. “Your brother doesn’t seem to be enjoying the evening.”

“No,” he drawled. “He does not enjoy society as I do.”

“Doesn’t enjoy society?” Grace laughed. “I pray you, what else is there but society when it rains for days on end as it has?”

“Yes, well, he disapproves of gaiety in general. Balls in particular. He has no use for them.”

Grace was incredulous at this news. To have no use for balls was so far beyond her comprehension that she felt compelled to glance over her shoulder at the strange Earl of Merryton once more.

Amherst laughed. “You won’t find any answers there, Miss Cabot. He is rather adept at not allowing his true feelings to be known. Decorum in all things, you know.”

Grace smiled at her partner. “The same can’t be said of you, my lord.”

“Certainly not. I should like the world to know my very fond feelings of the most beautiful of the Cabot girls. In fact, I think I shall announce it. The moment we reach the top of the line, prepare yourself for a declaration of great esteem.”

Grace laughed at his teasing. She forgot about Merryton after that dance. After all, there were so many gentlemen, so much dancing, so many opportunities to flirt.

She forgot about him altogether until roughly eighteen months later, when her fortunes had shifted, and she was bitterly reminded just how disagreeable Lord Merryton was.

CHAPTER ONE

Spring of 1812

THE FRANKLIN SISTERS of Bath, England—one a widow, the other a spinster—presided over a small tea shop on the square near the baths and the abbey. It was their pleasure to serve tea and fresh-baked pastries to the denizens and visitors to their fair town. They knew most everyone by name. They lived above their shop and were open every day, without fail.

The sisters reasoned that, being as close to the abbey as they were, they might offer up their daily prayers in a more official manner than in their rooms, and every evening, at precisely six o’clock, they closed their shop. Those who resided near the abbey knew that they were so exact and so regular that even the abbey’s groundskeeper had noticed and had quite literally set the abbey clocks by them.

Once their daily prayers were offered, the sisters returned to their shop, lit a pair of candles and shared tea or soup and nattered on about their day. On certain special occasions, such as those evenings when a chorale was sung in the abbey, Reverend Cumberhill accompanied them back to the shop, and a bit of brandy was poured into the tea.

Grace Cabot was depending on the sisters’ routine. A routine she was confident went undetected by most of the fashionable people in Bath, as the fashionable people in Bath were not in the habit of attending evening prayer. She knew this because she was one of that set that spring, and she was in the habit of attending one soiree after the next along with the rest of them.

Had it not been for a chance call to her old friend Diana Mortimer, who lived near the abbey, Grace wouldn’t have known about the sisters’ routine. But she had made that call, and Diana had remarked upon it.