The Devil Takes a Bride

“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 (#ulink_5479f6fb-0079-59b4-b8bf-ddf722fb7db6)

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.

Diana Mortimer was also the one to tell her about the famed Russian soprano’s upcoming performance at the abbey. “The Prince of Wales has favored her,” Diana said. “And you know very well that if the prince has favored her, there won’t be an empty seat.”

That was the moment Grace hit upon the perfect plan to lure Lord Amherst into her trap.

She risked everything to set her plan in motion on the night the Russian soprano sang. It all hinged on the Franklin sisters arriving at the precise and most inopportune moment.

Grace did not think she was the sort to be annoyingly proud of her accomplishments, but this meeting with Lord Amherst, on this night, had taken exceptional cunning to arrange. She’d come to Bath a month ago after hearing his lordship had come for the waters, for the sole purpose of convincing him that she was quite sincere in her esteem of him, without appearing too wanton. But Grace had made her social debut at the age of eighteen, and in the three years hence, she’d learned her lessons in the finest salons of London and knew a thing or two about how to entice a gentleman, especially one like Amherst.

And yet, Amherst had surprised her. In spite of his reputation for being a randy and rambunctious rake, in spite of declaring his esteem for her more than once, he’d not been persuaded that a private meeting with Grace was the thing to do.

Grace had not anticipated his reluctance when she’d devised her plan. On every occasion they’d met in London, Amherst had been attentive—one might even say eager—to please and charm her. He was forthright about his esteem for her, and Grace had been certain his affection would lend itself to a clandestine meeting. Indeed, when Grace had arrived in Bath, and made the necessary rounds to the necessary parlors, Lord Amherst had not been the least reluctant to whisper in her ear during the Wickers’ soiree. Nor had he been reluctant to walk with her in the park near the Royal Crescent or keep his hands from her as they strolled.

But he’d absolutely refused to meet her in private when she’d first suggested it.

She had wondered if he had suspected her and her motives, but quickly dismissed that notion—she’d been too clever in her deceit. Having three sisters and a stepbrother had taught her how to connive. Then perhaps she’d not been conniving enough, and in the privacy of the room she’d taken in the home of her mother’s dear friend Cousin Beatrice she’d thought hard about what she must do.

One night, it came to her—no one could resist a secret. Not even Amherst. She’d told him that she had something very important to tell him, something that no one else could hear. And Grace had been right—Amherst couldn’t resist and had agreed to meet her.

One might assume that Grace wanted to seduce Amherst for her own pleasure, but nothing could be further from the truth. This scheme had become necessary because her stepfather, the Earl of Beckington, had recently died. Grace, her mother, Lady Beckington, and her sisters Honor, Prudence and Mercy had been completely dependent on the earl. Completely. Now, her stepbrother, Augustine, was the new earl, and every day that passed with her mother under Augustine’s roof was a day that her mother’s terrible secret could be discovered: Lady Beckington was going mad.

That secret would ruin the Cabot sisters, for if it were known among the ton that Lady Beckington was mad, and her four unmarried daughters now had modest dowries instead of generous ones, no one would have them. No one. There wasn’t a gentleman in London who would chance introducing madness into his family’s lineage, especially without the incentive of grand wealth. More important, Grace had two younger sisters who were not yet out. They would have no opportunity to make a good match.

She and Honor had worried over it for weeks now, and while Grace didn’t like that it had come to this, that she should find herself in a position of having to conspire to something so morally reprehensible, she could see no other viable or expeditious solution. She must marry Amherst before her secrets were discovered.

Everything was set. The little tea shop across the square from the abbey was closed at six o’clock. There was quite a crowd gathered at the abbey this evening to hear the Russian soprano. Grace knew the Franklin sisters would return after the chorale with Reverend Cumberhill. She’d even stood across from the tea shop, watching when the Franklin sisters departed for the abbey at six o’clock, then testing the door herself. It was open. It was always open—the abbey was only steps from the shop.

Tonight, Grace’s life would change forevermore. She would suffer a great scandal, would no doubt be made a pariah among polite society. She was prepared for it—at least her younger sisters would have what they needed.

At the chorale, she caught Amherst’s twinkling eye. Just as they’d planned, she stood and walked briskly from the abbey’s sanctuary before the chorale was ended. She knew that Amherst would be right behind her, unsuspecting that the Franklin sisters and the reverend would be right behind him.

A light rain had begun to fall, and that worried Grace. A few moments too early, a few moments too late, and everything would be ruined. She pulled the hood of her cape over her head and hurried across the abbey courtyard to the tea shop. She had a moment of breathlessness at the realization she was actually stooping to such wretched manipulations—up until this moment, it had been nothing but a scheme—but that was followed by an exhalation of desperation. She had never in her life been so desperate as this.

At the door of the tea shop, she pushed her hood back to look around her before she opened the door. There was no one about—everyone was in the abbey, hearing the last stanzas of the chorale.

Grace reached for the handle and pushed. She knew a moment of panic when the door would not open—but she put her shoulder to it and it opened with a creak so loud she expected the entire town of Bath to spill out of their doors and accuse her of thievery. Grace slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar so that Amherst would know it was open, and paused, listening for any sounds that would indicate she’d been seen.

She couldn’t hear a thing over the pounding of her heart.

The room was very dark; the embers at the hearth were so low she could hardly see her hand before her. Another bolt of panic hit her—she hadn’t thought of the dark. How would Amherst find her? She was too fearful to speak. She’d stand near the door; she’d reach out and touch him when he entered.