The Devil Takes a Bride

Jeffrey began to clench and unclench his fist, eight times. “That is all well and good, but you are surely aware that a proper pedigree does not weight a woman’s hem.”

Dr. Linford and Mr. Botham both glanced at the floor; the reverend covered his face in his hands. They were appalled by him, yes, but Jeffrey noticed that none of them contradicted him.

“She has assured me she is...intact,” Linford said tightly.

Mr. Davis cleared his throat. “May we assume, then, that a marriage will take place?”

Jeffrey hesitated. He thought of Mary Gastineau, the daughter of Lord Wicking, his second cousin. Mary was the second daughter of the second Lord Wicking, and she was the second woman he had seriously courted. He had courted Miss Gastineau for two years, grooming her to his way of life and his need for perfection. While Mary Gastineau did not excite him in any way, Jeffrey thought she would be the wife that he needed. He did not imagine her naked body, did not think of his body sliding into hers. The woman did not make mistakes, and seemed perfectly suited to walking the edge of the knife with him.

And still, he had put off making an offer as long as he reasonably could. For symmetry, he’d told himself. From fear, his conscience barked at him. Nevertheless, Jeffrey had been prepared to make the offer this Season.

“My lord,” Mr. Botham said, his low voice drawing Jeffrey out of his rumination, “if you do not agree, we will accuse you of the crime of rape. We will not ignore what you have done to that poor young, innocent woman.”

Innocent. Inexperienced, perhaps, but she was not innocent. Jeffrey lifted his gaze, and four pairs of eyes steadily met his. Their minds were made up then—they would see him prosecuted if he did not solve the very real problem he had created for them. “Yes, I will marry her.”

No one spoke at first; the three men looked at the reverend, who was the most aggrieved by what had happened. He stood, rising to his full height, which was still considerably shorter than Jeffrey’s. His expression was sour, as if he were displeased with the decision. But Reverend Cumberhill was a shrewd man. He knew that to go against the powerful Earl of Merryton would not work in his favor. He clenched his jaw, peered at Jeffrey. “You will make this marriage straightaway?”

“Not only will I do it straightaway, I shall remove myself and this woman to Blackwood Hall at once.”

“Then we are agreed,” the reverend said crisply.

* * *

COUSIN BEATRICE’S LACE cap had been askew since the night the Franklin sisters had brought a disheveled Grace to her. Like everyone else, Beatrice assumed that Grace had suffered a great trauma to her person. She’d cried as she’d helped Grace undress. “Your mother will never forgive me!” she’d wailed.

Her mother, were she in her right mind, would never forgive Grace for what she’d done. Grace would never forgive herself. Yes, she’d suffered a great trauma, all right, but not to her person. The trauma was in the awful truth that she’d trapped the wrong man into scandal. Moreover, now that the trapping had been done, Grace was appalled by how deplorable an act it truly was. Would it have been any different had it been Amherst? Would he not have looked at her with the same loathing she’d seen in Merryton’s eyes? How did she ever come to believe this horrible, wretched plan would work?

Honor had been right when Grace had shared her scheme with her before traveling to Bath—it was a ridiculous, impossible plan. Why was it that this would be the one time that Honor was right? Could she not have been right that it was perfectly fine for two young women to race their horses on Rotten Row? Could she not have been right that the coral silk Grace had coveted was the best color for her? No, she had to be right about this.

Cousin Beatrice was pacing in front of Grace again, wringing her hands. Grace had never seen Beatrice wring her hands, but then again, she supposed Beatrice had never had to wait for the Earl of Merryton and the authorities of Bath to come for her. They were to arrive at eight o’clock, only minutes from now. The deed had been done, the agreement made and now, Grace would marry him.

What else could she do? She was irrevocably ruined. She felt nothing but angry disappointment at herself and dread for what was to come. She had not miraculously saved her family as she’d grandly imagined. Ah yes, the self-sacrificing heroine, saving her dear sisters from ruin! In fact, nothing at all had changed! The only new bit was that Grace would now suffer the shame of her ridiculous scandal not in the company of the affable Lord Amherst as she had planned, but with disagreeable, cold Lord Merryton.

“Your dear mother will be so very disappointed,” Beatrice said. “In you, in me— Grace, it is not to be borne! Why did you refuse to send a messenger to her at once? Why did you not ask for the help and support of your stepbrother at such a time as this?”

Grace could not possibly make Beatrice understand. “A messenger would never reach her in time, and as I explained, I could not possibly taint the wedding of my stepbrother. He’s waited so long! And my stepfather, gone only a month! Can you imagine, adding that scandal to what the family has already endured? Think of my young sisters, not yet out. No, cousin, there is no other course but to take responsibility for my indiscretion, just as Mr. Brumley has said.”

“Oh, Mr. Brumley!” Beatrice wailed, referring to her husband. “He doesn’t understand these things, Grace. Those men have pushed you into an agreement knowing very well you have no counsel!”

Of course, Beatrice would believe that, since Grace had not been truthful about why she’d done what she had. But Beatrice had not seen her friend Lady Beckington in quite some time, as she had been wintering in Bath and had not been to town this Season. Beatrice had no way of knowing that her old friend had gone almost completely mad, scarcely recognizing her own daughters on some days.

Keeping such news from Beatrice was something Grace could add to the growing list of reprehensible things she had done. But until Grace or her sister Honor were married, until they had secured a place for their two younger sisters and their mad mother to go, Grace would not breathe a word of it.

Time was of the essence, too, when Grace had undertaken the awful task of trapping a husband. Her stepbrother, Augustine Devereaux, the new Earl of Beckington, was set to marry Monica Hargrove within the month. Monica was Honor’s nemesis, and she, along with her mother, was aware of Lady Beckington’s deteriorating mind. They had already begun to speak of a manor in Wales for the Cabot girls.

Wales. Wales! It was as far from proper society as Monica could send them all. As far from opportunity as Grace’s sisters Prudence and Mercy could possibly be. It was intolerable, and as Honor had failed to save them all from that fate with her equally ridiculous plan of having a gentleman seduce Monica away from Augustine, Grace had felt as if the responsibility fell to her.

Which is why Grace had come to Bath—to lure the charming Lord Amherst to her. His reputation as a scoundrel was legion, yes, but he was also kind, and quite a lot of fun, and Grace had reasoned that if it had to be done, why not Lord Amherst? She could imagine that after the initial shock and scandal, they might be happy.

Dimwitted child, she thought as Beatrice paced and carried on. She and Honor had long bemoaned the fact that as young ladies without significant resources of their own with which to solve their growing problems, they had no other options but to use their passable looks and cunning to change the course of their lives. Their cunning, however, was sorely lacking. Their plans were so...ludicrous.

She could see that now. She could see just how naive and doltish she’d been.

The question that burned, that kept her up these past two nights since the awful mistake had occurred, was why hadn’t Amherst come? How had Merryton, of all people, arrived in his stead?

Every 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.”