The Devil Takes a Bride. Julia London

vases in the foyer was not in its place when he returned to Blackwood late that afternoon. And it had been carelessly pushed against the wall. He bit down remarking as much to Cox, who was busy receiving Jeffrey’s cloak, gloves and hat, as well as his riding crop. He was reluctant to speak, certain that every word he uttered revealed his sickness in some way. He struggled to keep the evidence from everyone, although he thought that he had no doubt failed miserably to hide it completely from Mr. Cox or Mrs. Garland.

      “If I may, my lord,” Cox said, his arms laden with Jeffrey’s things.

      Jeffrey took his gaze from the offending vase and fixed it on his butler.

      “Lady Merryton has requested that Hattie Crump serve as her lady’s maid.”

      Hattie, the tiny woman with the dark red hair, was quite plain, her face reminiscent, to Jeffrey at least, of a goose. He did not wish to be so uncharitable, but when it came to women, it behooved his sanity to take careful note of their looks. Hattie had been in service at Blackwood Hall since she was a girl and he’d known her all his life. She was the one he allowed to tend his study and his private rooms. Hattie was quite efficient at what she did, and moreover, so plain that she did not provoke disturbing images to crowd his brain.

      “I explained that she is not a lady’s maid to her ladyship, but she said that she preferred Hattie to anyone we might find in the village.”

      An image of Lady Merryton lounging naked in her bath while Hattie brushed her golden hair flit like a butterfly through Jeffrey’s mind. “I shall think on it,” he said, and turned to go. He paused at the console with the offending vase, and straightened it. “We are missing a rose, Cox,” he said with his back to the butler, and walked on. He knew that Cox would be scrambling to right that terrible wrong, beginning with a tongue lashing for the poor servant who had miscounted.

      He dressed for supper, as was his habit, combing his hair eight times, untying and tying his neck cloth eight times. When he’d finished, he studied himself in the mirror above his basin, looking for any sign of madness, of the obsession that gripped him. But he looked as he always did—filled with ennui. Expressionless. He’d spent a considerable amount of time over the years affecting the look so that he’d not reveal his terrible inner thoughts.

      Even now, composed as he might appear, he couldn’t bear to think of laying eyes on his wife again, of seeing the swanlike neck, the golden hair, the sea-stained eyes. He was a man, for God’s sake. He was strong, he was virile—he wanted his wife and he would not allow this illness to hold him hostage.

      He strode from his room, determined.

      She was in the dining room before him, just as she had been last evening. Tonight, she was dressed quite plainly in a brown day dress with a high neck. It did not hide her beauty; if anything, it accentuated it. Now, there was nothing to distract from the eyes, or the creaminess of her skin, or the coral lips.

      She was holding a glass of wine as she curtsied, then sipped from it as she eyed him curiously over the rim. She did not appear as anxious as she had yesterday evening. Tonight, she appeared restless.

      Jeffrey clasped his hands tightly at his back. “Good evening, Lady Merryton.”

      “Good evening. By the by, my name is Grace,” she said.

      “I am aware.” His gaze slid to her glass. “You enjoy wine.” He meant nothing by it; it was merely an observation, something to say to prove to himself that he could indeed converse. But he saw an almost imperceptible lift of her chin, as if she thought he disapproved, when in fact, he did not approve or disapprove.

      “I do,” she said. “Sometimes, I like it far better than other times.” She drank deliberately, her gaze steady on his.

      “My lord, supper is served,” Cox announced, and placed a glass of wine at Jeffrey’s place.

      Jeffrey glanced to the footman. Ewan was a young man, a handsome man, Jeffrey believed, not that he was a particularly good judge of it.

      Ewan instantly moved to seat Lady Merryton, holding out his gloved hand to help her into her chair. Jeffrey watched her slip her hand into Ewan’s, and he suddenly thought of Ewan’s hand on her bare skin, on her breast. That image plagued him as took his seat and as Cox filled their plates. Jeffrey was relieved when Cox had finished, and nodded to Ewan, and the two of them quietly quit the room. He picked up his fork.