Читать книгу The Devil Takes a Bride - Julia London, Julia London - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

THE CARRIAGE BEGAN to slow, and Grace leaned forward, looking out the small window. They’d come to a plain building, but up the road, she could see a small chapel next to a field where sheep grazed. When the carriage came to a halt, the Brumley footman opened the door and held up his hand to assist Grace.

She stepped out and looked around. “What place is this?” she asked, peering up at the building.

“Office of the magistrate, miss,” he said, and shut the carriage door.

The door of the building swung open, and a portly gentleman stepped outside. “This way, if you please,” he said, gesturing to Grace.

Grace slipped Honor’s letter into her reticule, picked up her skirts and walked up the uneven path to the door. The gentleman showed her into a small dark office and gestured to a wooden bench against the wall. “If you would, miss. Someone will be along to collect you when the time has come.”

“What is—”

He’d already shut the door.

Grace looked around the room and sat reluctantly. A few minutes later, she was startled to her feet when the door swung open.

Merryton stepped through the door. He seemed surprised to see her; he was still wearing his cloak—as was she—and boots muddied from his ride. She wondered where he had come from.

His green eyes scraped down her body and up again. A shiver ran through Grace; she thought of that darkened tea shop, the feel of his body hard against hers, his lips soft but demanding. She looked down, uncertain what to do in this situation, and afraid he would somehow read the memory in her face.

Why did he not speak?

She couldn’t bear the silence and lifted her gaze.

The man whom she had dishonored was staring at her, his gaze dark and devouring. She didn’t understand it completely, but she felt the intensity of it, and her hand fluttered self-consciously to her neck.

He clasped his hands behind his back. But he did not speak.

“My name is Grace,” she said, her voice sounding too loud in this room. “Grace Cabot.” The moment the words came out of her mouth, she realized how absurd she must sound. As if he’d not gone to the trouble to find out who, precisely, he was marrying. But whatever Merryton thought, she would not be allowed to know. His expression did not change.

Grace’s heart began to pound in her chest. She suddenly imagined him taking her in hand, taking her on the small, cluttered desk. Isn’t that what his gaze meant? “I, ah, I realize we’ve not been properly introduced.” She nervously cleared her throat. “I wish I knew how to...to adequately express my deepest apology,” she said with an uncertain gesture.

One of his dark brows arched slightly above the other, which she assumed meant he found her effort to apologize lacking.

“I can’t begin to apologize enough, my lord,” she quickly amended, trying to convey the depth of her regret. “But I am truly and deeply sorry for what I have done.”

Still, he did not speak. He had piercing, all-seeing eyes, and she wondered if he could sense how uncomfortable, how uncertain, she was. She didn’t want him to see it—she knew instinctively that to show this man any weakness would be like dangling meat before a lion. So she tried to smile a little. “So...here we are.” She nervously shifted up onto her toes and down again. “What shall I call you?”

He almost looked surprised by the question. “My lord,” he said, as if that were perfectly obvious. “Excuse me.” He turned around, his cloak swirling behind him, and walked out of the small room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Leaving Grace alone in that small dark office, staring at the place he’d just stood.

She snatched in a deep breath she hadn’t even realized she needed until that moment, and sank heavily onto the wooden bench. “My lord?” she repeated to the closed door. “That’s what I’m to call you? My lord?” Would he loathe her always? Would he ever speak?

Her mind raced alongside her heart for the next several minutes. Or hours—who knew? It seemed an interminably long wait, and she did not move from that bench. Her limbs ached, her head ached more. She wished someone had opened the blinds and given the room a bit more light, but it was as bleak and as dark as her mood. She did not feel at liberty to open them herself.

Occasionally, Grace would smooth out Honor’s letter from its crumpled state and read it again, but her sister’s words filled her with an overwhelming desire to stab a pen into the hard wood of the desk before her, or kick it with both feet until it broke in two. How different this day would have been had she known! How different her life would have been had Honor written her sooner!

Grace almost sobbed out loud with relief when the door swung open, and Merryton stepped inside. He stood just at the door, one fist clenched at his side, lightly tapping against the jamb. One two three four five six seven eight. He dropped his hand. “It is time, Miss Cabot,” he said simply.

“Well. Here it is, then,” she said, resigned. In the time it took her to stand, the life Grace had known flashed before her. A privileged childhood, three sisters whom she loved more than anything else. An elegant, sophisticated mother. A life at the brilliant center of London’s highest society.

Merryton, she noticed, tapped the jamb again, eight times.

Grace shoved Honor’s letter into her reticule. She tried to avoid his fierce green eyes. His jaw was clenched, his expression cold. The feeling was mutual, she supposed, and swallowed down the lump of trepidation that was choking her.

Merryton glanced at a small mantel clock. “Come now.” He spoke as if she were a servant.

“I’m coming as quickly as I can force myself.”

“It would behoove you to force yourself a bit faster.”

She could scarcely look at him as she moved past him, taking care not to brush his clothing with hers as she did. She stepped out and winced when she heard the door shut resoundingly behind her. She clasped her hands tightly before her and walked beside him, aware of his physical presence so much bigger and powerful than she.

Another shiver raced through her, and honestly, Grace could not say if it was a shiver of fear, of revulsion or, if she were perfectly honest with herself, of titillation. As heartsick as she was about this wedding, that night in the tea shop was still very much on her mind.

How in heaven had she managed to create such a prodigiously complicated shambles of her life in such a short amount of time? She would write Honor straightaway, as soon as the vows were said, and beg her to come. If she were allowed to post letters, that was. Grace wasn’t entirely certain what to expect any longer.

Merryton paused before another door in the back of the small offices. He rapped on the door, and as they waited for it to open, he tapped the jamb with his fist.

Grace glanced heavenward and sent up a silent prayer for courage.

The door opened, and a man of the cloth stood behind it. He was the same height as Grace, and his disdainful gaze slid down to her toes and up again. “This way, my lord,” he said to Merryton, and gestured behind Grace to the front door of the offices.

Merryton swept his hand before him, indicating Grace should precede him. She followed the clergyman out of the offices and up the road to the little chapel. She could hear Merryton walking behind her, but she could not see him. She glanced over her shoulder at him. His gaze was locked on her.

Why did he not speak? At the very least he might tell her he was so angry he did not intend to ever speak to her. Surely she deserved at least that explanation.

Grace slowed her step so that he had to walk beside her. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, debating what she might say to somehow improve this wretched situation. “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “this...arrangement...won’t be as bad as one might fear.” She looked at him hopefully.

Something dark flashed in his eyes.

“I mean only that, sometimes, it is best to look for hope than to find fault.” Oh, that sounded ridiculous.

He must have thought so, too, because he said nothing. Grace was beginning to think his silence might be the worst of it all—that he would never utter a word.

Cousin Beatrice and her disagreeable husband were waiting inside the chapel for them, and Beatrice looked again as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Grace sincerely hoped she would not.

There was no one for Merryton, she noticed. Not even Amherst.

Her heart was pounding as they moved up the aisle to the altar. She’d never felt so alone—they may as well have been leading her to the gallows and her execution.

The clergyman spoke in near-whispers to Merryton, almost as if Grace was not even present. He announced he would begin. He drew a breath and fixed his gaze on Grace. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God,” he said, as if Grace wasn’t aware that God was watching. As if she needed to be reminded. As if she wasn’t acutely aware of how dreadfully she must have disappointed her maker.

She surreptitiously pressed her damp palms against the skirt of her gown. She felt a little light-headed as the weight of what was happening began to sink in, and fixed her gaze on the stained glass over the vicar’s head, of Jesus on the cross. Her thoughts jumbled and raced ahead to her duties as this man’s wife. She was aware when Merryton shifted beside her, felt the heat in his much-larger hand when he took hers—literally picking it up from her side to hold it when Grace failed to hear the vicar’s instruction. The vicar began to read the assumptions of a married couple, including fidelity and honor. She noticed that Merryton’s eyes seemed to narrow the more the vicar spoke.

“My lord,” the vicar said, his voice soft and even kind, “will you take this woman...” He began to rattle off the requirements of him. To hold her from this day forward. To honor and cherish, for better or worse—

Now there was a laugh. There was no accidental honoring and cherishing at this altar. The notion that he should have to vow such a thing was so absurd that Grace could feel a slightly hysterical, completely irrepressible smile begin to curve her lips.

As the vicar continued to speak, Merryton looked at her curiously at first, then crossly. He undoubtedly did not find any of this amusing, and in spite of her attempt to hide her hysterical smile, neither did Grace. But the more the vicar spoke, the more absurd it all seemed, and Grace’s laughter was rising in her like a storm tide, threatening to explode on the gentleman standing before her. She bit her lip, but she couldn’t keep that damnable smile from her lips.

“I will,” Merryton said curtly.

Grace hadn’t even realized the question had ended.

“Miss Cabot,” the vicar said, “will you take Jeffrey Thomas Creighton Donovan to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, to honor and obey until death do you part?” he asked quickly, his gaze on the book he held.

Oh, dear. Until death parted them seemed an awfully long time. Grace thought of her fantasy of escaping, of running away. She would do that long before death ever thought to part them, and that, therefore, begged the question—

Merryton squeezed her hand. Her hesitation had earned her twin stern looks from the vicar and from Merryton. “Oh, yes,” she said quickly, and looked at the vicar. “I will.” Her voice was surprisingly strong for all the roiling in her belly. She shifted her gaze to Merryton. His expression was either a devouring one, or it was a very heated one, and she was mystified as to what, exactly, his gaze meant.

She looked away, finding the stained glass once more, praying for wisdom, forbearance, hope.

The vicar reminded them both that they had said these vows in the presence of God, and then intoned, “I pronounce you man and wife.”

The moment he said it, Merryton dropped her hand.

“If you would, my lord, sign the parish register,” the vicar said, his hand on Merryton’s elbow, showing him the way to the register.

Grace didn’t move from her spot at the altar, feeling quite at sea.

The vicar paused and looked back. “Mrs. Donovan!” he said, as if she were a lagging child, and held out the pen to her.

Well, then, that sealed it. If she was addressed as Mrs. Donovan, she must be married. Grace signed the marriage book, her hand shaking beneath the firm strokes of his signature. Merryton, he’d written. Cousin Beatrice signed as witness, wiping tears from her face as she did. Her husband signed next, and when he laid down the pen, he looked at Merryton and said, “My sympathies, my lord.”

Grace gasped with disbelief and gaped at Brumley, but she was so inconsequential to him that he never even glanced in her direction.

Merryton did, however. He turned that dark, cold gaze to her and said simply, “Come.” He turned on his heel, walking from the chapel, his cloak billowing behind him. He had not even removed his cloak.

A sob came from somewhere behind her, and in the next moment, Beatrice’s hands were grasping at Grace, turning her about, pulling her into her chest. “You poor dear,” she whispered. “Please let me write to your mother! She will be a source of great comfort to you now.”

Grace had to physically push away from Beatrice to draw a breath. “I’ve already sent a letter,” she lied.

“Oh, right, of course you have,” Beatrice said, and clasped Grace’s face between her hands. “Be brave, darling. It will not do to cry and carry on when you yourself have brought this on yourself.”

Grace blinked. She gave a small, rueful laugh. “No, of course not,” she agreed.

“Lady Merryton,” Merryton called sternly from the entrance.

It was a moment before Grace understood that he was speaking to her. She peeled Beatrice’s hands from her face and stepped away. She could still hear Beatrice’s whimpering as she walked down the aisle toward the sunlight streaming through the open door. Bright, cheerful sun, as if this was the happiest of days.

Grace stepped out into the sunlight and lifted the hood of her cloak over her head.

At the bottom of the hill, Merryton stood beside a black coach pulled by a team of four. It was deceiving in its lack of ornamentation; Grace knew it was one of the new, expensive landau coaches. The only nod given to the rank of the man who owned it was red plumes that billowed up from either side of the driver’s seat. Four coachmen in livery stood at attention, and she could see her trunk strapped to the boot.

With a curt nod of his head, Merryton commanded the coach door to be opened and the step brought down. He looked at Grace.

She took a breath and did not release it until she reached the coach. And even when she did, hardly any breath left her, all of it absorbed by her trepidation.

Merryton held out his hand, palm up, to help her into the coach. She hesitated before laying her hand in his. He didn’t look at her as he handed her up. When she was seated he stepped back. “Godspeed, madam.”

“Wait—pardon?” she said, confused, and lurched forward, bracing herself in the open door of the coach. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I will ride.”

“But I—” But she what? What could she possibly say? She wanted him to ride with her? No, no, she didn’t want that. Hours of cold silence was far worse than being alone on her wedding day—

Before Grace could work out what she meant, he’d shut the door. She surged toward the window, pushing aside the curtain. She had to crane her neck to see him, but she watched him stride to a horse that a boy held and easily swing up. He looked like a king on that horse, taut and muscular, his shoulders squared, his countenance stern. He turned to speak to the coachman, and then spurred his horse, galloping away from the chapel as if the devil chased him.

A moment later, the coach lurched forward, tossing Grace back into the leather squabs. She blinked up at the silk-covered ceiling. That was that, then. She was married to him, until death parted them, and he despised her. She abruptly bit down on her lower lip to keep tears from falling. She agreed with Cousin Beatrice—it would not do to cry when one had brought the situation on herself.

She would not cry, bloody hell, she would not.