Devil Takes A Bride (11 page)

In the darkened hallway, Lizzie closed her eyes and leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling slightly ill with her transgression and despising herself for violating her own highest value. As a Christian woman and a helper, a nurturer in the world, it was unthinkable that she could have done something so cruel, threatening an inwardly wounded man with his worst fear. No wonder he had come so quickly. No wonder he stayed away.

Yet as terrible as she felt for hurting him, she was glad she had not let her guilt force her to yield to Lady Strathmore's request. She was a person who took her promises very seriously, and at the moment, she knew that Devil Strathmore was more than she could handle. It would be foolish to agree to take care of him—assuming she could!—when she had only lately broken her habit of fussing over Alec like a mother hen—for all the good it had done her. No, the next time she focused her efforts on a man, it would be someone both willing and able to give to her in return.

There was a time when she would have meekly obeyed the order, but she was stronger now. If nothing else, her break with Alec had taught her to stand up for herself in this life, or else let her heart be continually trampled.

In any case, she had no doubt that if Devil Strathmore knew of the request his aunt had just made of her, his male pride would have been incensed. No man ever thought he needed anyone to take care of him—but of course, they all did. Fortunately, he had the trusty Bennett Freeman to look after his basic needs.

Be that as it may, she still owed him an apology. She opened her eyes slowly and took a deep breath, knowing he was waiting for her in the library, with God-knew-what sort of intentions. It did not matter, she decided. She could hold her own, and he would soon discover the seriousness of her visit.

Pressing heavily away from the wall, she lifted a candle from the wall sconce to light her way, then walked down the hallway, shoulders squared. The night was so still as she glided through the house, the settling winter darkness so deep. As she drifted down the stairs, reflecting back on their fight in the parlor, she marveled at his chivalrous restraint in not throwing it all in her face, as he could easily have done. She had dealt him probably the worst blow possible, but he had remained silent, retreating rather than hurting her the way she had hurt him. She shook her head at herself as she rounded the newel post and walked bravely toward the library. Obviously there was a great deal more to this man than met the eye. Much more substance to be weighed than his mere bills. The candle's flame danced as she let out a sigh of regret. Her wrath at his expenditures seemed so petty to her now. Just because he gambled on occasion did not make him Alec.

Ahead, the library door stood open. She could see the ruddy glow of the dancing hearth fire. Trembling slightly, she forced herself forward. Her heartbeat quickened. Silent in her soft kid slippers, she padded over to the threshold and cautiously peered inside.

He was there, reclining on the brown leather couch, though he was too long for it. He lay with one knee bent, the other foot sprawled off the side. One arm pillowed his head; the other rested across his flat belly. Pasha snuggled, curled and purring, by his shoulder. As Lizzie took a few cautious paces into the room, the viscount did not stir. That was when she realized he had fallen asleep waiting for her.

At once, her tensed shoulders dropped in mingled disappointment and relief, but in spite of herself, a tender smile spread across her face. The poor thing, she mused, the sight of him tugging at her heartstrings. After his eighteen-hour ride from London through last night's blizzard, no wonder he was exhausted. For a moment, her gaze lingered over his sleeping male beauty, licked by shadows from the cheerful blaze in the fireplace.
Magnificent man.
His hard mouth had softened; his lips looked plump and lusciously inviting. His inky lashes fanned across his high-boned cheeks. His lovely chest rose and fell peacefully, his breathing deep and slow.

Her gaze homed in on his throat, a rare and most intriguing sight in a world of starched cravats. The noble curve of his neck was golden-bronzed. He had also removed his tailcoat, affording her a fine view of the way the paper-thin cambric of his elegant white shirt draped his broad shoulders and bulged at the level of his biceps. His waistcoat hung unbuttoned.

Gliding silently across the library, she collected the quilt that sat folded in the window nook and covered him with it. As she spread the blanket lightly over him, Pasha's whiskers at his cheek tickled him to stir drowsily. Lizzie straightened up to leave, but her heart skipped a beat as his long-lashed eyes swept open.

“Hey,” he murmured, starting to sit up. He swatted the cat away with a shove of his hand, but Lizzie bent down and pressed his shoulder gently.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispered. “You need it.”

“Stay.” He sent her a roguish but sleepy smile, clutching lightly at her skirts with one hand.

Lizzie paused and gazed down at him for a long moment. He tilted his head and stared back at her with a slightly astonished look, perhaps surprised that she had actually come down to meet him. Before he got the wrong idea, she lowered herself to her knees beside the couch and held him in a sober gaze as she searched for words.

“Thanks for the blanket. That was very sweet of you.” When she said nothing, he studied her distraught face and then frowned. “What's wrong, sweeting?” he murmured, cupping her cheek.

“Oh, Devlin,” she whispered. She wrapped her hands around his forearm and pressed her cheek harder against his palm, squeezing her eyes shut while she cringed with remorse at his tenderness. “I'm so sorry.”

He was silent. When she flicked her eyes open again, there were tears in them. He had sat up on the couch, the blanket still loosely draped over his lower half, but his expression was unreadable, his serious gaze fixed on her with swordlike intensity.

She stared at him, clinging to his hand still cradling her cheek. “I didn't mean to hurt you so badly—I swear it. Lady Strathmore just now told me about your family. If I had known, I would never have written that letter. I would never have done it. Not like that.”

“Hush.” He caught her tear on the pad of his thumb. “It's all right.”

“No, it's not,” she cried. “You didn't deserve that, nor had I any right to judge you. I acted like a—a self-righteous prig! It's just that I never thought—I didn't know.”

“I know you didn't.” He shook his head, looking mystified by such remorse. “It's all right, sweeting. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I don't want you to hate me,” she choked out.

“Hate you?” He gave her a chiding half-smile, trying to coax a smile from her in answer. “I thought you were an expert on ‘my kind,' but I'm afraid you know nothing about men if you think I could ever hate you. Look at this beautiful face.” He caressed her cheek with one knuckle, smiling wistfully at her. “No, my dear E. Carlisle, I could never be angry at you.”

Fresh tears filled her eyes at his tender words. Without warning, she launched at him, hugging him hard around his neck. A small sob escaped her.

“There, there.” He slid his arms around her with a paternal chuckle, but she shut her eyes tightly, her heart clenching at his manly strength and generosity of spirit.

After all he had been through, she could barely believe how kind and gentle he was. Most people in his place would surely have turned bitter and cold long ago.

“Hush, sweet, no more tears,” he crooned softly in her ear as he held her in a comforting embrace, his large, warm hand stroking her hair. “All's forgotten. We made a truce. Remember?”

She sniffled. “I'm sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It wasn't your fault. Besides, you didn't know. I'm the one who should apologize. It's my neglect that drove you to this action. The truth is, I'm grateful.”

“Grateful?” she whispered, bringing her tears in check, though she did not release him from her embrace.

“Of course. You risked yourself, your job, to get my aunt what you thought she needed. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who really cares that much? Never mind your wages—I've been around long enough to know that it's not possible to pay someone to give of themselves from the heart the way that you do. You went above and beyond the call of duty simply because you love my aunt, and for that, I shall be always in your debt.”

She moved back slowly a small space and peered into his eyes. He dropped his gaze after a second, looking a trifle chagrined.

“It's not that I don't want to come and see her. It's just—so difficult. You lost your parents, too—you said so at dinner. You know how it is. At least I have memories of mine. Too many memories,” he added, then shook his head in brooding frustration. “I know that's no excuse. The fact that my family was taken from me
ought
to make me come here even more. I should be here while I still have time with her, as you said, and I know that, but the more I spend time with her—the more I let myself care—the more it's going to hurt when—” His voice broke off, as if he could not even bring himself to say the words.

“Your aunt knows you love her, Devlin,” she told him softly, running a comforting caress up and down his muscled arm. “It's not a question of that. But if you don't spend time with her while you still can, how will you ever be able to forgive yourself once she's gone?”

He glanced darkly into her eyes.

“I know it hurts to see her getting weaker and to know the day draws nearer when you must say good-bye, but avoiding the situation will not stop that day from coming.”

“You're right, of course. I know that.” He shook his head. “It's just—hard.”

“Then I will help you,” she whispered, taking his hand. “Stay and make her happy, and somehow we'll get through it together.”

He stared down at their joined hands. “I get the feeling you're good at helping people.”

She smiled wanly and shrugged; her deceitful letter had obviously not helped much. “Well, it's all out in the open now if you wish to speak to her about it. Somehow she suspected that I had written to you. She questioned me, and I confessed.”

“You confessed?” he echoed, glancing at her in surprise.

“Of course. I would not lie to her.”

“Wonderful,” he muttered, shoving his other hand through his hair with a rueful smile. “She asked me the same thing, but I told her I had no idea what she was talking about.”

“
You
lied?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows.

“I didn't want you to lose your job, sweeting.”

“Oh,” she murmured; then they both laughed at their faux pas as they gazed at each other. Lizzie blushed at the intimate warmth in his smile. She lowered her lashes, suddenly feeling shy. “Who ever would have thought you and I could have something in common?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “We're both alone.”

She lifted her glance slowly and found him watching her.

Words failed her. The smoldering glow she had glimpsed in his eyes at dinner was back; indeed, there was something almost possessive in his stare as he studied her, desire gentling the hard, angular precision of his face. With a measured balance of boldness and caution, he lifted his hand once more to touch her, running his knuckle lightly along the line of her jaw.

She trembled at the contact, a tingling spark of sheer thrill rushing down her spine and searing along every nerve ending from her fingertips down to her toes. Staring into her eyes, Devlin slid his hand beneath her hair, clasping her nape, drawing her to him. She went willingly, leaning toward him, as eager as he. So close that she could feel the warmth of his breath, Devlin tilted his head; Lizzie's eyes drifted closed at the first gliding caress of his lips on hers—smooth, satin bliss. He brushed his hungry kiss back and forth across her mouth, entrancing her. She could feel her lips swelling, growing acutely sensitized beneath the tender stroking of his mouth, his hand cradling her head all the while.

Her senses a-swirl with dizzying pleasure, it was all she could do to brace herself with a hand on his thigh, the other at his chest, clinging to the open front of his unbuttoned waistcoat. Then Devlin let his lips wander slowly away from her mouth, dusting her face with light, heated kisses, while his other hand clasped her waist. Lizzie smiled in sensual delight at his playful seduction, trailing little kisses over her cheeks, her brow. Then he bent lower, pressing a kiss full of hotter intent to her throat.

She tilted her head back with a catch in her breath, her lips parting. She draped her arm over his broad shoulder, drawing him closer, all her awareness fixed on his open-mouthed kiss on the curve of her neck. The man would drive her mad.

When he came back and claimed her mouth with electrifying demand, Lizzie felt her heart would surely burst, it was pounding so hard.

Devlin cupped her face, his thumb caressing the corner of her lips. “Open your mouth for me, angel. Let me taste you,” he begged in a panting whisper.

Hesitantly, she yielded, afire with enthralled fascination as his tongue glided into her mouth, an exploratory stroking. He moaned low and gathered her closer, his deepening kiss consuming her. She had heard about French-style kisses like this—hot, wet, deep, erotic. But when she responded boldly in kind, licking Devlin's tongue slowly as his mouth slanted over hers, nothing could have prepared her for his explosive lust. He lifted her astride his lap, both his hands gripping her backside almost roughly through her gown. He pressed her against his body, kissing her more hungrily still. In his fierce eagerness, his teeth bruised her lip, but Lizzie didn't even care. With her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, the feel of his hard, lean hips between her thighs was too much. Though layers of clothing stood between them, the lock-and-key fit of their bodies ignited such a surge of wild need in her blood that she tore her mouth away from his by some superhuman effort.