The Devil Takes a Bride. Julia London

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.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      IT WASN’T LONG before the scattering of cottages grew farther apart, and soon, there was nothing but forests rolling by, broken by the occasional pasture dotted with sheep or cows or, as Grace saw in one pasture, dozens of pigs grazing around their little hovels. Occasionally, she would spot the chimneys of a grand estate over the tops of trees, but that was the only sign of people on this road.

      She was hungry; she wondered if it was acceptable to ask the coachman to stop in a village, to allow her to rest, to eat something, to freshen herself before she arrived at Blackwood Hall.

      She reread Honor’s letter to take her mind off her discomfort, but found nothing but more anxiety in the happy loops and swirls of her sister’s handwriting. Grace put the letter away, folded her arms and leaned her head back against the squabs, squeezing her eyes shut against the images of the life about to unfold before her. The constant rocking of the coach made her limbs and eyelids feel heavy; Grace was aware she was sinking into exhaustion, but she didn’t recall sliding down onto the bench. That was where she was when the coach hit a bump, and her head struck the side of the coach, waking her. “Ouch,” she said, wincing and putting a hand to her head.

      She pushed herself up and swept aside the curtains. The day had turned gloomy, and they were rolling past some barren cliffs. But the road turned, and the forest began again, rising up dark against the hills. The coach slowed and turned north, into the thick of the forest. The trees were so dense that they blocked what little light existed. The forest was truly black wood.

      The coach began to slow. They passed through a massive stone gate, its height so tall that from Grace’s vantage point through the small window she could not see the top of it. Once inside the gate, the trees had been thinned, and gray light dappled the pristine lawn.

      Grace gasped softly when the house came into view—it was quite large, at least as large as Longmeadow, the Beckington seat where she’d spent her youth. But where Longmeadow was light and cheerful, Blackwood Hall was dark and foreboding. The stone was gray, the windows black eyes. The chimneys were covered in soot, and there was no color that Grace could see, other than the green ivy that covered one corner of the house.

      The house looked just like its master—bleak, dark and foreboding, the only color in his face the stark green of his eyes.

      The house staff was scurrying out the door, lining up in order of rank as the coach rolled in. There were fifteen in all, the butler and the housekeeper at the head of the line. They came to a halt, and the door swung open. The bench was set before the opening. A coachman held up his hand to assist her down.

      Grace swallowed down a small lump of fear, and stepped out.

      The staff were looking straight ahead, but more than one pair of eyes slid in her direction. She let her hood fall back and glanced around for Merryton. He came striding across the drive, his crop tapping against his leg. Eight times. A pause. Eight times again.

      “Mr. Cox, Mrs. Garland, may I present Lady Merryton,” he said matter-of-factly. He announced it so casually, in fact, that one would reasonably assume he must have sent word ahead of his marriage. But it was clear that when the two principle servants both froze, and the ripple ran through the rest of the servants gathered, that none of them knew.

      “My lady,” Mrs. Garland said, the first to recover as she dipped into a quick curtsy. She looked to Mr. Cox for guidance, but the tall, thin butler had yet to regain his composure. Not that Merryton cared, apparently, because he looked at Grace, clenched his jaw and strode inside, the crop still tapping against his leg. Eight times.

      “Ah...” Grace glanced over her shoulder; the coachmen were unlashing her trunk. She turned back to the group of servants. “How do you do,” she said, forcing a smile, nodding at them. “This...this must come as something of a surprise.”

      There was a murmur of agreement, more shuffling about.

      “Yes, well...it was meant to...be a surprise,” she said hesitantly, reaching for anything to ease her arrival as a Fallen Woman.

      “You are very welcome, my lady,” Cox said, having recovered from his initial shock. He jostled two chambermaids out of the way and walked briskly forward, bowing before Grace, then gesturing for her to precede him into the house. “If I may, I shall show you about the hall. Mrs. Garland, please do see that the lady’s chambers are made ready? Make way,” he said, and the servants instantly split into two lines, stepping back to allow Grace to pass.

      Grace smiled again, lifted her chin as if she were entering Lady Chatham’s sitting room, nodding and murmuring a greeting to the servants as she passed by them and walked into the foyer of Blackwood Hall.

      She had expected grandeur, and while the house was certainly grand—the marble floors, the winding formal staircase, the Grecian columns—there was not the usual assembly of paintings and armor that, in