The Devil Takes a Bride

‘London’s writing bubbles with high emotion as she describes sexual enthusiasm, personal grief and familial warmth. Her blend of playful humour and sincerity imbues her heroines with incredible appeal, and readers will delight as their unconventional tactics create rambling paths to happiness.’

—Publishers Weekly on The Devil Takes a Bride

‘This tale of scandal and passion is perfect for readers who like to see bad girls win, but still love the feeling of a society romance, and London nicely sets up future books starring Honour’s sisters.’

—Publishers Weekly on The Trouble with Honour

‘A delectably sexy hero, an unconventionally savvy heroine and a completely improper business proposal add up to another winner for ever-versatile London.’

—Booklist on The Trouble with Honour

‘This series starter brims with delightful humour and charm.’

—RT Book Reviews on The Trouble with Honour

‘Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.’

—New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter

THE CABOT SISTERS

The Trouble With Honour

The Devil Takes a Bride

The Scoundrel and the Debutante

JULIA LONDON is the New York Times, USA TODAY, and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of more than twenty romantic fiction novels. Her historical romance titles include the popular Desperate Debutantes series, the Scandalous series and the Secrets of Hadley Green series. She has also penned several contemporary women’s fiction novels with strong romantic elements, including the Pine River trilogy, Summer of Two Wishes, One Season of Sunshine and A Light at Winter’s End. She has won the RT Bookclub Award for Best Historical Romance and has been a four-time finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award for excellence in romantic fiction. She lives in Austin, Texas.

The Devil

Takes a Bride

Julia London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Nitty, who has made my life immeasurably easier

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Endpage

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Autumn of 1810

AT THE END of the hunting season, before the winter set in, the Earl of Clarendon hosted a soiree at his London home for the families of Quality that had come to town. He included, in his coveted invitations, his closest friends, all of whom had august titles and impeccable social connections.

The Earl of Beckington and his wife; his son, Lord Sommerfield, Augustine Devereaux; and his two eldest stepdaughters—Miss Honor Cabot and Miss Grace Cabot—were invited to attend. That the two youngest Beckington stepdaughters, Miss Prudence Cabot and Miss Mercy Cabot, were not included in the invitation caused quite a ruckus at the Beckington London townhome, which resulted in many tears being shed. The youngest, Mercy Cabot, vowed that she would vacate that house while the others attended the soiree. She would steal aboard a merchant ship that would carry her as far from London as one might possibly sail.

Miss Prudence Cabot, who was three years older than Mercy and who had just passed her sixteenth birthday, said she would not steal aboard a merchant ship. But if she was so worthless as to not merit an invitation, she intended to walk about Covent Garden unattended and sell her body and soul to the first person who offered a guinea.

“What?” cried twenty-year-old Grace when Prudence cavalierly announced her intentions. “Prudence, darling, have you lost your mind? You would sell yourself for a guinea?”

“Yes,” said Prudence petulantly, and lifted her chin, her gaze daring anyone to challenge her.

“Should you not at least aspire to a crown, dearest? What will a guinea say of your family? You must agree that a guinea is insufficient for your body and your soul.”

“Mamma!” Prudence cried. “Why do you allow her to tease me?” And then, unsatisfied with Lady Beckington’s indifferent response, she’d flounced off, apparently encountering several doors in her haste to flee, judging by the number of them that were slammed.

The Cabot girls were as close as sisters could be, and even Prudence’s hurt feelings could not keep her from the excitement of watching her older sisters dress for the evening. Honor and Grace were highly regarded among the most fashionably dressed—that was because their stepfather was a generous man and indulged their tastes in fine fabrics and skilled modistes.

On the evening of the soiree, in preparation, gowns were donned and discarded as too plain, too old or too confining. In the end, Honor, the oldest at twenty-one, selected a pale blue gown that complemented her black hair and blue eyes. Grace chose dark gold with silver filigree that caught the light and seemed to sparkle when she moved. Honor said it was the perfect gown to set off Grace’s gold hair and her hazel eyes.

When they descended to the foyer, their stepbrother, Augustine, who was to accompany them as the earl and his wife had declined the invitation, given the earl’s battle with consumption, peered at them. Then he rose up on his toes and said dramatically, “You surely do not intend to go out like that?”

“Like what?” Honor asked.

Augustine puffed out his cheeks as he was wont to do when he was flustered. “Like that,” he said, studiously avoiding looking at their chests.

“Do you mean our hair?” Honor teased him.

“No.”

“Is it my rouge? Does it not appeal to you?”

“No, I do not mean your rouge.”

“It must be your pearls,” Grace said with a wink for her sister.

Augustine turned quite red. “You know very well what I mean! I think your gown is too revealing! There, I’ve said it.”

“It’s the fashion in Paris,” Grace explained as she accepted her cloak from the footman.

“One cannot help but wonder if there is any fashion left in Paris, as it all seems to be upstairs in this house. I wonder how you know the fashion of Paris seeing as how Britain is at war with France.”

“Men are at war, Augustine. Women are not,” Grace said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t you want us to be fashionable?”

“Well, yes, I—”

“Good, then it is settled,” Honor said cheerfully, and linked her arm through her stepbrother’s. “Shall we?”

As was often the case, Augustine was overwhelmed by his stepsisters. With a good yank on his waistcoat to bring it down over a belly that had gone a little soft, he muttered that he did not care for their revealing clothing but allowed them to lead him out all the same.

* * *

THE CLARENDONS’ GRAND SALON was so crowded that there was hardly enough room to maneuver, and yet, all eyes turned toward the Cabot sisters.

“As is ever the case,” said Grace’s friend, Miss Tamryn Collins, “all gentlemen are held in thrall by the Cabot sisters.”

“Silly!” Grace said. “I’d wager the only gentlemen held in any sort of thrall are those who have been pressed by their families to make an offer to a debutante who will bring with her a generous dowry.”

“You underestimate the appeal of a pleasing décolletage, I think,” Tamryn said dryly.

Grace laughed, but Tamryn was right. Honor and Grace, separated by only a year, had been out for more than a year. By all rights, they ought to have received and accepted an offer of marriage, for wasn’t that the point of coming out? But Honor and Grace were beautiful young women and had quickly discovered they enjoyed the chase far too much to give it up for marriage just yet—not chasing, mind you, but being chased.

And they were very well chased.

It was no secret that the alluring Cabot sisters were as good a match as any young gentlemen might hope to make—pleasing to the eye and in spirit, and backed by the wealth of the Earl of Beckington.

“Oh, no,” Honor said, and took hold of Grace’s arm. “Grace, you must intercept him.”

“Who?” Tamryn asked, standing beside Grace as she peered into the crowd.

“Mr. Jett!” Honor whispered loudly. “He’s coming across the room, straight for us.”

“For you, you mean,” Grace said, and slipped her hand into Tamryn’s. “We must flee, Tamryn, lest we be locked in boring conversation for the rest of the evening. Have a lovely evening, Honor.”

“Grace!” Honor exclaimed, but Grace and Tamryn had already escaped on a wave of giggling, leaving Honor alone to graciously rebuff Mr. Jett’s most ardent attention.

With Tamryn gone off to have a word with a friend, Grace wended her way through the ballroom.

Grace danced, too, one set after the other, never lacking partners. But when the odious Mr. Redmond cast an oily smile in her direction and began to move toward her, she was relieved that Lord Amherst should suddenly step before her and bow grandly.

“Come quickly,” he said, holding out his hand. “I mean to rescue you from Redmond.”

“My hero!” Grace said laughingly, and slipped her hand into his, following his lead onto the dance floor.

Grace liked Lord Amherst. As did every other debutante. He was handsome and always had a warm laugh for her. He never failed to charm, and in fact, that was his reputation; he charmed every woman he met with his outrageous flirting and suggestive innuendo. That’s why Grace liked him so—she rather enjoyed flirting and suggestive innuendo.

He bowed as the dance began and said, “I’ve been trying to reach you all night, fighting my way through this bloody crowd for you.”

“What? There were no other dance partners for you?”

“Miss Cabot, you tease me mercilessly. You know there’s not another woman in this room that can compare to you.”

“Not even one other?” she asked as they rose up on their toes and then down, twirling around and facing each other once more.

“Absolutely not,” he said, and winked.

“My lord, you are the king of compliments.”

“Can you blame me? A woman as beautiful and spirited as you deserves nothing less than to be continually flattered. My heart has been quite lost to you.”

Grace giggled at his silliness. “Confess—you’ve said that to every other girl in attendance tonight.”

“Miss Cabot, you wound me. I have not said that to every other girl in attendance tonight. Only the beautiful ones.”

Grace laughed. They turned to the right, then to face each other again as they made their way up the line.

“Lord,” Amherst suddenly muttered. He was looking at a point over Grace’s shoulder. When Grace glanced back, she happened to notice Amherst’s brother, Lord Merryton. She was surprised to see him here. There were never two brothers more unalike. Amherst was always about, but Merryton rarely came to town. Amherst was quite diverting, and his brother brooding. That’s what he seemed to be doing now, standing with his back to the wall, his hands behind him. He had dark, curling hair, his expression grim.

Grace turned back to Amherst. “Your brother doesn’t seem to be enjoying the evening.”

“No,” he drawled. “He does not enjoy society as I do.”

“Doesn’t enjoy society?” Grace laughed. “I pray you, what else is there but society when it rains for days on end as it has?”

“Yes, well, he disapproves of gaiety in general. Balls in particular. He has no use for them.”

Grace was incredulous at this news. To have no use for balls was so far beyond her comprehension that she felt compelled to glance over her shoulder at the strange Earl of Merryton once more.

Amherst laughed. “You won’t find any answers there, Miss Cabot. He is rather adept at not allowing his true feelings to be known. Decorum in all things, you know.”

Grace smiled at her partner. “The same can’t be said of you, my lord.”

“Certainly not. I should like the world to know my very fond feelings of the most beautiful of the Cabot girls. In fact, I think I shall announce it. The moment we reach the top of the line, prepare yourself for a declaration of great esteem.”

Grace laughed at his teasing. She forgot about Merryton after that dance. After all, there were so many gentlemen, so much dancing, so many opportunities to flirt.

She forgot about him altogether until roughly eighteen months later, when her fortunes had shifted, and she was bitterly reminded just how disagreeable Lord Merryton was.

CHAPTER ONE

Spring of 1812

THE FRANKLIN SISTERS of Bath, England—one a widow, the other a spinster—presided over a small tea shop on the square near the baths and the abbey. It was their pleasure to serve tea and fresh-baked pastries to the denizens and visitors to their fair town. They knew most everyone by name. They lived above their shop and were open every day, without fail.

The sisters reasoned that, being as close to the abbey as they were, they might offer up their daily prayers in a more official manner than in their rooms, and every evening, at precisely six o’clock, they closed their shop. Those who resided near the abbey knew that they were so exact and so regular that even the abbey’s groundskeeper had noticed and had quite literally set the abbey clocks by them.

Once their daily prayers were offered, the sisters returned to their shop, lit a pair of candles and shared tea or soup and nattered on about their day. On certain special occasions, such as those evenings when a chorale was sung in the abbey, Reverend Cumberhill accompanied them back to the shop, and a bit of brandy was poured into the tea.

Grace Cabot was depending on the sisters’ routine. A routine she was confident went undetected by most of the fashionable people in Bath, as the fashionable people in Bath were not in the habit of attending evening prayer. She knew this because she was one of that set that spring, and she was in the habit of attending one soiree after the next along with the rest of them.

Had it not been for a chance call to her old friend Diana Mortimer, who lived near the abbey, Grace wouldn’t have known about the sisters’ routine. But she had made that call, and Diana had remarked upon it.

Diana Mortimer was also the one to tell her about the famed Russian soprano’s upcoming performance at the abbey. “The Prince of Wales has favored her,” Diana said. “And you know very well that if the prince has favored her, there won’t be an empty seat.”

That was the moment Grace hit upon the perfect plan to lure Lord Amherst into her trap.

She risked everything to set her plan in motion on the night the Russian soprano sang. It all hinged on the Franklin sisters arriving at the precise and most inopportune moment.

Grace did not think she was the sort to be annoyingly proud of her accomplishments, but this meeting with Lord Amherst, on this night, had taken exceptional cunning to arrange. She’d come to Bath a month ago after hearing his lordship had come for the waters, for the sole purpose of convincing him that she was quite sincere in her esteem of him, without appearing too wanton. But Grace had made her social debut at the age of eighteen, and in the three years hence, she’d learned her lessons in the finest salons of London and knew a thing or two about how to entice a gentleman, especially one like Amherst.

And yet, Amherst had surprised her. In spite of his reputation for being a randy and rambunctious rake, in spite of declaring his esteem for her more than once, he’d not been persuaded that a private meeting with Grace was the thing to do.

Grace had not anticipated his reluctance when she’d devised her plan. On every occasion they’d met in London, Amherst had been attentive—one might even say eager—to please and charm her. He was forthright about his esteem for her, and Grace had been certain his affection would lend itself to a clandestine meeting. Indeed, when Grace had arrived in Bath, and made the necessary rounds to the necessary parlors, Lord Amherst had not been the least reluctant to whisper in her ear during the Wickers’ soiree. Nor had he been reluctant to walk with her in the park near the Royal Crescent or keep his hands from her as they strolled.

But he’d absolutely refused to meet her in private when she’d first suggested it.

She had wondered if he had suspected her and her motives, but quickly dismissed that notion—she’d been too clever in her deceit. Having three sisters and a stepbrother had taught her how to connive. Then perhaps she’d not been conniving enough, and in the privacy of the room she’d taken in the home of her mother’s dear friend Cousin Beatrice she’d thought hard about what she must do.

One night, it came to her—no one could resist a secret. Not even Amherst. She’d told him that she had something very important to tell him, something that no one else could hear. And Grace had been right—Amherst couldn’t resist and had agreed to meet her.

One might assume that Grace wanted to seduce Amherst for her own pleasure, but nothing could be further from the truth. This scheme had become necessary because her stepfather, the Earl of Beckington, had recently died. Grace, her mother, Lady Beckington, and her sisters Honor, Prudence and Mercy had been completely dependent on the earl. Completely. Now, her stepbrother, Augustine, was the new earl, and every day that passed with her mother under Augustine’s roof was a day that her mother’s terrible secret could be discovered: Lady Beckington was going mad.

That secret would ruin the Cabot sisters, for if it were known among the ton that Lady Beckington was mad, and her four unmarried daughters now had modest dowries instead of generous ones, no one would have them. No one. There wasn’t a gentleman in London who would chance introducing madness into his family’s lineage, especially without the incentive of grand wealth. More important, Grace had two younger sisters who were not yet out. They would have no opportunity to make a good match.

She and Honor had worried over it for weeks now, and while Grace didn’t like that it had come to this, that she should find herself in a position of having to conspire to something so morally reprehensible, she could see no other viable or expeditious solution. She must marry Amherst before her secrets were discovered.

Everything was set. The little tea shop across the square from the abbey was closed at six o’clock. There was quite a crowd gathered at the abbey this evening to hear the Russian soprano. Grace knew the Franklin sisters would return after the chorale with Reverend Cumberhill. She’d even stood across from the tea shop, watching when the Franklin sisters departed for the abbey at six o’clock, then testing the door herself. It was open. It was always open—the abbey was only steps from the shop.

Tonight, Grace’s life would change forevermore. She would suffer a great scandal, would no doubt be made a pariah among polite society. She was prepared for it—at least her younger sisters would have what they needed.

At the chorale, she caught Amherst’s twinkling eye. Just as they’d planned, she stood and walked briskly from the abbey’s sanctuary before the chorale was ended. She knew that Amherst would be right behind her, unsuspecting that the Franklin sisters and the reverend would be right behind him.

A light rain had begun to fall, and that worried Grace. A few moments too early, a few moments too late, and everything would be ruined. She pulled the hood of her cape over her head and hurried across the abbey courtyard to the tea shop. She had a moment of breathlessness at the realization she was actually stooping to such wretched manipulations—up until this moment, it had been nothing but a scheme—but that was followed by an exhalation of desperation. She had never in her life been so desperate as this.

At the door of the tea shop, she pushed her hood back to look around her before she opened the door. There was no one about—everyone was in the abbey, hearing the last stanzas of the chorale.

Grace reached for the handle and pushed. She knew a moment of panic when the door would not open—but she put her shoulder to it and it opened with a creak so loud she expected the entire town of Bath to spill out of their doors and accuse her of thievery. Grace slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar so that Amherst would know it was open, and paused, listening for any sounds that would indicate she’d been seen.

She couldn’t hear a thing over the pounding of her heart.

The room was very dark; the embers at the hearth were so low she could hardly see her hand before her. Another bolt of panic hit her—she hadn’t thought of the dark. How would Amherst find her? She was too fearful to speak. She’d stand near the door; she’d reach out and touch him when he entered.

Grace began to feel about for the furnishings. She’d been in this tiny tearoom many times, and knew there were two small tables just at the door, a desk to her right. With her hands sweeping slowly in front of her, she brushed against the back of the chair at the desk.

All right, then, she had her bearings. She knew where she was standing, where the door was.

Grace removed her cloak and dropped it somewhere nearby, then nervously smoothed her hair. Her hands were shaking; she clasped them tightly together, waiting. A clock was ticking somewhere, and every second that ticked by, her heart beat harder.

She heard the footfall of Amherst as he strode across the abbey courtyard. He was walking quickly, purposefully, and suddenly Grace’s breath deserted her entirely. She gulped for air, straining to hear. She heard Amherst pause just outside the door and swallowed down a small cry of tension. It sounded as if he was moving about, and Grace imagined Amherst was having second thoughts. He moved away from the door, and she gasped softly.

But he came back almost at once.

A silence followed, and Grace could not quell the shaking in her. Why did he not open the door? When he did, pushing the door so that it swung open, a rush of cool damp air swept across Grace’s face. Her breath was so shallow she felt faint; her hands were so tightly clasped that she was vaguely aware of her fingernails digging into her skin.