The Devil's Submission
by Nicola Davidson
Copyright © 2017 by Nicola Davidson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
North Lincolnshire, England, June 1814
“You must return to London, Eliza. It will be the ton wedding of the year!”
Lady Eliza Deveraux glanced again at the crisp gold-embossed invitation her mother, Countess Brimley, kept shoving under her nose. That Sin and his bride-to-be Grace had included her on the guest list warmed her heart no end. But under no circumstances would she be going. Not when attendance would put her in the vicinity of her estranged husband, Lord Grayson Deveraux, Sin’s closest friend and second co-owner of the shockingly infamous pleasure club Fallen.
“No, Mother. I’ll send them a gift and my deepest regrets; however, London and I do not get along.”
“But the Prince Regent is a guest! And the Duke and Duchess of Waverly…oh, anyone who is anyone received an invitation. And if you go, Brimley and I can go with you.”
“I said no. And that is the end of the discussion.”
Lady Brimley glared at her. “You selfish, selfish, girl. Denying your father and me an opportunity like this because of your own gross failures. When I saw the betrothal announcement in the newspaper, I knew they would invite you. I waited and waited for you to share the news. But you chose to break my heart instead. What did I do to deserve the worst daughter in England?”
Gritting her teeth so hard they would soon grind to powder, Eliza fought to remain calm. To keep her tears unshed. To sip her tea rather than dump it on her mother’s perfectly coiffed head. The dozens of scathing letters about her broken marriage had been sufficiently infuriating, but clearly her replies hadn’t been detailed or apologetic enough to keep her mother safely far away at Brimley Park. This morning the damned crested carriage had pulled up in a clatter of gravel and dust; the gray-faced fatigue of the Brimley servants suggesting the usual leisurely two-day journey had been completed much faster. Not to mention her mother hadn’t even waited until she’d stepped inside to discuss the wedding invitation, as if all were well between them. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but Grayson and I have been living apart for six months, and it is far better like this. Civil, even.”
“Oh, you headstrong fool,” spat Lady Brimley. “Do you have any idea of the further damage you did me when you ran away from your own husband?”
“I didn’t run away—”
“Close enough for the gossips. As if it wasn’t bad enough you set your heart on a scoundrel and married him because you thought you were in love. Sweet-talked your papa into countenancing a small, intimate wedding away from the ton. I might have borne that in time. Lord Grayson’s enormous wealth, and his social connections do somewhat fade the stain of his filthy trade and scandalous reputation. But!”
Eliza stared longingly out the window. The balcony wasn’t so high; surely the shrubbery would break her fall. At least then she wouldn’t have to listen to a lecture heard a thousand times already. “But he decided I should not reside under the same roof as him.”
“Yes! Yes, he did! And now I am destroyed. Finished. Ended. An object of pity and scorn!”
“Oh dear.” She sighed, wishing she could select the delectable-looking glazed jam tart from the tea tray. But provoking her mother’s second favorite lecture—Eliza’s Troublesome Weight—would not be a smart decision.
“You wretched girl! Have you no sorrow for my humiliation? The reputation of the Brimley Finishing Academy is ruined. We were renowned for our successes. As the sign stated, ‘well-bred young ladies taught to be Delightful, Decorous, and Demure in preparation for excellent marriages.’ But what ton mother will send her offspring to a school when the patroness’s own daughter was such a terrible wife her husband couldn’t stomach her so soon after the wedding?”
Eliza winced as a familiar pain clawed her heart.
Even now it was impossible to pinpoint what she’d done to make Grayson hate her so. From the moment she’d met the most handsome spectacle-wearing and ledger-loving lord in England, she’d been smitten. Twenty-eight years old, six feet tall, with a lean, muscled build, strong jaw, short-cropped ebony hair, and emerald green eyes to drown in. Oh, there had been the odd warning: that his nickname Devil was not only a play on his surname, but also an accurate description of an ice-cold bastard with the blackest of hearts. That he’d been disowned by his parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Reyburn, for something so awful it was spoken of by no one.
But in the weeks of charmingly clumsy waltzes, long walks, rare flowers, and sizzling kisses, all that had seemed ridiculous, and she fell helplessly in love. For heaven’s sake, Grayson had even tolerated her terrible tendency to issue instructions and discuss unladylike topics. Some of the shockingly risqué conversations they’d had…but those had paled in comparison to an unforgettable evening in the Brimley Park maze. She forgot herself completely, ordered him to touch her properly, and by heaven he’d obeyed. After Grayson had lowered her bodice and suckled her tender nipples, he’d lifted her gown and stroked the damp heat between her legs until she experienced her first shuddering climax. Unfortunately she came loudly enough for them to be discovered shortly afterward, but Grayson hadn’t even waited for a ton trial. He’d immediately proposed, and they’d wed by special license three days later.
Cracks soon appeared. Her mother began visiting every second day to offer reminders and advice on how to be a worthy wife. Although Eliza tried her hardest to quell her stubborn, independent streak and be feted as a good and obedient Brimley Finishing Academy graduate, it seemed she could never reach the expected standard of decorum or submissiveness. The more she bowed to Grayson’s will, the more he pulled away, spending increasing amounts of time in his office at Fallen with his guinea piles and ledgers, even taking a chamber there rather than returning to their townhouse. The nights he did come home, he reached for her less and less. And then came the awful day when she suggested a holiday and he counter-offered with a choice of property and a generous allowance if she left at once. She’d chosen the estate farthest away from London, a two-day carriage ride to just north of Gainsborough. And she’d fled.
The clattering of a teaspoon on fine bone china startled her out of her reverie, and she mumbled quickly, “Surely, Mother, the academy could not be doing as badly as all that.”
“It is,” Lady Brimley snapped. “Withdrawals are coming in by the day now, especially with summer upon us. All because you couldn’t do your duty in any way. Twenty-four years old and still childless. The shame!”
“That wasn’t my fault!” Eliza said hotly. “To conceive, your husband must actually share your bed. And after a while he…he didn’t want to. He didn’t want me.”
“Because you are a twit. A brassy, outspoken hoyden who chose the wrong husband and then drove him away. I bet his mistress soothed him with quiet sweetness. Mrs. Lewis, wasn’t that her name?”
Misery lodged in Eliza’s stomach. It seemed everyone but her had known about Grayson’s longtime paramour, Charlotte Lewis, who even had her own chamber at Fallen. How many nights when she’d lain alone had she tortured herself with images of him kissing the beautiful, slender brunette. Sucking her nipples. Kneeling between her spread thighs and licking her core. Penetrating her deeply with that long, thick erection of his, taking her hard, whispering words of love in her ear as they climaxed together.
“Perhaps,” she choked out.
“Well then. This wedding is the perfect occasion to march back to London and prove you are more worthy than that trollop. If you would just style your unruly hair and commit to losing weight…Lord Grayson clearly prefers willowy to, er, rounded.”
“I’m not returning to the capital, Mother.”
“Yes. You. Are,” Lady Brimley hissed. “Unless you want to see your own mother and father in the poorhouse?”
Eliza froze. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“We are two steps from ruin. Brimley made some bad investments and sank a great deal of money into some speculative stocks that Lord Grayson warned him to stay well away from. So I borrowed a little money from the school coffers. Just a temporary loan, you understand, not theft, and back then the academy wouldn’t even notice it anyway. But thanks to you, the school is crumbling and the accounts are due to be checked next month!”
“Exactly how much money did you borrow?”
Lady Brimley’s gaze darted away. “As I said, just a little.”
“How. Much.”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
Eliza sank back on her chair. “Mother, you stole a blasted fortune!”
“Not to Lord Grayson,” said her mother defensively. “The man could settle the debt with pocket change. And your husband owes us. He gained a wife far higher in birth than he deserved.”
“What? Grayson is the son of a marquess!”
“The disinherited son. Listen to me, Eliza. If you were to go to London and attend the wedding, people might believe you had just been ill and needed complete rest in a very quiet place. Not a marriage failure at all. The academy would be saved on both fronts.”
“And if he refuses and sends me packing within a minute?”
“Then I’ll know you didn’t try. For heaven’s sake, girl. After everything your father and I have done for you, attending a society wedding and asking your husband for ten thousand pounds are tiny favors. You have always been the problem. For once, you can be the solution.”
Eliza closed her eyes.
Oh, how she would love to tell her mother to go bathe in the Thames, especially when the woman demanded the impossible. To just saunter in Fallen’s front door and announce “darling, I’m home, and by the by, might I have a bank draft?”
Grayson would happily toss her out. And yet he was the only person who could avert disaster. The thought of her sweetly absentminded papa locked in debtor’s prison was too awful to contemplate.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and nodded.
“Very well. I’ll go.”
…
London
“You cannot do this, Devil. You cannot.”
Lord Grayson Deveraux tilted his head and stared dispassionately at the red-faced peer leaning over his office desk. The only thing vaguely intimidating about the man’s stance was the threat of that too-tight, sweat-stained shirt splitting and revealing a sight from which his eyes would never recover. “On the contrary, Mandell. I can and I have.”
“For a maid? A wretched no-name whore? If she had any sort of intelligence, she would know what an honor it was that I even looked at her, let alone touched her!”
“Perhaps other establishments encourage and celebrate such a mindset,” Devil said coldly. “But at Fallen, everything, and I mean everything, is lady’s choice. If a member disregards the rule of consent, his or her membership is terminated instantly. No refund.”
Mandell thumped his fist on the oak desk. “Damned insolent pup! I am a marquess. I deserve a second chance, at least.”
Devil folded his arms, lest he lose his temper and stab the man with his pen. Only the thought of stains on the Aubusson rug and the extra work for the parlor maids held him back. “Your rank is of no consequence, my lord. And second chances are not a custom I indulge in. The contract you signed clearly outlined all the club’s non-negotiable rules; you break a rule, the privilege of membership is withdrawn. I assure you, Mandell, you and your documented underwhelming appendage from now on will be no more than an amusing tale here. So, you may either leave quietly or be thrown out. I’m sure our eminent Portman Square neighbors will enjoy the exhibition. Of course, I would then be forced to invoice you extra for the bother incurred.”
The marquess’s face went from purple to parchment. “My God. You would, wouldn’t you? I never truly believed the rumors. I mean look at you: disheveled, ink-spotted, spectacles…like an absentminded clerk. But you are the coldest of bastards. Reyburn is well rid of you. As is your runaway wife.”
Devil rose slowly to his feet. “Good day, Lord Mandell.”
“G-good day, Lord Grayson,” choked out the older man as he backed away and practically sprinted from the room.
Slumping against the edge of his desk, Devil took several deep breaths to calm his racing heart. Confrontations like those never got any easier, but damned if a fucking marquess of all people might get away with harassing one of the maids. Fallen was not only a pleasure club, but also a sanctuary for both staff and members, where no matter what happened outside the doors, inside was safety and freedom to explore.
Few people in the world knew it had always been a sanctuary for him as well.
He shuddered and ran a weary hand over his face, sighing at the sight of a blue smear on his fingertips. Hell and damnation. He really did need soap and water to remove the ink, and a change of clothing. When immersed in handling accounts, balancing the complex ledgers, settling bills, and counting out piles of coins for expenses and wages, such mundane tasks tended to fall by the wayside.
Eliza used to prompt you. Remember the time she dragged you into the bathing antechamber, stripped and soaped you all over? You pulled her into the copper tub fully clothed and “washed” her nipples and pussy with your fingers, then spent the rest of the night buried deep inside her perfect, lush body.
Devil clenched his fists, the urge to break something unbearable. He’d finally reached a point where he didn’t think about his estranged wife every hour of every bloody day, and Mandell had to go and remind him. From the moment he met Eliza during a solitary ride along Rotten Row, he’d been hooked. Became convinced she was strong, smart, feisty, and fearless, a woman whom he might in time share his deepest, darkest shame with. A woman who would free him with her loving care. As for their erotic courtship banter and kisses, the way she commanded like an empress…hell, he hadn’t even cared when they’d been caught in a very compromising position in the garden. He’d been so eager to wed her he’d gone straight to the archbishop for a special license.
But not long after the wedding, everything changed. He found himself married to a timid, bland, and cool society princess, one who turned even more proper and particular as the weeks went on. All the confusion, self-doubt, and anger swirling in his mind had been bad enough. But when the tension increased to the point he couldn’t even get hard anymore, the knowledge that he was less than a man became unendurable. His parents were right. He was weak, a disgusting aberration, a stain on the Deveraux name.
So he’d sent Eliza far away, thinking it would solve everything, that he’d finally be able to sleep and fuck and laugh again. But it hadn’t worked. He lived like a damned vampire monk, buried in bookwork and occasionally visiting the activity rooms to watch a performance with his club co-owners and closest friends, Sin and Vice. Only to return to his chambers, scrub himself raw, take a few bottles of brandy to bed, and attempt to drink himself to blessed oblivion. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes he stared at the ceiling for hours and wondered if it might be easier to end it with a knife or rope rather than exist a day longer in this empty, angry, false half life.
“You are a truly pathetic oddity,” Devil muttered, so ready for sleep even the solid oak under his backside tempted him to sprawl across it.
Several frantic, heavy knocks on the door ended that fantasy.
“Devil!” yelled a muffled female voice. “Devil, come quick!”
Frowning at the urgency, and something suspiciously like excitement, in the maid’s voice, he inched toward the door. Sleeping in his office was a bad idea anyway. Hell, last time he’d done it, six maids turned feral and took him hostage.
“Just a minute,” he called back, ambling to the door, unlocking it, and peering around. “What is the matter?”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and beamed. “Oh, it’s the best news. Lady Eliza is here for Sin and Lady Carrington’s wedding!”
Devil froze, staring uncomprehendingly. “What?”
“Your wife, sir,” she repeated at a slower pace, as if he were hard of hearing rather than staggering from a sucker punch. “Lady Eliza has finally come home, trunks and all, and asked to see you at once. She’s just refreshing herself in your chamber.”
“All right,” he said quickly. “I’ll be there soon.”
Christ.
Closing the door, he leaned against it, shock and dismay and hope swirling in his head so fast it made him dizzy. And aroused. Fuck, how could that even be? Countless nights of watching naked women and crops and toys and shows, and he’d gotten semi-hard at most. Eliza in the same building and his cock was about to split his trousers. Damned idiot appendage. Courtship Eliza, the one who had taken charge and pleasured him senseless, was a myth. A trick. The wife who awaited him down the hallway was a different woman entirely.
With a low curse, Devil swiftly undid his trousers and adjusted himself. Hopefully his cock would calm down before he got to his chamber, but he couldn’t wait a minute longer.
The return of Eliza Deveraux, he had to see to believe.
…
Fallen hadn’t changed a bit.
Walking through the front door and into the foyer had been like slipping into a quilted dressing gown and savoring a mouthful of particularly fine wine. So elegant, so utterly decadent, and yet so comfortably familiar, too, with the marble floor, shimmering glass chandelier, and collection of exquisite paintings lining the walls, even one that she had personally chosen.
But Grayson’s lavish second-floor suite, once upon a time a newlywed haven of laughter and love and indescribable pleasure, would surely crush her with memories.
Early in their marriage she’d stayed here, despite her mother’s vocal protests. It had almost been amusing at the time, as it wasn’t the club Lady Brimley protested about—the wealth it created, along with its rumored list of haut ton patrons, quelled that—but Eliza’s “bluestocking activities” like filing paperwork, settling expense lists, and creating drafts because of Grayson’s truly appalling handwriting.
It was both embarrassing and troubling to recall how much she had loved her bizarre, busy, and unconventional life. Especially when it was the reason the marriage failed. Every time her mother had visited, she had warned Eliza that her interference in men’s matters, her crowding, and tendency to instruct Grayson spelled doom. She should instead be demure and submissive. With every warning she had tried harder, taken part less, even dutifully retired to Grayson’s scarcely used townhouse. But she had missed him terribly. And even though the townhouse was perfectly lovely, it reminded her too much of Brimley Park and the academy. Lovely shells with no heart. No warmth. No joy or air of welcoming sanctuary. It had never felt like home.
Not like this enormous, sprawling, three-storied red-brick structure in the heart of Portman Square. As soon as the Brimley carriage pulled up, footmen had dashed outside to help her with her belongings. Diaz, the frightening and formidable butler, actually smiled when he bowed over her hand. And dozens of maids, or the “harem” as Grayson always smilingly called them, squealed and cheered, clearly thinking this was a pre-planned, romantic, and heartfelt reunion. If only…
“Well, well. Eliza Jean Brimley Deveraux, as I live and breathe.”
The cool words in that rough silk voice hung in the air behind her, and she stilled, almost afraid to turn around. But she did.
Oh God.
The impact of her husband was as powerful as ever. Still that jolt where her body begged for an immediate disrobing, combined with the heart clench that made her want to cradle him and smooth the tension from his brow. Grayson remained unbelievably handsome, although his cheekbones looked more prominent, as though he’d lost weight. Miracle of miracles, he’d actually shaved, but as always, he needed a soapy cloth and a freshly pressed shirt. The adorable ink spot on his nose where he absently pushed his spectacles higher was as prominent as ever. Unfortunately the remoteness, the suppressed anger, and the haunted pain she’d so desperately wanted to reach and heal endured also.
“Hello, Grayson,” she said softly, yearning to hold him while achingly aware of how unwelcome her touch would be.
He ambled forward, one jerk of his head sending the trunk-depositing footmen scurrying on their way. “I’m a little surprised. Your last letter didn’t mention any plans to come to London, nor did you send an acceptance of the wedding invitation. If I’d known, I would have made the townhouse ready.”
So cold. So polite. Abruptly the character flaw her mother loathed reared its head, urging her to crack the mask, to make him feel something. “No need,” she replied, smiling with determination. “Your chamber is most adequate. And if I have timed it with any luck, the left side of the bed should be currently vacant…”
Her voice trailed off, not in embarrassment, but at what her lowered gaze spotted. Grayson’s trousers, incorrectly fastened, and a large bulge tenting the close-fitting fabric. Oh God. She’d interrupted him with a lover. Perhaps a temporary companion, or that woman, Charlotte, on her knees, stroking and sucking his thick length. Or maybe he’d been readying her, expertly licking and fingering between her legs while she moaned and arched in pleasure.
“Something the matter, Eliza?” he said, one eyebrow raised, his emerald green gaze suddenly gleaming.
“Not at all,” she gritted out, hating the woman, whoever and wherever she was. “I didn’t mean to disturb.”
Grayson moved past her, then unexpectedly halted so he stood behind her. “Not at all, my dear,” he said silkily, and it took every ounce of her will to stay upright and not melt at the brush of his hard lips against her ear. “We are well-versed in accommodating unexpected guests.”
Eliza clenched her fists at the barb. “Oh, of course you are.”
“Tart words from my timid wife,” he replied. “If only you’d wanted to…damnation, Eliza, why are you here?”
“Sin’s wedding,” she said slowly, her heart pounding at the slight crack in his armor. Dare she push him further? “He invited me, based on our past friendship. Nothing to do with you.”
“Rubbish. You would have sent a charming gift with your deepest apologies. Something else prompted you.”
Eliza licked bone-dry lips. Her blasted husband knew her entirely too well, but he forgot she knew him like the other half of her, too. And right now he balanced on an edge she could practically see. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Liar. Do you want me to petition parliament for a divorce? Or perhaps you are lacking a lover and wish to make use of Fallen. Well, my lady, I would point you in the direction of an activity room, but fucking a passionless and oh-so-proper society spouse is not a popular option. They want to leave those at home—”
The slap echoed through the chamber like a pistol shot. Eliza stared at her hand in shock, but the pink hue of her stinging palm confirmed she had indeed just hit her husband across the cheek. Her gaze flew to his, bracing for anger and disgust at the unforgivable act. Instead, she caught a flash of something dark and raw. Hopeful. Almost pleading? “Grayson…”
“Yes, Eliza?” he said in a voice she’d never heard: low and warm and rasping. He wasn’t even making eye contact now but staring somewhere over her left shoulder, and his whole body was tense like a bow pulled taut, his erection undiminished.
A pulse thudded between her legs in the shrieking silence, and her nipples were so hard the muslin of her tea gown felt like sackcloth. All she wanted to do was kiss the mark she’d made. Haul Grayson over to the oversized four-poster bed, tear his clothes off, and take that thick erection deep inside her wet heat. Not passively underneath as usual, but riding him like a mount, gripping him, milking him, forcing him to release every drop of seed he had to give.
Owning him.
Horrified, Eliza jerked away, practically throwing herself across the room to slump onto the long embroidered chaise resting against the west wall. What kind of monster had she become? Hitting her own husband and being aroused by it?
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said hoarsely, tears welling in her eyes. “That was inexcusable. I don’t even know what came over me. But it won’t happen again, I promise.”
Eventually Grayson turned and shrugged, yet an emotion lingered in his eyes that looked incredibly like hollow disappointment. How could that be?
“Forgotten already, my lady. Though should you tire of society life, you could probably make a few guineas in the ring. Pay a few spectators to rile that Irish temper of yours, and boom! Knock out, round one.”
“That is not funny. I slapped you!”
“Indeed. I was here for the experience, and I deserved it. For all I know, you could have a dozen lovers and an entire room for feathers, beads, and toys.”
Shaking her head quickly before the inexplicably alluring thought of sexual accessories could lodge in her mind, Eliza stood. “Again, I apologize, Grayson. If you’ll just direct me to a guest room, I’ll have my trunks moved in there and make myself scarce for the rest of the afternoon.”
Grayson blinked, then scowled. “There are no spare chambers. All have been taken by Sin and Grace’s out of town wedding guests until at least Saturday.”
“Oh.”
“I suppose we could share a bed tonight. I trust you’ll keep your pugilistic impulses in check, even if I do mutter something in my sleep. Not at all sporting to hit an unconscious man, no matter how provoking he is.”
She laughed. “I shall be a statue, I promise. You won’t even know I’m here.”
Instead of smiling in return, Grayson grimaced. “Oh, I’ll know. Dinner is at eight. Do you wish to join everyone or have a tray in here?”
“A tray, if that is all right. Two days in a carriage and I’m quite exhausted.”
“It’s fine. I’ll have one of the harem attend you. Until later, then.”
The moment she was alone, Eliza buried her face in her hands. A half hour in Grayson’s company, an argument, and she’d hit him. If she’d been smarter, she might have asked for the bank draft to save her parents while the handprint across his cheek still glowed. Then maybe broken a few priceless vases and insulted Sin, Grace, and Vice to really impress.
No way would this all end in disaster.
No way at all.
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