Page 7 of The Devil’s Submission

“Yes,” called Grayson in a rather hoarse voice. “We’ll see you in a minute, Vice.”

“We? Oh. Good morning…Lady Eliza?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she snapped as she eased off Grayson’s lap, supremely irritated at Vice’s hesitancy over her name. Were there that many possibilities? Did her husband have a different woman in here every night of the blasted week?

“Ah. Well, we need to leave, my lady. It’s a way to travel to the Archbishop’s palace, and while Sin and Grace may forgive us our trespasses, the harem would deliver the evil in apocalyptic form if we were to mar the day in any way. You know they would. Not to mention Prinny and the rest.”

“Very well,” Eliza said crisply. “Give us just a moment.”

As soon as the door shut behind Vice, she hurried over to the smaller of her trunks and took out a fresh chemise. She could hear her husband moving about the room behind her, combing his hair and slipping on a waistcoat and jacket, but she couldn’t even look at him.

How many women had slept in this room? Had straddled Grayson on that same leather stool while he pleasured them beyond belief? Did Charlotte not only assist him with shaving, but also help him with the accounts, sponge the ink blotches, welcome him into her bed every other night?

Angry, jealous tears burned Eliza’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. That was a private pain.

“Shall I lace your stays?”

Eliza nodded, trying not to flinch at how close Grayson was as he threaded the silken cords and pulled them tight. Trying not to scream at the horrible jumble of thoughts twisting and turning through her mind as she tugged on a hunter-green striped muslin gown for the wedding.

Stepping into heeled slippers, she finally turned. “I’m ready. Do you need your spectacles?”

Grayson’s lips quirked. “Only for bookwork. I’m not quite in my dotage yet. For instance, it is very clear right now that you look beautiful in that gown. Not quite as beautiful as in the nightgown with the torn bodice, but a very close second.”

The tears burned again. Damn him. “Well then. Let’s go before Vice leaves without us.”

The carriage ride to the south bank of the Thames was surprisingly fast and uneventful, and Morton’s Tower soon loomed above them. As Grayson escorted her into Langton’s chapel within Lambeth Palace, the residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Eliza couldn’t help a sneaking glance at her husband. The last time they had been here, crossing the black-and-white checkered marble floor, positively dwarfed by the stunning stained glass windows, it had been for their special-license wedding.

Grayson met her gaze and smiled. “Archbishop Manners-Sutton is going to be sick of the sight of us. Fortunately we keep making substantial donations to his favorite charities.”

“Or he is a man with a soft spot for love, and who cares about his flock, even the worst rogues,” she replied primly.

“That, too.”

She, Grayson, and Vice barely had time to take their seats before the ceremony began. Sin, the handsome rake whom she only sometimes remembered to call Sebastian or Lord St. John, stood at the altar holding his beautiful betrothed Lady Grace Carrington’s hands in his. They were both dressed so elegantly, Sin in black trousers and jacket with a sapphire blue waistcoat, and Grace in a heavenly gown of topaz silk, and the expressions on their faces were so joyful, so tender, it hurt to watch them pledge themselves to each other. Although by all accounts, Sin and Grace had endured a rocky path to this day and very much deserved their happy ending.

Grief gripped her. She had looked like Grace on her wedding day, so happy and hopeful and madly in love. The marriage foundering so quickly had been soul-destroying. Now kissing her husband, touching him, and seeing hints of the softer side he rarely showed anyone was just salt in the wound. If it weren’t for her blasted mother, Eliza would never have put herself through this. When Grayson found out the real reason behind her being in London, he would shun her completely.

As the kindly archbishop continued the service, her gaze slipped around the chapel and widened at the sheer number of attendees from the very highest echelons of power. The Prince Regent sat with Mrs. Fitzherbert in the front row, next to the Duke and Duchess of Waverly, Grace’s uncle and aunt. Prime Minister Liverpool sat a row back, along with several older peers who had probably been close friends of Sin’s late parents, Lord and Lady St. John. Five rows behind them sat her own mother and father, Lady Brimley waggling her fingers and smiling broadly, no doubt in transports at the company she was keeping.

“With this ring I thee wed,” said Sin in a loud, clear voice to complete the ceremony, “with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Eliza applauded with the rest of the guests when a beaming Sin and Grace left the chapel as a married couple, but as the stragglers mingled and chatted, a hand clamped on her elbow and led her to the corner.

“Well, Eliza? Have you asked him?” hissed Lady Brimley out of the side of her mouth while smiling and nodding at passersby.

“No. Not yet.”

“What? Why not?”

She gritted her teeth. “We have been apart six months, Mother. I couldn’t just demand ten thousand pounds on my first day back. Not when things are…uneasy.”

“I can see that for myself,” said her mother, nudging her so she turned left. “You promised me you would try, but there your husband is, all smiling and cozy with his mistress. How convenient, her being acquainted with Lord St. John and his new wife, so she could even attend the wedding.”

Feeling like she’d been pummeled, Eliza glanced over to the other side of the chapel. Indeed, there the two of them were: her husband and Charlotte Lewis, bathed in a rainbow of light from a stained-glass window, their heads together as they spoke. “Grayson can talk to whomever he pleases.”

“Of course. But they aren’t talking, they are confiding. If you behaved like a proper wife, he would treat you like that. Then you could get the money. Go to him. Send that trollop on her way. Don’t forget, though, a lady never raises her voice.”

Eliza hesitated, weighed down by doubt. She hadn’t behaved like a proper wife this morning, boldly ordering Grayson to do as she wished. And he’d lost his iron control. He’d smiled, really smiled, like he’d been happy, and kissed and touched her with such passion. But if he’d liked that so much, why was he now flaunting his close and intimate relationship with Charlotte? Again, it seemed her mother was correct. This morning had been a passing whim. Sweet, obedient Charlotte was the constant in Grayson’s life, the woman he kept returning to. Unless she learned how to be like his lover, she didn’t stand a chance.