Devil Takes A Bride by Gaelen Foley

”
    She laughed softly. “Temper?”
    â€œAn Irish one,” he answered with a shadow of a smile.
    â€œI didn’t realize you had Irish blood.”
    â€œHalf. Don’t tell anyone,” he said dryly; then he seemed to notice that his aunt was staring at him.
    The two exchanged a wordless look that made Lizzie wonder if she was missing something, but the awkward pause vanished as a nod from Her Ladyship caused the footmen to clear the table for the third course. Plates and trays were whisked away; wineglasses and candelabra held clear while the white damask tablecloth was removed, exposing the rich mahogany table beneath with its silky patina of beeswax polish.
    Again glasses were refilled, this time with a sweet dessert wine.
    â€œTea, coffee, or chocolate, ma’am?” the first footman asked the dowager gravely.
    â€œCoffee,” she clipped out.
    Devlin requested the same, but Lizzie declined, content with her glass of Madeira.
    The first footman retreated to fetch the freshly brewed coffee while the others marched in with the third course: a small maple-cured ham that all of them were too full to taste, blanched almonds and raisins, an assortment of biscuits, and lastly, set down with great pride in the center of the table, a magnificent floating island.
    â€œYou spoil me,” Devlin declared, turning to his aunt.
    â€œIndubitably,” she agreed with a chuckle.
    In a silver soup epergne—filled with sweet heavy cream that had been thickened with sack wine, whipped to a froth, and sprinkled with nutmeg and the bright yellow shavings of a lemon rind—floated three French rolls, cut sliver-thin and piled high with colorful layers of jelly, fruit, and sweetmeats. Mrs. Rowland and Cook had truly outdone themselves. The floating island was divine, as were the other delicacies. Savoring the lavish dessert, Lizzie was just reflecting on what a success the evening had been when everything began going wrong.
    â€œMiss Carlisle, I know you mentioned Hawkscliffe is the ducal title, but what was it you said your Lady Jacinda’s family name was?” Devlin asked as the footmen brought in the coffee service on a gleaming silver tray. “Was it Knight?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHang me, I knew that sounded familiar.” He leaned back in his chair with a broad smile. “I went to school with her brother.”
    â€œWhich one?” The startling news instantly made her a trifle uneasy. “She has five.”
    â€œAlec,” he said, and then let out a sudden, roguish laugh. “Of course. Lord Alec Knight, or, pardon, ‘Alexander the Great,’ as he used to insist on being called in those days.”
    â€œOh, yes, that sounds just like him,” she uttered faintly, but she felt as though she had just got the wind knocked out of her. Good God, it couldn’t be—they were friends!
    But of course. Alec knew everyone, and the two were of an age. Devlin only seemed older because he had gone places, done things, while Alec had remained in London playing cards and breaking hearts. She lowered her gaze to hide her shock.
    Lord Alec Knight. Her best friend’s brother, whom she had worshipped from the age of nine. The youngest of the five Knight brothers. The one she had always dreamed she’d marry. Her blue-eyed darling, who had answered her lifetime’s devotion with a humiliating rejection last summer in the coldest possible terms.
    â€œLord, we used to get into so much trouble together,” Devlin was saying, but she barely heeded his nostalgic chuckle.
    Her heart had begun pounding, a knot of bitter hurt forming in the pit of her stomach at the mere mention of her former idol’s name. The elegant meal had turned to ashes in her mouth, and the euphoria she had felt all evening rose up to mock her.
God, what am I doing?
    Idiot! Did she intend to make the same mistake twice? Was she mad?
    â€œWe were great mates back at