Devil Takes A Bride by Gaelen Foley Page A

Eton—and at Oxford, before I flunked out. God’s bones, I haven’t seen him in years. How is the blighter?”
    Trembling, Lizzie lifted her gaze and stared at him, at a loss. She could not think of a single word to say.
    Alec.
Her chest felt squeezed in a great vise at the thought of his sunny grin and sapphire eyes, but there were no more tears left in her. Gambling was Alec’s first love; she had finally learned that the hard way. He had the beauty of a fallen archangel and had used it last summer to pay off his debts, had whored himself out to a rich baroness so he could go back and gamble some more. Oh, it had been the jest of the Season, how the captain of all London rakes had become the glamorous Lady Campion’s kept man for a while.
    Only Alec Knight could get away with such a thing and come out gleaming.
    A born showman full of dash and style and outrageous charm down to the tips of his elegant fingers, he had made it seem a coup, a blow struck in behalf of all males, the usual financial supporters of women. Congratulated left and right by his hordes of scoundrelly friends for turning the tables on the female race, Alec Knight had made his choice, as far as Lizzie was concerned. He had thrown her love away on a roll of the dice.
    She had thought she would never be able to glue all the pieces of her broken heart back together again, but finally, in the peace and quiet of Bath, she had begun to mend. So, what, in God’s name did she think she was doing making cow eyes at Devil Strathmore? He and Alec Knight were not the same man, but they were the same breed, a fact underscored by their friendship—and by their gambling debts. The parallel was obvious, though they were night and day—a dark devil and a golden god—both of them too beautiful and too highborn for the likes of her; both dissolute scoundrels obsessed with adventure, addicted to living on the edge. Devlin might be king of the dark forest, but Alec ruled every glittering ballroom he stepped into, which was why she was never going back into Society again.
    Devlin set down his fork and furrowed his brow, studying her intently. “Are you all right, my dear?”
    Still mute with emotion, she looked straight into his eyes and thought,
Don’t flirt with me. I can’t have you. I don’t want you. I don’t need any man
. She was an independent woman.
    A spinster.
    A bluestocking and deuced proud of it. She cared only for books. Never again would she place herself at the mercy of his kind. Never again hand her heart over to be broken.
    As the excruciating silence stretched thin, Pasha suddenly came to her rescue, jumping up on the table to make a dash for the pigeon pie.
    Chaos exploded across the table, much to Lizzie’s relief.
    â€œPasha, no!”
    â€œGet down!”
    â€œReeer!”
The cat leaped over the epergne, a tawny streak of fur and insolence.
    Wine splashed. Flatware clattered. Devlin yanked his coffee out of the way just in time to avoid wearing it, while Lady Strathmore laughed in delight. Silver lids went spinning. The candelabra tipped over, catching one of the linen napkins on fire.
    The shocked footmen stumbled into motion, one quickly dousing the little flame with a heave of melting ice from the wine cooler, while the second leaped to roll the dowager’s chair out of the way.
    Her nephew was on his feet. “Get that damned cat out of here!”
    Without forethought, Lizzie seized the distraction to effect her escape, purposely knocking over her wineglass in the confusion so that her Madeira spilled all over her best gown. She didn’t even care. She just wanted out of there, now. Away from Devlin’s all-too-perceptive gaze.
    â€œOh, no!” she cried, looking down at herself as the footmen chased the cat down the far end of the twenty-foot table. When the Strathmores looked over at her, she glanced up with an innocent expression, hoping she gave no sign of