Devil In My Bed (The Runaway Brides, Book 1)

278 Pages·2009·1.34 MB·English

by  Celeste Bradley

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D
evil
I M B
n y ed

Runaway Brides, Book 1

Celeste Bradley
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DEVIL IN MY BED

Copyright © 2009 by Celeste Bradley.

Excerpt from Rogue in My Arms copyright © 2009 by Celeste Bradley.
All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin‟s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY
10010.

ISBN: 978-0-312-94308-0

Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin‟s Paperbacks edition / August 2009
St. Martin‟s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin‟s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue,New York, NY 10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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In memory of Jack Bird, at whose desk I write.

Acknowledgements

I could not have drawn Melody so convincingly if not for the help of little Frankie
Jean Baca-Lucero and her moms. Frankie, of all the three-year-old big-eyed
tornadoes out there, you are the coolest! In addition, I could not have managed the
last year without my patient, tolerant and lovingly supportive friends and family:
Joanne M., Robyn H., Cynthia T., Darbi G., and Cheryl L. Thank you all for the
endless hours on the phone.

Good agents are hard to come by and good friends are even harder. My very
special thanks to Irene Goodman, agent and angel.

And always, to my beautiful girls, thank you for the joy you bring me.
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Prologue

Did every woman want to vomit on her wedding day? Lady Melody shuddered.
Well, perhaps not that. Perhaps only to run screeching in tight circles, waving her
arms and gibbering madly until someone force-fed her a few stiff brandies and sat
upon her for awhile?

The mirror she gazed into had no answer for her. Idiot glass.

The window behind her betrayed only the faintest of dawn‟s pale beginnings, yet
there was no dismissing the fact that her wedding day had most definitely begun.
She was still in her dressing gown, her hair still down around her shoulders like a
child. Noting the faint trace of freckles that remained across her nose in the mirror,
Melody felt as though she wasn‟t really a woman at all, much less a bride.

In only a few hours she was to be married in the opulent chapel where her
ancestors had been wed for centuries. So grand a chapter in a life which had begun
so invisibly. She‟d been found, she felt, not born. Even she had no real memory of
the life before this one. It was as if she‟d appeared out of thin air somewhere
around her third birthday.

She tried to picture herself walking down that aisle clad in satin, ready to give
herself away forever. Unfortunately, being at home on the family estate only
reinforced the impression that she‟d never grown up at all.

Nerves made her hands shake until she clasped them together before her.

Her maid was busy by the grand fireplace, pouring great brass pails of steaming
water into the hammered copper tub and adding scented herbs for a soothing bath.
Melody closed her eyes, sure that there was not enough hot water in all of England
to warm the chill ball of anxiety in her belly. “What if I‟m wrong? What if he isn‟t
the right man?”

“You‟re not a child, my dear.” The crisp voice behind her belonged not to her maid
but to the man who had created her wedding gown. Her father had insisted upon
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the best for her, and Lementeur was the very best mantua-maker in all of England.
He was also a long-time family friend.

Melody opened her eyes to meet his in the mirror. The world might know him as
Lementeur, that arbiter of fashion for England‟s most elite, but since early
childhood she‟d always called him simply Button.

He certainly looked the part. He was short and crisply elegant, with the crinkles of
years of humorous observation about his eyes and the silver hair to match it.

Despite her anxiety, she could not help smiling at the picture of the very small man
swathed in her very long veil. “Sorry about that. Her ladyship insisted that it trail
halfway down the aisle.”

“Hmph. Well, your ladyship ought to have stood your ground. It is your wedding.
This—” He hefted it off himself impatiently, his arms extended entirely upward
and still not long enough to hold the miles of net off the carpet. “This extravagance
almost treads on poor taste.” Then he smiled and smoothed the veil gently. “How
delicious, that balancing point between luxury and vulgarity. You‟ll start a whole
new fashion. I think I‟ll invest in a laceworks.”

“Another? I thought you owned one already.”

“I own two, actually, but one that exclusively produces wedding veils . . .” He
trailed off in thoughts of cornering the lace market. Then he finally seemed to
notice her malaise. “Mellie, whatever is the matter?”

Melody twisted her clasped hands in anxiety. “Button, I‟m not so certain—”

He placed her veil upon its specially constructed stand and came up behind her.
His blue eyes held her nearly matching ones in the mirror. “Pet, you are sure.
You‟re mad for the fellow and, of course, he‟s entirely smitten with you.”

She shook her head, unwilling to be so easily reassured. “How can I know? The
whole courtship was so complicated. Shouldn‟t these matters be simple if they‟re
truly meant to be?”

He turned her then to gaze into her eyes, his own crinkled in amusement. He was
so dear. She felt her anxiety begin to ease. “Mellie, my darling, don‟t you realize
that you come by your tendency toward complications honestly? You‟ve quite the
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family history of circuitous romance. From the very beginning, even before your
parents met—well, perhaps I ought not to carry tales.”

She leaned into his embrace and lay her head on his shoulder, as she had so many
times in her life. For a moment she longed to be a little girl again, to live in
simpler, easier times. “Carry tales, Button.” She closed her eyes. “Tell me a story.”
Anything to still her wildly contradictory thoughts!

She heard him chuckle, then take a deep breath. “Well, I suppose there‟s time.” He
led her to sit on the small settee near the fire and nestled her into his side like a
child, though she was a bit taller than he. She let her eyelids close out the view of
the wedding preparations. Her chambers were far from the pomp and madness
elsewhere in the house. If she shut out all thought and simply listened the crackle
of the small fire in the hearth, she could pretend, just for a moment, that this
exciting, taxing day was still far, far in her future and that she was just a little girl
hearing a favorite tale.

“Once upon a time,” Button went on, his voice low and soothing, “there was a man
who had everything. He was rich and handsome and wellborn, yet there was
something missing in his life.”

Melody smiled slightly. “Me.”

Button laughed. “No interruptions, now. And no, not you, not quite yet. Now, one
day this man was riding in his fine carriage down Bond Street, minding his own
matters . . .”

1812, twenty-three years earlier

Her lithe figure caught Aidan‟s eye first, for he‟d never been one to miss
something lovely within his sight. He wasn‟t sure if the appeal lay in the turn of
her shoulder or the fragile arch of her neck, but Aidan de Quincy, fifth Earl of
Blankenship, found himself captivated by the slender widow as she strode the
opposite way down the walk.

She looked . . . determined, just by the briskness of her walk and the set of her chin
beneath the black net veil.
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You can tell so much from a quick look at her profile and a rather more lingering
stare at her backside?

Aidan sat back in tufted velvet seat of his carriage, wondering if she could possibly
be pretty enough to live up to that graceful figure. Probably not—

Furtive movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention and he leaned
forward once more to peer through the square window at the teeming street
outside. It looked as though he wasn‟t the only one to be snared by the allure of the
lissome widow. Following her now was a man in dark, rough clothes with his cap
pulled down over his eyes and a tendency to glance back over his shoulder a little
too often.

When he shifted his attention back to the widow, Aidan caught a glimpse of an
ivory cheek beneath the fluttering veil as the woman sent a worried glance over her
own shoulder. Her renewed hurry indicated that she‟d seen the man behind her and
that she was alarmed by him. Intent on fleeing, she ducked into the nearest
escape—a narrow alleyway between shops. The man followed her.

Damn.

There wasn‟t time to order the carriage turned about—or even to call it to a
complete halt. Aidan simply opened his door, hung there a moment with one foot
on the running board, and then flung himself into the busy street. He kept his
footing well enough on the slick cobbles but it was several breathtaking moments
before he could dash and dodge his way through the oncoming carts and carriages
to the other side of the street.

Aidan ran pell-mell for the mouth of the alley. Should he be calling for the watch?

He doubted that the gouty old buzzards who served as watchmen would be any
help at all, even if they managed to drag themselves there in time. No, better to
appraise the situation himself first.

The situation, he found when he rounded the corner, was quite the classic
tableau—a veritable cautionary tale of what became of unescorted ladies in lawless
London.
Except that there was something wrong with this depiction. There was the thief,
knife in hand—bloody hell, look at that knife!—with other hand held out to take
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what wasn‟t rightfully his. There was the lady, cowed and trembling, backing away
in the dimness with her hands held up in supplication.
But she wasn‟t backing away at all. No, this lady was advancing—with a brick
held threateningly high, no less!

Aidan wasn‟t the only one nonplussed. The thief had halted his obviously well-
practiced routine and now seemed to waver in confusion, his knife hand dropping
slightly.

Aidan shook off his own paralysis of wonder and moved forward swiftly. “You
there!” he shouted.

The brick sailed through the air at that precise moment, even as the thief whirled
toward Aidan‟s harsh command with his knife at the ready.

Aidan was helpless to stop his own reckless forward momentum. His boot soles
slithered on cobbles slimed with years of best-not-dwell-upon-it while his horrified
gaze riveted on the vicious gleam of the horrible curved blade pointed directly at
his oncoming heart.

The brick missed the thief entirely but hit Aidan square in the shoulder—
Spinning him aside with not a moment to spare. His opposite fist, clenched from
sheer terror, followed through on his spin to smash powerfully into the jaw of the
startled thief. Aidan caromed off the brick wall of the neighboring building, barely
managing to keep his feet.

I am a whirling dervish. How ridiculous I must look.

At the end of his wild spin, he blinked his gaze clear of dizziness to spy, with great
surprise, that the thief lay face down in the ooze and the thief‟s knife lay in the
hands of the willowy widow, who stood triumphantly over the fallen knave‟s body
with her veil thrown back and blazing fury in her eyes.

Oh. My. God. She was lovely. Her features were delicate but dramatic, a queen
carved in alabaster with huge dark brown eyes and full lips that gleamed richly red
against her pale skin. Dark curls of fallen hair traced one perfectly carved
cheekbone, gleaming nearly black in the dim alley. Her face more than matched
her delicious figure. It surpassed it.
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In that single breathless moment, Aidan was swept with a powerful urge he‟d
never before experienced. He had no thought in his mind except a ringing deep in
his primal mind. Must possess this woman. Must have her for my very own.
Always.

Which was ridiculous, of course, mad beyond words, complete hogwash, and many
other such dismissive phrases—until he‟d nearly convinced himself that it was
only the close call with danger that spurred such a violent, aching, acquisitive lust.

Then she raised her fiercely gleaming eyes to meet his gaze. “That,” she said,
satisfaction sizzling in her words, “was bloody brilliant!”

It was no use. He was a complete goner. Widow one, Aidan naught.

Like a fish hooked on a line, he moved toward her. He‟d never been known as the
sort of fellow to sweep a woman off her feet. Perhaps more the type to unwittingly
intimidate—he preferred to think that rather than bore them to somnolence. Still,
Aidan couldn‟t help feeling an absurdly romantic surge of heroic protectiveness as
he bowed over the lady‟s hand.

Her gamine smile, her low, delicious laugh, the feeling of her slight hand lost in his
large one—it was a heady combination. He liked the way she looked at him, as if
he were nine feet tall and had dragon‟s blood dripping from his sword. Charming.

His title might be envied, his wealth very nearly adored, but he‟d never had
someone gaze at him—him!—with quite that mix of amusement and admiration.
“St. George, I presume?”

She was mocking him, but for once in his life Aidan didn‟t mind being the butt of a
jest, not if it bought him another moment of that husky laughter.

He bowed deeply as if sweeping his aforementioned dripping sword out of the
way. “Sacrificial virgin, I presume?” God, had he truly said something so risqué to
a respectable woman he‟d not even been properly introduced to?

Luckily, his sally was rewarded with another laugh that made his chest expand and
his groin tighten. Perhaps it was true that widows were much less likely to be
offended than wives or maidens.