Page 3 of The Devil’s Submission

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.”