Page 10 of To Dance with a Devil

“You’re ruined, Bonnie.”

“And no one knows that but you.”

“You said Morven will force you to marry Anderson. He doesn’t love you.”

“No, true enough, but I don’t love him either. If Morven forces the issue at least I won’t care when my husband’s unfaithful, and he won’t care to interfere in my life. Perhaps I’ll take a lover.”

“And you’ll not tell Anderson that his bride has been deflowered ahead of the wedding night?”

Bonnie’s jaw tightened. “I’ll tell him the truth, don’t worry. I’m not a liar.”

“Damn you, Bonnie, don’t make me a villain.”

“Oh, stop acting like you’re the misunderstood hero in some Gothic adventure,” she cried, needing this to be over now before her resolve faltered and she stopped fighting him. “I won’t marry you. You’ve done nothing wrong. I practically threw myself you, Jerome. Most any other man would tell himself I was no better than I ought to be and move on. Bloody well do the same thing and get over it. Just leave me alone!”

He jolted, and she wanted to curl up in a ball and weep at the hurt in his eyes, but she couldn’t afford to let him see her pain, or to know how much his efforts to do the right thing had touched her. So she turned on her heel and left him.

Chapter 4

Everyone is so happy and excited for Harriet’s wedding and I hate myself for how envious I am. What would it feel like to have Jerome’s mother look at me with such affection as she shows Harriet, to know I was a welcome addition to the family and, most of all, that my husband loved me beyond reason? It must be a wonderful feeling, to be wanted.

What a wretched creature I am. I see the jealousy and despair in my own eyes as I look in the mirror, and I despise myself.

At least Jerome is not here to notice it. I’ve not seen him in ten days, since I told him to leave me alone. He’s gone to visit friends, so it appears I got what I wanted. I should take more care in what I wish for.

― Excerpt of an entry from Miss Bonnie Campbell to her diary.

30th September 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.

Matilda closed her bedroom door behind her, tossed the armful of packages she held on to the bed, and sat down with a sigh. They’d been into Tunbridge Wells, shopping, and they’d walked so much her feet hurt, though it was her heart that ached the most.

There was something wrong with Bonnie.

Although the young woman loved shopping, she’d refused to come and when Matilda had looked in on her when she’d returned, it was clear the girl had spent the morning alone, and crying.

Matilda had known, as they all knew, that Bonnie had fallen in love with Jerome. Bonnie had hardly made a secret of it. Something had happened, though, and Jerome had left, apparently to visit friends. Matilda had tried to talk to Bonnie, to get her to confide in her, but Bonnie had assured her that she was fine, that she and Jerome were still friends, but that they knew it was best if they put distance between them. She’d sounded mature and level-headed when she’d explained it all, and Matilda had wanted to weep, for she knew she was heartbroken. All the spark had left her, all the fun and laughter chased from her eyes, and she was listless. Yet Bonnie did not want her sympathy or her interference. Matilda could only respect her wishes and pray it had been nothing more than a brief infatuation that would fade with time. She’d done her best to make sure Bonnie knew she was there if she needed her, but what else could she do?

Matilda flung her bonnet and gloves aside with a frustrated curse, rang for some tea to be sent up to her room, and paced to the window, then stopped in her tracks. There was a small leather box on the sill, tied with a blue silk ribbon. It had not been there when she’d left this morning.

“Oh, you wretched man,” she whispered. “What have you done now?”

The last time something unexpected had turned up in her room, it had been a letter from the Marquess of Montagu. How he’d contrived to get it there she did not know, but no doubt he had lackeys who dealt with such matters, such as delivering letters to young ladies who ought not be receiving such things from an unmarried man. She ought to have thrown the letter on the fire, of course she ought. Not only had she not burnt it, however, she’d kept it, for reasons upon which she preferred not to dwell. Not that it had been a love letter, far from it. More like a warning shot, a confirmation of intent. Montagu’s intent being to have her as his mistress, and she was all too aware his campaign was far from over.

Matilda’s heart thudded as she moved to the window and picked up the little box. She ought to throw it away without opening it, or fling it in his face—also without opening it, —but curiosity was burning inside her, making her fingers itch with the desire to tug the ribbon aside and reveal the dreadful secret within, and it would be dreadful. Expensive, exclusive, horribly tempting, and dreadful.

“I want you very badly, Miss Hunt. I spend far too much time thinking of you, of how it would feel to take you in my arms. How is that for honesty?”

His words, spoken the last time she’d seen him, shivered over her, leaving a thrill of mingled excitement and terror in their wake. She was not beyond admitting to the thrill, to the knowledge that such a feared and powerful, desirable man wanted her so very badly. It was fear alone that held that excitement in check. Montagu was discreet in his affairs but his longest serving mistress had kept his interest for three years only. Then what? What if she gave into desire and temptation and put herself outside of respectable society for the chance to be with him for a brief affair? Her friends and family would still receive her, she knew, but they ought not, for they would be tarnished by association. She would be a pariah, more so than now even, where she still trod the fringes of the ton because of her brother’s influence and her powerful friends.

For now, there was a chance for her still to marry despite her reputation, and have a home, a family, something that would endure for the rest of her life, rather than a handful of months or years. If she had an ounce of sense, she’d keep that in the forefront of her mind and cast temptation straight out of the window.

She opened the box, and her breath snagged in her throat.

It was a brooch, set with rubies and diamonds. A witch’s brooch. Set in the shape of an open heart, the tail of the heart was crooked to one side and signified that the giver was bewitched. Matilda swallowed and lifted the brooch from its satin bed, tracing the heart with a fingertip before turning it over. On the back, at the tail of the heart was a tiny M set with rubies.

“Wicked, wicked man,” she whispered, clasping the brooch tight as her fingers curled around it and she closed her eyes in despair. “Oh, Lord, what am I to do?”

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