Page 11 of The Devil’s Submission

She rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. As if a head of hair like hers ever went unnoticed. “Of course. I’m looking for Grayson.”

“Thank God. He’s been in that room too long already. Sin and I are at our wits’ end with him. Dev is an expert, but the price he pays is far too high. And the aftermath is ugly.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Vice grimaced. “The bloody idiot thinks we don’t know he has certain needs. We always played along, hoping one day Dev would be comfortable enough to be his true self. Especially when he met you…but he is a fucking dark and rigid Sassenach. Er, a most proper gentleman. Now what I want to know is, if you’re going to fight for him, like the warrior we thought you were, or run away again.”

Shocked to the core, she stared at the viscount. But there wasn’t a trace of usual sardonic humor on his rugged face. “I…I…I want to fight.”

“Good lass,” said Vice, with a short, approving nod. “Then I’ll take you to the room.”

“At once, please,” she replied, anxiety twisting her stomach into a hard knot. First Diaz, now Vice, speaking more freely to her than they ever had, and it felt like she stood on the edge of a knowledge abyss. It couldn’t be clearer that Grayson’s truth would change everything, and she wanted to discover exactly what that truth was. Right blasted now.

“Come this way, then,” said Vice, taking her arm and leading her out of the ballroom and down a more narrow hallway. At the end, he pointed at a closed door. “He’s in there. Do you want me to accompany you?”

Eliza shook her head. “No. You carry on. I know you have much to oversee. Besides, that outrageous costume is distracting.”

He grinned, lifted her hand and kissed it, then turned and hurried away.

Taking another deep breath, her heart pounding so hard it would surely burst from her chest, Eliza carefully pushed open the door and peeked in.

Oh God.

Grayson stood in the center of the room, a riding crop in one hand and a lit candlestick in the other. Several men were seated in a row, each with a woman on their lap, while two more women knelt at her husband’s feet. The air was thick with the scent of arousal and pleasure, and even from here she could see the glistening, swollen cores of the women, the bright pink marks decorating their skin, their beaming faces.

But there was something desperately wrong with the scene.

In direct contrast to the elation of the others, her husband looked hellish. Parchment pale. Linen shirt damp with sweat, his mouth twisted in agonized stoicism, his beautiful green eyes haunted, glazed and red-rimmed as if trapped in a nightmare.

Horrified, Eliza stumbled into the room. “No more.”

“Lady Eliza,” said a low female voice to her right, the sudden grip on her wrist firm.

Even though the woman wore a mask, she knew exactly who it was, and hated her even more. “Let me go, Mrs. Lewis. You say you love him. And yet you witness this and do nothing?”

Charlotte winced. “Here, Dev is my employer, the man who ensures the kind of security and comfort I could never have achieved alone. Do you think I enjoy watching him drink to the edge of oblivion and destroy himself?”

“Well it won’t be carrying on. Not one moment. I’m taking him away,” she hissed fiercely, and to her disbelief, Charlotte smiled and squeezed her hand with true warmth.

“Of course. I’ll finish here.”

Thankfully the other people in the room, whoever they were, didn’t protest as she marched past them and slid an arm around Grayson’s waist.

He blinked slowly at her, as if coming out of a deep trance. “Eliza?”

Pulling his head down and standing on her tiptoes, she whispered in his ear, “You are coming with me. Right now. Charlotte will continue on your behalf.”

Grayson nodded. “I don’t…I don’t feel well.”

“I know,” Eliza whispered, then she turned to her curious audience. “Terribly sorry, my dears, but I must steal Devil away from your party. A certain portly gentleman with a rather extravagant jeweled cravat is positively insisting to be joined for brandy and cheroots.”

One of the men laughed. “Couldn’t imagine who that might be, Devil, poor chap.”

“One does what one must,” said Grayson, setting down the riding crop and candlestick on a nearby bench as they left the chamber. “Good evening, all.”

His steps faltered halfway down the hallway. As they rounded the first corner, Eliza barely managed to maneuver him against the wall before his head dropped, and with a brandy-scented sigh, he slid to the floor.

…