Free The Demon's Bride by Jo Beverley Page B

woman across the big kitchen table and asked the question she’d avoided. “Do you think this is to be a real Dym’s Night? Given the change in the calendar?”
    The woman looked up with an anxious crease above her eyes. “None knows, miss, and that’s the truth. But we must be prepared.”
    “And if it is, what will happen?”
    “Things’ll be better.”
    “What will happen to me ?”
    “To you, miss?” The housekeeper tried to sound puzzled, but her eyes had shifted. When she said, “No doubt you’ll wed within the year,” Rachel tried to take that to mean that at least she wouldn’t end up in the bonfire.
    Fears were building, however, and that night, lying in her bed in darkness, Rachel opened her mind to the suspicion that had been growing there.
    Had she been picked to be Dym’s Bride because no other woman in the parish would take the role this year? Whatever the truth about Meggie Brewstock, the people here were still ill at ease about her fate a century later.
    Rachel was tempted to flee the area until after May the first, perhaps forever.
    They lived in a modern age, however.
    Demons didn’t exist.
    Except a certain sort of man who could tear a woman’s heart in two.
    But he was in London, seeking a bride. Damn him.
    The next day, the green gown was mostly finished and Rachel tried it on. As it settled on her, she shivered, but only because it felt more like a nightgown than a day one. It wasn’t made for hoops, petticoats or stays, and hung against her skin with only her thin shift as barrier.
    “It’s hardly decent,” she muttered.
    “That color’s right pretty on you, miss,” said Mrs. Hatcher. “Now for the neckline.” The housekeeper worked her shears, and before Rachel realized, she’d cut away a great deal of the bodice.
    Rachel ran in front of the mirror and gasped. “Mrs. Hatcher, that’s far too low! I’ll have to fill it in with lace.”
    “Nay, miss, it’s no lower than your best silk.”
    “But when I wear that, I wear stays! And a stomacher.” Her nipples were poking up the cloth. “I look wicked.”
    “Nay, miss. You look right fetching, and what’s the harm in looking your best one night in your life? Your man’ll like it.”
    “I have no man.”
    “Then you will have. The Bride always marries within the year.”
    Another superstition about to proved hollow, thought Rachel bitterly. Oh, why didn’t Lord Morden come back to the Abbey with a bride and get it over with?
     
     
    Rachel fretted her way toward Walpurgis Night, but when the time came, she found her nerves in better state that she had expected. This was in part because the waiting was over, but also because Sir George and Mr. Home-Nowlan had come over to dine before accompanying her and her father up to Dymons Hill. They were both such ordinary, hearty gentlemen. With such attendants, nothing could go amiss.
    She must have still looked anxious, however, for Sir George patted her arm. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Miss Proudfoot. I’ve been at these affairs, as you know. There’s no harm to them, none at all, but just in case, Hume-Nowlan and I each have a pistol in a pocket.”
    That did help. “Thank you, Sir George. But don’t be too quick to react, please. I expect matters to be boisterous and won’t take offense.”
    “Good girl. Good girl.”
    Rachel went up to her room and changed into her green dress. She’d tried it on every day, attempting to get used to it, but it still felt odd.
    The color did suit her, though. That was true.
    She was supposed to wear her hair loose, so she took out the pins and brushed it, feeling its looseness was more indecency. Her hair generally went from its knot on the top of her head to the plaits she wore for sleep. Hanging down to her waist, it looked wild in the candlelight.
    Giving thanks for its thickness, she draped it in front as well as behind so that it veiled her chest.
    When she returned below stairs, she saw Sir George’s eyes widen in