The Devil She Knows by Diane Whiteside Read Free Book Online Page A

break society’s conventions and offer assistance. A half smile toyed with his thin lips under his fashionable mustache.
    Their audience leaned forward in a rustling slither of controlled anticipation. Her stepmother’s crisp underskirts echoed like buckshot beside the aisle, while Portia could see from the corner of her eye Father smirking at an old social rival.
    Uncle William, Aunt Viola, and their two young sons, Neil and Brian, sat in the following pew. Aunt Viola sniffled hard and briefly leaned her cheek against Uncle William’s shoulder. He tilted his head toward hers, offering comfort and understanding so simply that Portia’s heart twisted.
    Uncle Hal and Aunt Rosalind, with their bevy of daughters and single son, her golden Lindsay cousins, Uncle Morgan and Aunt Jessamyn, and everyone else were a blur too distant to be distinguished as individuals.
    Dear Cynthia stood behind her, both hands full with hers and Portia’s bouquets. Cynthia’s happy marriage to her gallant British army officer had helped persuade Portia she too could have a successful union to a foreign aristocrat.
    Out of all that great assembly, only one man stood on his feet.
    Gareth Lowell watched her from the side aisle, his silver eyes like beacons set deep in his hardened face.
    Something deep down inside her leaned toward him yet again. She’d wanted him from the day they’d met, when she’d arrived in San Francisco after Mother’s long, dreadful descent into death. He’d just come in from the storm, windblown and clean-smelling like the promise of a new beginning. He’d never reminded her of New York’s gilded, cloying rituals.
    Her two stepsisters finished their work and stepped back, leaving Portia isolated in front of the high altar.
    â€œMy wife.” St. Arles’s voice was clipped, British, and triumphant as brazen cymbals despite its quiet.
    Her eyes widened to meet his. She blushed, thanking a merciful heaven she’d sighted Gareth over St. Arles’s shoulder. No suspicion dwelt in his eyes when his forefinger brought her chin up.
    Her husband. She’d sworn to forsake all others and cleave only unto him.
    He was what she wanted, wasn’t he?
    She stilled, her skin drifting somewhere beyond the ability of her frantic pulse to warm.
    He slowly lowered his head to hers, his black eyes glinting like a shotgun’s muzzle.
    What was he planning to do? He wasn’t behaving like the groom at any wedding she’d ever attended.
    She managed a welcoming smile, gentler than her clumsy fingers’ frantic grip on her mother’s Bible.
    He very deliberately licked her lips, flicking his tongue across them like a rattlesnake tasting the air for prey. Again and again, never seeking to penetrate or seduce like those fumbling boys, but only taunt and brand her.
    She wrenched herself away from him and staggered back, flinging her free hand up.
    â€œNo,” she whispered. How could she yield her body to a man who treated her like that?
    St. Arles chuckled too softly to be heard by anyone except the archbishop. Satisfaction flickered through her bridegroom’s eyes, not some ridiculous prank.
    Good God, he’d meant to frighten her.
    Her blood ran colder than at her mother’s funeral.
    The audience surged onto its feet, filling the great church with a storm of dissonant questions and clashing fabrics.
    She had to leave. But where could she go? She was married to St. Arles.
    Her lungs fought to draw breath fast enough to fuel her irregular pulse.
    To have and to hold, for better or worse…from this day forward.
    Forever. She would be his wife for all of the days to come.
    She lowered her hand as jerkily as a railroad engine stuttering to a halt. But she finished the motion and even added a half smile at the congregation, although she didn’t dare look anyone in the eye.
    Her father and stepmother erupted from their front pew and charged toward her.
    St.