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

Arles took her arm—and she permitted it. Her brain seemed to be somewhere distant from his touch, as if sheer terror had rescued all that was good and pure in her from him.
    She glanced around the church, anywhere but at him, the man who’d kiss her again that night. Although she mustn’t let anybody know what she thought of that.
    She immediately and far too easily saw Gareth again. He jerked his head toward Uncle William and Aunt Viola, implacably demanding that she scandalously cast her husband aside and run off.
    But he never gave any sign she should come to him.
    Her husband drew her arm against his side.
    Silence spread through the audience like the first flame in dry prairie grass.
    â€œMy dear daughter, let me be the first to congratulate you,” her father gushed. “I will introduce you two to President Grant immediately.”
    The message in his eyes was as unmistakable as Gareth’s: You must pretend matters are proceeding well. You are married now, like it or not.
    A thousand people watched her, eager to see her next move. No matter what she did, there would be gossip. That’d be a minor penalty, though, for choosing the proper road.
    Divorce? Impossible; she’d given her word to marry him—for better or for worse. After all, there had to be a future ahead for a woman who did her best to be a good wife.
    She’d created more than one ruckus in her life but never the commotion that walking out on St. Arles now would cause.
    What did any of that matter? Like it or not, she’d married him and she’d keep her vows.
    Portia Townsend—no, Vanneck —wrapped herself in her best, well-bred smile and leaned very slightly on her new husband’s arm. Her finishing school’s deportment teacher would have been proud.
    She deliberately did not look anywhere near Gareth Lowell.
    But too much of her heart shattered when the side door slammed behind him.

Chapter Seven
    T he fire sparked and sizzled in the library’s flamboyant, tiled fireplace. A flame leaped high toward the chimney and freedom until the log underneath cracked loudly then collapsed onto the hearth. Ashes billowed toward the room beyond like a small, deadly storm, dotted with ravenous sparks. They almost seemed angry they couldn’t devour the wedding reception for a British earl and a New York debutante.
    If William Donovan had any sense, he’d let those fiery devils seize the woolen carpet and burn down Walter Townsend’s New York mansion. They would need far less than an hour and he’d easily have his family out of here long before they were done.
    Richard Lindsay, Viola’s father and Portia’s doting grandfather, watched silently, brocade curtains spilling behind him like memories of the Barbary pirates he’d defeated as a naval officer decades ago. They’d drawn straws for who’d have the privilege of leading this conversation and William had won, illegally of course. Townsend was probably better off dealing with an Irish street rat than somebody who’d learned mercy in Tunisian slave pens.
    Portia’s father puffed another set of smoke rings at the paneled ceiling. He filled his leather easy chair like a toad on a lily pad, all corpulent self-satisfaction and disinterest in anyone else’s condition.
    Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, had the bastard no interest in his daughter’s fate? Had he taken a single glance into Portia’s eyes when she staggered away from her husband at the altar?
    â€œSplendid ceremony, wasn’t it, gentlemen? I fancy you won’t see its like out west for many years to come,” the poltroon commented and aimed a superior smile at his three companions. “People will be congratulating me for years on the bride’s looks.”
    Hal Lindsay snapped his jaw shut with an almost audible click, his blue eyes hotter than the fire. Every blessed saint in heaven would be needed to protect somebody who spoke that