The Devil She Knows Read Online Free PDF Page B

called men.
    But she couldn’t forgive him for proving exactly what category he placed her in. No man christened his beloved with the butt of his Colt.
    No, she’d look elsewhere for her true love.

Chapter Five
    New York, New York, October 1880
    P ortia paced in front of the upstairs drawing room’s marble columns and closely watched herself in the mirror above the black marble mantel. The sun’s dying rays plummeted through the stained glass transoms and slowly spilled crimson over the bronze maiden standing there.
    A thousand lizards rioted in the void known as her stomach. She didn’t want to think about them, the four hundred guests waiting at the church to see her married, or the clock ticking off the minutes till she, her father, and stepmother left for the ceremony. For one thing, they should have departed—she cast yet another glance at the curlicued bit of machinery facing the mantel—almost ten minutes ago.
    But everything in this Manhattan town house moved at her father or stepmother’s command. A year of expensive finishing school and another year touring Europe had shown her a broader palette of delights than the rigorous schools she’d attended earlier had taught her. She’d danced until she fell into bed exhausted at dawn, practiced notes backstage with opera stars, compared French poets to their Greek models in London drawing rooms, and more—always attired in the latest gowns from Paris.
    And completely lacking Gareth Lowell’s presence. She’d considered wearing his watch again, since the tiny enameled pendant could be hidden inside ballgowns and punctuality was an asset. But she needed no reminders of his autocratic ways, even if he was an honest man unlike most in her father’s circle.
    All those days and nights had also confirmed the advantages a matron enjoyed over a schoolgirl, such as not having to answer to anyone whenever she wished to say what she wanted or go where she pleased.
    Only a few more minutes left until she headed her own establishment and set her own rules. Having her own house—no, houses—would be much better than living at her parents’ beck and call. An enormous country estate, the proud horse farm which had been neglected for far too long, the town house which had been rented and abused. She could have all the books she wanted, sing for as long as she wanted….
    None of which mattered, since it wouldn’t bring her Gareth.
    She went back to what she could do for now: practice wearing her wedding dress.
    Good, she wasn’t tripping on the double lace flounce any longer. She was also moving so smoothly that the pearls holding down the rows of chenille fringe covering the skirt fluttered gracefully, rather than wrapping around each other.
    Managing the yards of cloth was far trickier because she couldn’t pick up her skirts. Instead she had to carry her mother’s Bible, with its precious letter to her. The trustee of Mother’s estate had delivered it that morning, too late for Portia to read it before the ceremony.
    Glass shattered next door. “You clumsy idiot, how dare you curl my hair that way!” a woman screeched.
    Portia grimaced, all too familiar bile rising in her throat. The new French maid, the third this year, had probably tried to make her mistress look attractive rather than fashionable.
    â€œBut, madame…”
    Thud!
    Babette yelped.
    Portia wheeled for the door and rattled its knob. It was locked as usual, unlike those at Aunt Viola’s home. “Ma’am? Is everything alright?”
    â€œYes, of course,” her stepmother answered. “But I’ll need a few minutes longer than I expected.” She ended the last syllables with a vicious snap.
    â€œAnd Babette?” Portia queried. Usually there was more noise to her stepmother’s rage than actual hitting. “Can she help me finish?”
    â€œDon’t be absurd; you’re already