Page 24 of The Devil's Pawn

Over three hundred years old. To think this was built without the modern tools and equipment we have today. Incredible.

“It’s breathtaking.” Without waiting for Alexander, I stride to the front door. As I approach, it opens. A woman in her mid-fifties with graying hair swept into a fierce bun offers a tight smile.

“Mrs. De Vil. Welcome to Thistlewood.” Her thick Scottish accent is difficult to understand, but I get the gist and reply to her formal greeting with a beaming grin.

“Thank you.”

I barely get the words out when she rushes past me, gushing, “Mr. De Vil. How wonderful it is of you to?—”

At least that’s what I think she says.

Leaving her to fawn all over Alexander, I step inside thehouse. I’m greeted by a grand foyer decorated with dark wood paneling—mahogany, or maybe walnut. The lack of natural sunlight, due in part to the cloudy skies outside, makes it hard to pick out the subtle tones in the wood. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, and intricate tapestries adorn the walls. I run my fingertips over them.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

I startle at the sound of Alexander’s voice and the brush of his jacket against my bare arm. I hadn’t even heard him approach, despite the stone floors that would make creeping around tricky.

“Yes, they are.”

“You seem… taken with the place.”

“More than taken. It’s spectacular. As a lover of architecture, it’s pushing all my buttons.”

A faint smile tugs at Alexander’s lips, and I’m so stunned by the rarity of it that I openly stare. If he notices my surprise, he doesn’t refer to it. Right when I’m about to think he might possess, like, ten percent humanity, he opens his mouth and ruins it.

“Good. You’ll have plenty to keep you occupied, then. I have business to attend to. Mrs. Campbell will show you to your rooms and point out where the panic room is.”

Pivoting, he walks away with the speed of a man desperate to be anywhere but where he is.

From my left, Mrs. Campbell appears and motions for me to follow her. As she leads me up the first impressive staircase to the second floor, a knot pulls tight in my stomach.

I truly am alone.

Chapter Nine

ALEXANDER

The beginnings of a headache throbs at my temples, and I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. I only got back from a flying visit to London to keep my regular Tuesday appointment at two o’clock this morning, and I barely slept once I got to bed. Not that lack of sleep is something I’m unfamiliar with. Insomnia is a friend whose presence I’ve grown accustomed to ever since Annabel’s murder and my mother’s suicide.

At least the trip allowed me to further isolate Imogen. The staff at Thistlewood are steeped in formality at the best of times, and naturally keep their interactions to a minimum. A few days with no one to talk to for a social butterfly like her must be torturous.

My initial displeasure with the idea of a honeymoon had, in the end, presented an opportunity I hadn’t thought of. Not that I would have refused my father’s request. I owe him a daughteranda wife, neither of which are in my power to fix.

Standing, I rub the tight muscles in my lower back. Mystomach grumbles, and I check my watch to find it’s four-thirty. I completely missed lunch, too busy drowning in work so I don’t have to think about how my dick throbs every time I’m in close quarters with my wife.

I’m not supposed to find her attractive. That isn’t in the plan. And it’s not only physically that she appeals to me. She’s got guts, courage far beyond her years, and as much as I hate to admit it, I respect her for that.

Even so, it changes nothing. I still intend to make her life so miserable, she’ll put herself before her father and beg me for a divorce. It won’t be a problem to keep my father at bay for a few months, but after that, he’s going to want to know why Imogen isn’t pregnant, and that’s a conversation I plan to avoid at all costs. Before the autumn, I need her gone.

The kitchen is empty, and I’m glad. I’m not in the mood for Mrs. Campbell’s fussing. Her over-the-top gushing is more than I can stomach, although as she’s a favorite of my father’s, I rein in my tongue, much as it pains me to do so.

I make myself a ham sandwich and sit at the table overlooking the woods behind the house. I get through half of it before I’m interrupted by the sounds of footsteps. Groaning, I toss the remains away and am almost at the kitchen door when Mrs. Campbell appears.

“Mr. De Vil. What can I get for you?”

“Nothing, thank you. I helped myself.”

Her eyes open wide, as if I’ve confessed to the worst sin imaginable. “You should have called me.”

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