Hi everyone! As promised at the cover reveal of A Wife for the Devil, I am back with Shruti to share a book excerpt! Let’s chat with her a bit and then dive into an excerpt from the book.
Get to know the author: Shruti
Welcome to Armed with A Book, Shruti! Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!
I grew up in a small town in southern India, reading as voraciously as I could. After a few years as a software engineer, I realised I wanted to do nothing but write stories. I live and write in Bangalore, India.
What inspired you to write this book?
I love historical romances. I always have. I read them quite rapaciously when I was younger. But then, I lost touch with the genre. Recently, when I was considering what genres I would myself write in, I discovered some of the modern authors working in this area, like Courtney Milan, Tessa Dare, Sarah MacLean, and many others. They have really freshened up the genre and brought so much diversity into it. I just wanted to add a bit of my own contribution to this wonderful genre.
How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?
This is a smaller book than usual. It started, in fact, as a novella, but grew later into a small novel. It took me about 4 months to go from idea to last edit.
What makes your book unique?
Neither of the characters are aristocrats. I think that helped the story explore some themes of powerlessness, poverty. Also, the heroine is an illegitimate child of an Indian soldier and an Englishwoman, bringing with it a precarity to her life. And yet, I wanted to make the story enjoyable, even thrilling. So there are plenty of adventures and mysteries.
Who would enjoy reading your book?
Anyone who enjoys romances. Also, someone looking for a quick but complete love story could find my book a good read.
What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?
I find romances always have an uplifting effect on the soul, giving the reader a glimpse of something wondrous and hopeful. One of the themes the book explores is the corrosive effect of hatred and anger, and how love can be a balm. I hope that readers find this a worthwhile message.
Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?
I think I cannot answer this without spoiling the book!
A Wife for the Devil
The illegitimate daughter of an Indian soldier and an Englishwoman, Elizabeth Lavoisier has never known true happiness or freedom. She survives only at the whims of her scheming cousin and is resigned to her fate until she meets the notorious industrialist Hugh Atwood.
Their attraction is immediate and scorching, their connection deep and visceral. But Hugh is driven by demons neither he nor Elizabeth completely understand, and Elizabeth could lose everything, even her pallid life with a family which does not want her. Soon they are plunged into the perilous world of the English aristocracy where they can trust no one, not even each other.
Is their love strong enough to overcome Elizabeth’s low station and the tragic binds that hold Hugh?
Content notes: Depiction of death and disability.
Find this book on Goodreads, Indie Story Geek, Amazon.
Book Excerpt from
A Wife for the Devil
Chapter 1
London, March 1871
Snow fluttered down gently as petals on the world outside the window. It was perhaps going to be the last snowfall of the year. Elizabeth Lavoisier wondered if the village in which her mother lived still saw snow. If it did, surely her mother too had cast her mind back to times when they would both head out, hand in hand, for a small walk around the Abbey, their faces lifted to the powdery downpour. They would then return to a warm kitchen, redolent with the smells of hot scones and tea laden with honey.
She thought of the time her mother had held out a snowflake to her, bright on her dark glove. A miracle, it had seemed to Elizabeth then. And yet, that snowflake had faded away. Just as all these that now fell on the world would. Elizabeth thought of her mother’s hand often, holding that snowflake out for her child to see. Love was perhaps a miracle that faded away too, sometimes without any remainder.
She looked back at the snow. Did Mother still—
“Lizzie!”
Elizabeth started. Bess’s hoarse voice was excited, and her heavy footsteps preceded her as always. When she entered the room, one could not look at anyone else. She was wide and imposing in the black dress and shell-white apron Elizabeth also wore. While the sedate colors of the uniform further pushed Elizabeth into the shadows, on Bess, they were crisp and showy. Her handsome face was dominated by snapping black eyes. It wore an avid expression now, the blush in her full cheeks a bright pink, her eyes wide.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked her, letting go of the spoon she held. It sank down into the noisome mixture of opium, crushed almonds, brandy, and rose water with an audible plunk. Much as Elizabeth might protest to Lady Deverill that such cures did little other than stun the patient into a stupor, that lady did not listen.
“You will not believe who just came in.” Bess rushed into the empty kitchen and sat down on Cook’s stool, soon screwing up her nose at the scorching smell in the room. Elizabeth hurried to cover the dish.
“One of Mary’s runaway tutors?” she asked, pulling another stool to sit before Bess.
Bess did not laugh. Usually this joke was a great success. Mary, the youngest of the Baron’s daughters, was a great terror to the teachers. Tutors came. And they went in no longer than a week, some in dolorous tears, others with the swiftest steps, most foregoing what little compensation they had earned. But Bess did not break into her famous warbling giggles. Instead, she shook her head, her eyes still wide, the gleam in them more avid than before.
Then she straightened herself to an impressive height, a height that towered over the sitting Elizabeth, and said, “That famous rich man. Hugh Atwood! What do they call him? Vampire of the Docks.”
Elizabeth stared at her. Hugh Atwood. The name was oft-whispered among the ton, sometimes in scandalized tones, most times with avarice. The man was, after all, one of the richest in England. A shipping magnate, Mr. Atwood had bought many smaller firms to Atwood Ironworks and Engines into the giant it was today. He manufactured maritime engines, or something like that. He might have come from nowhere, with only a second-son and mister for a father. But he had made enough money to merit notice even from those highest in the instep. They might not hand over their eldest daughters yet to Hugh Atwood, but Elizabeth could tell they only waited for Mr. Atwood to bend his knee, at least a little, to the ton. Whether that was a possibility, Elizabeth could not begin to guess.
Perhaps that was what was happening right now. Elizabeth’s uncle, the Baron Deverill, was not the richest man or one closest to Her Majesty, but he was a powerful ton figure, counting among his friends the Duke of Graham and even, at times, the Marquis of Rifton. Making nice with Lord Deverill would open a lot of doors for an outsider like Mr. Atwood. Moreover, Miranda, the Baron’s daughter, was powerful in her own right, a great wife to have if one could afford her. And Mr. Atwood could. The idea was funny. Hopefully the Vampire of the Docks would not run from Miranda defanged.
“What does he look like?” Elizabeth asked Bess, who only needed a question to uncork the tide of gossip she had for Elizabeth.
Mr. Atwood had come ten minutes ago and had simply told Edwards to bring him the Baron. He was dressed in a black coat that had surely seen better days and boots so dirty that Edwards had to get the girls to mop the floor again. Hardly appropriate attire for a social visit to the Baron’s.
“Edwards sputtered for a solid minute,” Bess said, giggling a bit. “Then he went to Lord Deverill’s study. Rooney, who was in the Lord’s chambers, says that the Baron was still asleep. And when he heard who had come, he sputtered almost as long as Edwards.”
“Then they went into the library,” Bess concluded dolefully. “No one else is in there now.”
“It does not seem like Mr. Atwood is making nice,” Elizabeth said. This was new. The Baron’s house was full of toad-eaters, hoping to get on his good side, hoping to get into his parties. Hugh Atwood must be made of different stuff.
“No, it doesn’t,” Bess said. “Or … he simply doesn’t know how to do that. Rooney says he seemed quite ill-bred.” Rooney, the Baron’s valet, was a tough judge of the aristocracy, and a tougher judge of the gentry.
There was a surreptitious rap on the door. Daisy, Elizabeth thought, signaling something. “Come,” Bessie said, “he is leaving. We can watch from the window.”
And Elizabeth ran, her hand soon engulfed by Bess’s much larger one. They went up the bare stone stairs to the ground floor. The broad window that marked the passage into the main floor looked onto the walkway of the house, and to a bit of Green Street.
A tall man, fair of hair, sped away on a brown horse along the walkway, his hat unfashionable and his black shoes speckled brown by mud. He did not look back, and when he disappeared onto Green Street, Elizabeth had the feeling he never wanted to see the Baron’s townhouse again.
“So that was Hugh Atwood,” Bess said next to her.
“Seems unremarkable enough,” replied Elizabeth.
****
Bess left her soon after to help Mrs. Smith with carpet cleaning. Elizabeth needed to hurry. The concoction seemed to be congealing into a gluey mess. She lit the stove again, splashing in a bit more rose water to make it thinner. Lady Deverill had come to Elizabeth soon after dawn with the recipe. As her elder daughter’s melancholia progressed into its second month, the lady had become more desperate. Her cures had grown even more outlandish this year. This new one was sure to be left unconsumed on Miranda’s table, as the others had been. And yet, Elizabeth could not help but hope things would change for Miranda. They usually did. But this spell had lasted much longer than the ones before.
Elizabeth took the pail off the heat and placed it on the stone counter. She would let it cool before taking it to Miranda. It was the first lesson she had learned when she had moved into the Baron’s townhouse after Grandmama’s death. Never take anything hot to Miranda, not when she was in her melancholic spells. It might end up on your dress. Though Miranda did not seem to have even the energy to be spiteful these days.
Elizabeth sat down on Cook’s stool to watch the snow again. It had thinned to a lazy sprinkle. The sun was beginning to peek from behind the thin screen of clouds. This perhaps would be the last quiet moment she would get today. Soon, she would be called down by Lady Deverill, and there would be more attempts to get Miranda cheered up. Novels would be read, songs would be sung. Various friends would be remembered, with the hope that Miranda would pounce upon a name and desire the bearer’s company.
But the quiet moment was not to be.
“Mrs. Lavoisier?” a prim, self-contained French-accented voice called from the door. Elizabeth was surprised. The only other time her cousin’s personal maid had spoken to her had been to ask, quite indifferently, where in France Elizabeth’s people had come from. When Elizabeth replied she had no idea, that her late husband had never quite told her, the maid had turned away, surely under the impression that Elizabeth was not important enough. A correct impression, indeed. Now standing at the edge of the door, the lady’s maid looked worn, her dress unstarched and her cap missing, her blonde hair in disarray. She had been such a self-possessed woman, Elizabeth thought with a sudden pang of pity. Miranda’s melancholy had taken its toll on almost everyone in the house.
“Yes, Mademoiselle Pinette?” Elizabeth asked the maid, standing up.
The maid came closer, her eyes suffused by a strange expression. Doubt? Speculation? Elizabeth could not decipher it.
“She wants to see you,” the woman whispered as soon as she was close to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth simply looked at her. She knew her own eyes to be as wide as Mlle. Pinette’s. Was the woman saying what Elizabeth thought she was saying?
The woman nodded, her head moving up and down like a marionette’s, her eyes fixed upon Elizabeth. “She wishes to see you immediately,” the woman said. Then she took Elizabeth’s arm. “In her room. Her room.”
Then Mlle. Pinette was pulling her out into the corridor and then up the stairs, her grasp on Elizabeth’s arm almost as cold and hard as a metal vise. Elizabeth asked her a few more desultory questions, but they went unanswered. She let herself be dragged up the stairs and onto the main floor of the house.
The upstairs were a melee. Servants went hither and thither, and there was a thrum of anxiety and expectation in the air. Miranda, it seemed, had awoken from the spell. A cleaning girl, small and nervous as a sparrow, ran past them, a broom and a dustpan clutched tightly in her hands.
They went past the library and the morning room and the dining room. They were nearing Miranda’s saloon now. Unlike the entirety of the past month, the door was flung open. And Miranda’s voice could be heard, commanding the servants who were moving in and out of the room on tiptoes.
But before Elizabeth could reach the saloon, the Baron Deverill came out toward her from the library to her right. His porcine face, rendered even more piglike by the broken capillaries that dotted his entire face, was contorted. His mouth was slightly ajar, and his lips gleamed. His small green eyes seemed wild, roving from one end of the corridor to another. Elizabeth kept going. Her uncle was surely looking for his valet. But his eyes stopped wandering when his gaze landed on her.
“Lizzie!” he bellowed, and Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks. Her uncle never called her by that name. Verily, he seldom called her by any name. She had even wondered sometimes if her uncle had entirely forgotten his ill-begotten niece who lived under his roof.
Shocked though Elizabeth was, she had the sense to extricate herself from Mlle. Pinette’s grip and mutter a quick, confused, “Oh, sorry, my lord. You asked me to—” before running into the library and pretending to be in a great hurry, glad that her uncle followed her inside. And shut the door.
“What is wrong?” she asked him when she was certain that neither Mlle. Pinette nor the growing bevy of servants outside could not hear them.
Her uncle was hyperventilating, his mouth puffing up with air and deflating while he paced a small oval path on the plush carpet of the library. His steps, she noticed now, were weaving and wavering. How drunk is he? she wondered. She was too far away from him in the large room to smell anything.
“I am sorry, Lizzie,” he said with a gasp. “I am sorry. Lila. I could talk to Lila as well. Do you think she would understand me?”
Elizabeth held herself steady as her uncle spoke and faltered and wobbled as he walked. Her uncle had seldom mentioned Elizabeth’s mother, not in the twenty-four years she had known him. And he never called her by her Christian name. Lila. The name, heard aloud, sent a pang of yearning through her body. Elizabeth bade herself not to recall the other names her uncle sometimes called her mother. They would make her rage ineffectually at him, drunk and terrified as he was.
“What happened?” she asked him again.
“I saw the Devil,” her uncle said. “I saw Death himself. He told me he would break my back. And throw me into the Styx, never to drown. Ever. Do you think Mother will come see me float?”
“Have you had something other than brandy?” she asked him. Her uncle had never behaved this way with the copious amounts of brandy he consumed every day. It had to be some other intoxicant, borrowed from the new friends he had made in town.
Her uncle suddenly stuck out his tongue. He looked now like an errant schoolboy. The shift in the mood was more frightening than the words he had been saying.
“Don’t tell Miranda,” he whispered.
“You need to lie down,” Elizabeth told her uncle. “I will call for some breakfast. And then you can head upstairs and sleep.”
“Yes,” her uncle said. He walked ponderously toward the sofa and collapsed on it. It sagged and groaned under his weight.
“I will send you breakfast,” Elizabeth promised him. Her uncle’s breakfast often occurred well past noon.
“But not the Devil,” her uncle said, his eyes closed.
“No, not the Devil.”
****
Miranda stood outside her saloon, waiting for Elizabeth. Her cousin looked like an entirely new person. Her auburn hair was plaited around her head. She wore a dressing gown that was the exact shade of her eyes. Forest green. And more importantly, she smiled.
It was a bright white smile that took Miranda’s beauty and elevated it to a godly pinnacle. It was a smile that drove scores of young men mad every year.
“Lizzie,” Miranda said, “I have a job for you. Let us go upstairs while they clean the saloon.”
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Cover Image: Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash
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