Devils Bride c-1 Read online

  "I didn't pay because I thought you couldn't."

  Honoria glanced at him; his eyes declared he was telling the truth. "Well," she said, somewhat mollified, "if that wasn't the reason, what was?"

  Devil's jaw hardened. "I told you."

  Honoria had to think back, then, her own features hardening, she shook her head. "No, no, no! Even if we were married, you have no right to pay bills that are mine, not unless I ask you to. In fact, I can't think why Celestine sent the bill to you at all." She tripped on the last words, and looked up, directly into his eyes. Abruptly, she narrowed hers. "It was you, wasn't it? Who sent that note to Celestine?"

  Exasperated, Devil frowned at her. "It was just an introduction."

  "As what? Your wife?" When he didn't answer, Honoria ground her teeth. "What on earth am I to do with you?"

  Devil's features hardened. "Marry me." His voice was a frustrated growl. "The rest will follow naturally."

  Honoria tilted her chin. "You are being deliberately obtuse. May I please have my account from Celestine?"

  His frown deepening, darkening his eyes, Devil looked down at her. "No." The single syllable was backed by centuries of undisputed power.

  Honoria held his gaze steadily-and felt her temper swell, felt indignation soar. Gazes locked, she could feel their wills, tangible entities, directly opposed, neither giving an inch. Slowly, she narrowed her eyes. "How," she inquired, her voice steely calm,"do you imagine I feel knowing that every stitch I have on was paid for by you?"

  Instantly, she saw her mistake-saw it in his eyes, in the subtle shift that lightened the green, in the consideration that flashed through their depths.

  He shifted closer. "I don't know." His voice had dropped to a gravelly purr; his gaze grew mesmerically intent. "Tell me."

  Inwardly railing, Honoria saw any chance of getting Celestine's bill evaporate. "I do not believe we have anything further to discuss, Your Grace. If you'll excuse me?"

  She heard her own words, cool and distant. His gaze hardened; his expression was as controlled as her own. He searched her eyes, then, rigidly formal, inclined his head, and stepped aside, clearing her path to the door.

  Honoria's breath caught as she tried to draw it in. She bobbed a curtsy, then, regally erect, glided to the door, conscious of his gaze, shimmering heat on her back, until the door swung closed between them.

  She shut the door with a definite click.

  The weather, mimicking the atmosphere within St. Ives House, turned decidedly chilly. Three nights later, ensconced in one corner of the St. Ives town carriage, Honoria looked out on a dark and dreary landscape whipped by wind and incessant rain. They were on their way to Richmond, to the duchess of Richmond's ball; all the haut ton would be present, the Cynsters included. None of the family would dance, but appearance was mandatory.

  It was not, however, the prospect of her first real ball that had knotted her nerves. The tension that held her was entirely attributable to the impressive figure, clothed in black, lounging directly opposite, his inner tension, a match for hers, radiating through the darkness. The Lord of Hell could not have had more complete command of her awareness.

  Honoria's jaw tensed; her stubbornness swelled. Her gaze glued to the misery beyond the window, she conjured up an image of the Great Sphinx. Her destiny. She had started to waver, to wonder whether, perhaps… until his demonstration that a tyrant never changed his spots. It was, she acknowledged, deep disappointment that had left the odd emptiness inside her, as if a treat had been offered and then withdrawn.

  Richmond House, ablaze with lights, shone through the darkness. Their carriage joined the long queue leading to the portico. Innumerable stop-start jerks later, the carriage door was opened; Devil uncoiled his long length and stepped down. He assisted the Dowager up the porch steps, then returned. Avoiding his eye, Honoria placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her down, then escort her in the Dowager's wake.

  Negotiating the stairs proved an unexpected trial; the unyielding press of bodies forced them close. So close she could feel the heat of him reach for her, feel his strength envelop her. The flimsiness of her lavender-silk gown only heightened her susceptibility; as they reached the head of the stairs, she flicked open her fan.

  The duchess of Richmond was delighted to receive them. "Horatia's near the conservatory." The duchess touched a scented cheek to the Dowager's, then held out a hand to Honoria. "Hmm-yes." Surveying her critically as she rose from her curtsy, the duchess broke into a beaming smile. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear." Releasing Honoria, she glanced archly at Devil. "And you, St. Ives? How are you finding life as an almost-affianced gentleman?"

  "Trying." His expression bland. Devil shook her hand.

  The duchess grinned. "I wonder why?" Slanting a laughing glance at Honoria, the duchess waved them on. "I'll rely on you, St. Ives, to ensure Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is suitably entertained."

  With stultifying correctness, Devil offered his arm; in precisely the same vein, Honoria rested her fingertips upon it and allowed him to steer her in the Dowager's wake. She kept her head high, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.

  Many were too familiar. She wished she could take her hand from Devil's sleeve, take just one step away, enough to put some distance between them. But the ton had grown so used to the idea she was his duchess-in-waiting, that she was his, that any hint of a rift would immediately focus every eye on them, which would be even worse.

  Her serene mask firmly in place, she had to leave her nerves to suffer his nearness.

  Devil led her to a position just beyond the chaise where the Dowager and Horatia Cynster sat, surrounded by a coterie of older ladies. Within minutes, they were surrounded themselves, by friends, acquaintances, and the inevitable Cynsters.

  The group about them swelled and ebbed, then swelled and ebbed again. Then a suavely elegant gentleman materialized from the crowd to bow gracefully before her. "Chillingworth, my dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." Straightening, he smiled charmingly. "We've not been introduced, but I'm acquainted with your brother."

  "Michael?" Honoria gave him her hand. She'd heard of the earl of Chillingworth; by reputation, he was Devil Cynster's match. "Have you seen him recently?"

  "Ah-no." Chillingworth turned to greet Lady Waltham and Miss Mott. Lord Hill and Mr. Pringle joined the group, distracting the other two ladies; Chillingworth turned back to Honoria. "Michael and I share the same club."

  And very little else, Honoria suspected. "Indeed? And have you seen the play at the Theatre Royal?" Lady Waltham had waxed lyrical about the production but couldn't remember its title.

  The earl's brows rose. "Quite a tour de force." He glanced at Devil, absorbed with Lord Malmsbury. "If St. Ives is unable to escort you, perhaps I could get up a party, one you might consent to join?"

  Classically handsome, well set, tall enough to look down into her eyes, Chillingworth was a damsel's dream-and a prudent mama's nightmare. Honoria opened her eyes wide. "But you've already seen the play, my lord."

  "Watching the play would not be my aim, my dear."

  Honoria smiled. "But it would be my aim, my lord, which might disappoint you."

  An appreciative gleam lit Chillingworth's eyes. "I suspect, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, that I wouldn't find you disappointing at all."

  Honoria raised a brow; simultaneously, she felt a stir at her side.

  Chillingworth looked up, and nodded. "St. Ives."

  "Chillingworth." Devil's deep drawl held a subtle menace. "What cast of the dice landed you here?"

  The earl smiled. "Pure chance-I stopped to pay my respects to Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." His smile deepened. "But speaking of gaming, I haven't seen you at the tables recently. Other matters keeping you busy?"

  "As you say." Devil's tone was noncommittal. "But I'm surprised you haven't gone north for the hunting. Lord Ormeskirk and his lady have already left, I hear."

  "Indeed-but one shouldn't cram one's fences, as I'm sure you appreciate."r />
  Devil raised a brow. "Assuming one still has fences to overcome."

  Honoria resisted an urge to raise her eyes to the heavens. The following five minutes were a revelation; Devil and Chillingworth traded quips as sharp-edged as sabers, their rivalry self-evident. Then, as if they'd satisfied some prescribed routine, the conversation swung to horseflesh and thus into a more amicable vein. When that subject failed, Chillingworth turned the talk to politics, drawing her into the conversation. Honoria wondered why.

  A squeaky screech was her first warning of impending difficulty. Everyone looked toward the dais at the end of the room. A whine followed by a handful of plucked notes confirmed the general supposition; a hum rose along with a bustling rush as partners were claimed for the first waltz.

  Looking back at Chillingworth, Honoria saw him smile.

  "Can I tempt you to the dance floor, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?"

  With that simple question, he put her on the spot. Fairly and squarely, with no room for maneuver. As she studied Chillingworth's quizzical hazel eyes, Honoria's mind raced, but she didn't need to think to know Devil's opinion. The arm under her fingers was rigid; while he appeared as languidly bored as ever, his every muscle had tensed.

  She wanted to dance, had intended to dance-had looked forward to her first waltz in the capital. And she'd known that Devil, still wearing a black armband, would not take the floor. Until Celia's "at-home," she'd fully intended to waltz with others, thus making a clear statement that she would live her own life, make her own decisions, that she was her own mistress, not his. This waltz was to have been her declaration-and what better partner with which to underscore her point than Chillingworth?

  He was waiting, outwardly charming but watching her like a hawk; the musicians were still tuning their strings. Devil was also watching her-he might be hedonistic, he might be unpredictable, but here, in the duchess of Richmond's ballroom, he was helpless to prevent her doing as she wished. So what did she wish?

  Calmly, Honoria held out her hand. "Thank you, my lord." Satisfaction flared in Chillingworth's eyes; Honoria lifted a brow. "But I do not dance this evening."

  To give him his due, the light in his eyes didn't fade although his triumphant expression certainly did. For an instant, he held Honoria's gaze, then glanced at the other ladies in their group. Looking back at Honoria, he raised a resigned brow. "How exceedingly cruel of you, my dear."

  His words were too soft for anyone beyond Honoria or Devil to hear. Chillingworth raised his brows fleetingly at Devil, then, with a last nod to Honoria, he turned and, with faultless grace, solicited Miss Mott's hand.

  Devil waited until the end of the dance to catch his mother's eye. She grimaced at him but when he persisted, reluctantly conceded. Setting his hand over Honoria's fingers, still resting on his sleeve, he turned her toward the chaise. Puzzled, she glanced up at him.

  "Maman wishes to leave."

  Collecting the Dowager, they took leave of their hostess. Taking Honoria's cloak from a footman, Devil draped it about her shoulders, fighting the urge to rest his hands, however briefly, on the smoothly rounded contours. His mother commandeered the Richmonds' butler, leaving him to lead Honoria down the steps and hand her into the carriage.

  The door shut upon them, cloaking him in safe darkness; harness jingled, and they were on their way home. And he was still sane. Just.

  Settled in his corner, Devil tried to relax. He'd been tense on the way to Richmond House, he'd been tense while there. He was still tense now-he didn't entirely know why.

  But if Honoria had accepted Chillingworth, all hell would have broken loose. The possibility that she had refused the invitation purely to spare his feelings was almost as unacceptable as his relief that she had.

  Protectiveness he understood, possessiveness he understood-both were an entrenched part of his makeup. But what the hell was this he was experiencing now-this compulsion she made him feel? He didn't know what it was but he knew he didn't like it. Vulnerability was a part of it, and no Cynster could accept that. Which begged one question-what was the alternative?

  The carriage rumbled on. Devil sat in his corner, his shadowed gaze fixed on Honoria's face, and pondered the imponderable.

  He'd reached no conclusion when the carriage rocked to a halt before his door. Footmen ran down the steps; his mother exited first, Honoria followed. Climbing the steps in her wake, Devil entered his hall on her heels.

  "I am going straight up-I will see you tomorrow, my dears." With a regal wave, the Dowager headed up the stairs.

  Cassie came running to relieve Honoria of her heavy cloak; Webster appeared at Devil's side. Devil shrugged off his evening cape.

  "Master Alasdair is waiting in the library, Your Grace."

  Webster delivered his message sotto voce but as he turned to look at his butler, Devil caught a glimpse of Honoria's face-and her arrested expression.

  "Thank you, Webster." Resettling his sleeves, Devil turned to Honoria. "I bid you a good night, Honoria Prudence."

  She hesitated, her eyes touching his briefly, then stiffly inclined her head. "And I bid you a good night, Your Grace."

  With cool hauteur, she turned and climbed the stairs. Devil watched her ascend, hips swaying gently; when she passed from view, he hauled in a deep breath, slowly let it out-then headed for the library.

  Wringing blood from a stone would doubtless be easier, but Honoria was not about to allow Devil to deny her the latest news. She wasn't going to marry him-she'd warned him repeatedly she would not-but she was still committed to unmasking Tolly's killer. She'd shared the information she had found; it was his turn to reciprocate.

  She heard the latch of the morning-room door click; swinging to face it, she straightened. Devil entered and shut the door. His gaze swept her, then returned to her face; with his customary languid prowl, he approached.

  "I've been told you wished to see me." His tone, and the elevation of one dark brow, suggested mild boredom.

  Regally, Honoria inclined her head and kept her eyes on his. All the rest of him-his distant expression, his movements so smoothly controlled, all the elements of his physical presence-were calculated to underscore his authority. Others might find the combination intimidating; she simply found it distracting. "Indeed." He halted before her. Lifting her chin she fixed him with a gaze as incisive as his was bland. "I wish to know the latest news in the search for Tolly's murderer. What did Lucifer learn?"

  Devil's brows rose higher. "Nothing of any importance."

  Honoria's eyes narrowed. "He waited until one in the morning to see you to report 'nothing of any importance'?"

  Devil nodded. Honoria searched his eyes; her own eyes widened. "You're lying!"

  Inwardly, Devil cursed. What was it that gave him away? "There was nothing Lucifer discovered that might lead us to Tolly's murderer."

  Honoria stared at him. "That's not true either."

  Closing his eyes, Devil swore beneath his breath. "Honoria-"

  "I can't believe it! I helped you-it was I who discovered Tolly was untroubled when he left his parents' house."

  Opening his eyes, Devil saw her chin tilt, her gaze shift. Before she could begin her usual peregrinations, he locked both hands on the mantelpiece, one on either side of her. Caging her. Incensed, she glared at him.

  "Believe me," he said, trapping her heated gaze, "I'm grateful for your help. The others are concentrating on discovering where Tolly went after he left Mount Street. What Lucifer came to report was something else entirely." He paused, choosing his words with care. "It may be nothing, but it's not anything you can help investigate."

  Honoria considered the evidence of his eyes-they remained crystal-clear. Whenever he lied, they fogged. She nodded. "Very well. I shall continue with my own investigations, in my own way."

  Devil's hands clenched on the mantelpiece. "Honoria, we're discussing tracking a murderer-a cold-blooded killer-not discovering who stole the Queen of Hearts's tarts."

  "I had a
ssimilated that fact, Your Grace." Honoria tilted her chin higher. "Indeed, before I leave for Africa, I intended seeing the villain taken in charge."

  Devil's jaw set. "You are not going to Africa, and you'll stay well clear of this villain."

  Her eyes flashed; she lifted her chin one last notch. "You're very good at giving orders, Your Grace, but you've forgotten one pertinent point. I am not subject to your authority. And never shall be."

  Those last four words were Devil's undoing; lightning-fast, he straightened, hauled her into his arms, and set his lips to hers. In his present state, it was sheer madness to try to coerce her, to attempt to enforce his will in that way.

  Sheer unmitigated madness.

  It snatched Honoria up, buffeting her senses, ripping her from reality. Only her fury and an intuitive grasp of his aim allowed her to resist. His lips were hard, demanding, searching-for a response she longed to-ached to-give. She locked her lips against him.

  His arms locked about her; unyielding steel, they tightened, impressing her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Sensation streaked through her; her skin tingled. Still she held firm, holding to her anger, using it as a shield.

  He tilted his head, his lips moved on hers, a powerful, elemental call to her senses. Inwardly reeling, Honoria clung to lucidity, sure of only one thing. He was kissing her into submission. And succeeding.

  Fragment by fragment, she lost her grip on her fury; familiar heat flooded her. She felt herself soften, felt her lips lose their resolution, felt all resistance melt. Desperation gripped her. Surrender was too galling to contemplate.

  Which left attack her only option. Her hands were trapped against his chest; sliding them up, she found the hard planes of his face. He stilled at her touch; before he could react, she framed his jaw-and kissed him.

  His lips were parted-she slid her tongue between to tangle challengingly with his. He tasted powerful-wonderfully, elementally male-a mind-whirling sensation gripped her. He hadn't moved-instinctively she deepened the caress, angling her lips against his.

  Passion.

  It burst upon her, upon her senses, in a hot flood tide. It rose from within him, from between them, pouring through her, cascade upon cascade of exquisite sensation, of deep, swirling emotion, of soul-stealing compulsion.