Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  With the briefest of nods, he proceeded to do just that, closing the door firmly behind him. Stunned, Honoria glanced at the Dowager, and was pleased to see she wasn’t the only one left staring.

  Then the Dowager looked up and smiled—warmly, wel-comingly, much as she had smiled at her son. Honoria felt the glow touch her heart. The Dowager’s expression was understanding, encouraging. “Come, my dear. Sit down.” The Dowager waved to the chaise beside her chair. “If you have been dealing with Sylvester, you will need the rest. He is often very trying.”

  Resisting the temptation to agree emphatically, Honoria sank onto the chintz.

  “You must excuse my son. He is somewhat . . .” The Dowager paused, clearly searching for the right word. She grimaced. “Detresse´.”

  “I believe he has a number of matters on his mind.”

  The Dowager’s fine brows rose. “His mind?” Then she smiled, eyes twinkling as they rested once more on Honoria’s face. “But now, my dear, as my so-detresse´ son has decreed, we will get acquainted. And as you are to be my daughter-in-law, I will call you Honoria.” Again, her brows rose. “Is that not right?”

  Her name became “ ’Onoria”—the Dowager couldn’t manage the “H.” Honoria returned her smile, and sidestepped the leading question. “If you wish it, ma’am.”

  The Dowager’s smile grew radiant. “My dear, I wish it with all my heart.”

  Chapter 5

  After an hour of subtle interrogation, Honoria escaped the Dowager, pleased that, while she’d parted with her life history, she’d successfully avoided all mention of Tolly’s death. Shown to an elegant suite, she washed and changed; her self-confidence renewed, she descended—into mayhem.

  The magistrate had arrived; while Devil dealt with him, Vane had broken the news to the Dowager. When Honoria entered the drawing room, the Dowager was in full histrionic spate. While grief was certainly present, it had been overtaken by indignant fury.

  Instantly, the Dowager appealed to her for details. “You need not apologize for not telling me before. I know just how it was—that oh-so-male son of mine sought to keep the matter from me, Cynster that he is.” Waved to a chair, Honoria dutifully complied. She’d barely finished her tale when the scrunch of wheels on gravel heralded Devil’s reappearance.

  “What’s the verdict?” Vane asked.

  Devil met his gaze levelly. “Death through shooting by some person unknown. Possibly a highwayman.”

  “A highwayman?” Honoria stared at him.

  Devil shrugged. “Either that or a poacher.” He turned to the Dowager. “I’ve sent for Arthur and Louise.”

  Lord Arthur Cynster and his wife Louise proved to be Tolly’s parents.

  There followed a detailed discussion of who to notify, the appropriate arrangements, and how to accommodate the expected crowd, which encompassed a goodly proportion of the ton. While Devil undertook the first two aspects, organizing rooms and sustenance fell to the Dowager.

  Despite her firm intention to remain aloof from Devil’s family, Honoria simply could not stand by and allow such a weight to descend on the Dowager’s fragile shoulders. Especially not when she was more than well qualified to lighten the load. As, however reluctantly, an Anstruther-Wetherby who had been present when Tolly had died, she would be expected to attend the funeral; she would need to remain at the Place at least until after that. That being so, there was no reason not to offer her aid. Besides which, to sit idly in her room while about her the household ran frantic, would be entirely beyond her.

  Within minutes, she was immersed in lists—initial lists, then derived lists and eventually lists for cross-checking. The afternoon and evening passed in intense activity; Webster and the housekeeper, a matronly woman known as Mrs. Hull, coordinated the execution of the Dowager’s directives. An army of maids and footmen labored to open up rooms. Helpers from the nearby farms tramped in to assist in the kitchens and stables. Yet all the bustle was subdued, somber; not a laugh was heard nor a smile seen.

  Night fell, restless, disturbed; Honoria awoke to a dull day. A funereal pall had settled over the Place—it deepened with the arrival of the first carriage.

  The Dowager met it, taking her grieving sister-in-law under her wing. Honoria slipped away, intending to seek refuge in the summerhouse by the side of the front lawn. She was halfway across the lawn when she caught sight of Devil, heading her way through the trees. He had gone with the chaplain, Mr. Merryweather, and a party of men to mark out the grave. Devil had seen her; Honoria halted.

  He came striding out of the shade, long legs encased in buckskin breeches and shiny top boots. His fine white shirt with billowing sleeves, opened at the throat, was topped by a leather waistcoat. Despite his less-than-conventional attire, with his dramatic coloring, he still looked impressive—and every inch a pirate.

  His gaze traveled swiftly over her, taking in her gown of soft lavender-grey, a color suitable for half-mourning. His expression was set, impassive, yet she sensed his approval.

  “Your aunt and uncle have arrived.” She made the statement while he was still some yards away.

  One black brow quirked; Devil didn’t pause. “Good morning, Honoria Prudence.” Smoothly collecting her hand, he placed it on his arm and deftly turned her back toward the house. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Perfectly, thank you.” With no choice offering, Honoria strolled briskly beside him. She suppressed an urge to glare. “I haven’t made you free of my name.” Devil looked toward the drive. “An oversight on your part, but I’m not one to stand on ceremony. I take it Maman has my aunt in hand?” Her eyes on his, Honoria nodded.

  “In that case,” Devil said, looking ahead, “I’ll need your help.” Another crepe-draped carriage came into view, rolling slowly toward the steps. “That will be Tolly’s younger brother and sisters.”

  He glanced at Honoria; she exhaled and inclined her head. Lengthening their strides, they reached the drive as the carriage rocked to a halt.

  The door burst open; a boy jumped down. Eyes wide, he looked dazedly toward the house. Then he heard their footsteps and swung their way. Slender, quivering with tension, he faced them, his face leached of all color, his lips pinched. Recognition flared in his tortured eyes. Honoria saw him tense to fly to Devil, but he conquered the impulse and straightened, swallowing manfully.

  Devil strode to the boy, dropping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. “Good lad.”

  He looked into the carriage, then beckoned to the occupants. “Come.”

  He lifted first one silently sobbing girl, then another, down. Both possessed a wealth of chestnut ringlets and delicate complexions, presently blotchy. Four huge blue eyes swam in pools of tears; their slender figures shook with their sobs. They were, Honoria judged, about sixteen—and twins. Without any show of consciousness or fear, they clung to Devil, arms locking about his waist.

  One arm about each, Devil turned them to face her. “This is Honoria Prudence—Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to you. She’ll look after you both.” He met Honoria’s gaze. “She knows how it feels to lose someone you love.”

  Both girls and the boy were too distressed to render the prescribed greeting. Honoria didn’t wait for it but smoothly took her cue. Devil deftly detached himself from the girls’ clinging arms; gliding forward, she took his place. Slipping a comforting arm around each girl, she turned them toward the house. “Come—I’ll show you to your room. Your parents are already inside.”

  They allowed her to shepherd them up the steps. Honoria was aware of their curious glances.

  On the porch, both girls paused, gulping back their tears. Honoria cast a swift glance behind and saw Devil, his back to them, one arm draped across the boy’s slight shoulders, head bent as he spoke to the lad. Turning back, she gathered her now shivering charges and urged them on.

  Both balked.

  “Will we have to . . . I mean—” One glanced up at her.

  “Will we have to look at him?” the
other forced out. “Is his face badly damaged?”

  Honoria’s heart lurched; sympathy—long-buried empathy—welled. “You won’t have to see him if you don’t want to.” She spoke softly, reassuringly. “But he looks wonderfully peaceful—just like I imagine he always did. Handsome and quietly happy.”

  Both girls stared at her, hope in their eyes.

  “I was there when he died,” Honoria felt compelled to add.

  “You were?” There was surprise and a touch of youthful skepticism in their tones.

  “Your cousin was there as well.”

  “Oh.” They glanced back at Devil, then both nodded.

  “And now we’d better get you settled.” Honoria glanced back; a maid had hopped down from the carriage; footmen had materialized and were unstrapping boxes from the boot and the roof. “You’ll want to wash your faces and change before the rest of the family arrives.”

  With sniffs and watery smiles for Webster, encountered in the hall, they allowed her to usher them upstairs.

  The chamber allotted to the girls was near the end of one wing; promising to fetch them later, Honoria left them in their maid’s care and returned downstairs.

  Just in time to greet the next arrivals.

  The rest of the day flew. Carriages rolled up in a steady stream, disgorging matrons and stiff-necked gentlemen and a goodly sprinkling of bucks. Devil and Vane were everywhere, greeting guests, fielding questions. Charles was there, too, his expression wooden, his manner stilted.

  Stationed by the stairs, Honoria helped the Dowager greet and dispose of family and those friends close enough to claim room within the great house. Anchored to her hostess’s side, the keeper of the lists, she found herself introduced by the Dowager, with a gently vague air.

  “And this is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, who is keeping me company.”

  The Cynster cousin to whom this was addressed, presently exchanging nods with Honoria, immediately looked intrigued. Speculation gleamed in the matronly woman’s eyes. “Indeed?” She smiled, graciously coy. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear.”

  Honoria replied with a polite, noncommittal murmur. She’d failed to foresee her present predicament when she’d offered her aid; now she could hardly desert her post. Fixing a smile on her lips, she resolved to ignore her hostess’s blatant manipulation. The Dowager, she’d already realized, was even more stubborn than her son.

  The family viewing of the body was held late that afternoon; remembering her promise, Honoria went to fetch Tolly’s sisters from the distant wing.

  They were waiting, pale but composed, intensely vulnerable in black muslin. Honoria ran an experienced eye over them, then nodded. “You’ll do.” They came forward hesitantly, clearly dreading what was to come. Honoria smiled encouragingly. “Your cousin omitted to mention your names.”

  “I’m Amelia, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby.” The closest bobbed a curtsy.

  Her sister did the same, equally gracefully. “I’m Amanda.”

  Honoria raised her brows. “I presume calling ‘Amy’ will bring you both?”

  The simple sally drew two faint smiles. “Usually,” Amelia admitted.

  Amanda had already sobered. “Is it true—what Devil said? About you knowing about losing one you love?”

  Honoria met her ingenuous gaze levelly. “Yes—I lost both my parents in a carriage accident when I was sixteen.”

  “Both?” Amelia looked shocked. “That must have been terrible—even worse than losing a brother.”

  Honoria stilled, then, somewhat stiffly, inclined her head. “Losing any family member is hard—but when they leave us, we still have to go on. We owe it to them—to their memory—as much as to ourselves.”

  The philosophical comment left both girls puzzling. Honoria seized the moment to get them headed downstairs, to the private chapel off the gallery.

  Halting in the doorway, the twins nervously surveyed the black-clad ranks of their aunts and uncles and older male cousins, all silent, most with heads bowed.

  Both girls reacted as Honoria had hoped: their spines stiffened—they drew deep breaths, straightened their shoulders, then paced slowly down the quiet room. Hand in hand, they approached the coffin, set on trestles before the altar.

  From the shadows by the door, Honoria watched what was, in essence, a scene from her past. The somber peace of the chapel held her; she was about to slip into the back pew when Devil caught her eye. Commandingly formal in black coat and black trousers, white shirt and black cravat, he looked precisely what he was—a devilishly handsome rake—and the head of his family. From his position beyond the coffin, he raised one brow, his expression a subtle melding of invitation and challenge.

  Tolly was no relative of hers, but she’d been present when he died. Honoria hesitated, then followed Tolly’s sisters down the aisle.

  Clinging to each other, the twins moved on, slipping into the pew behind their weeping mother. Honoria paused, looking down on an innocence not even death could erase. As she had said, Tolly’s face was peaceful, serene; no hint of the wound in his chest showed. Only the grey pallor of his skin bore witness that he would not again awake.

  She’d seen death before, but not like this. Those before had been taken by God; they had only needed to be mourned. Tolly had been taken by man—a vastly different response was required. She frowned.

  “What is it?” Devil’s voice came from beside her, pitched very low.

  Honoria looked up. Frowning, she searched his eyes. He knew—how could he not? Why, then . . . ? A chill touched her soul—she shivered and looked away.

  “Come.” Devil took her arm; Honoria let him hand her to a pew. He sat beside her; she felt his gaze on her face but did not look his way.

  Then Tolly’s mother rose. Supported by her husband, she placed a white rose in the coffin; the viewing was at an end. No one spoke as they slowly filed out, following the Dowager and Tolly’s parents to the drawing room.

  In the front hall, Devil drew Honoria aside, into the shadows of the stairs. As the last stragglers passed, he said, his voice low: “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have insisted. I didn’t realize it would remind you of your parents.”

  Honoria looked up, directly into his eyes. They were not, she realized, particularly useful for hiding emotions—the clear depths were too transparent. Right now, they looked contrite.

  “It wasn’t that. I was simply struck—” She paused, again searching his eyes. “By how wrong his death was.” Impulsively, she asked: “Are you satisfied with the magistrate’s verdict?”

  His face hardened into a warrior’s mask. His lids lowered, screening those too-revealing eyes, his lashes a distracting veil. “Perfectly.” Languidly, he gestured toward the drawing room. “I suggest we join the others.”

  His abrupt dismissal was not quite a slap in the face, but it certainly gave Honoria pause. Cloaked in her customary poise, she allowed him to lead her into the drawing room, then inwardly cursed when so many eyes swung their way. Their entrance together, separate from the earlier crowd, supported the image Devil and the Dowager were intent on projecting—the image of her as Devil’s bride. Such subtle nuances were life and breath to the ton, Honoria knew it—she was usually adept at using such signals to her own advantage, but, in the present case, she was clearly fencing with a master.

  Make that two masters, simultaneously—the Dowager was no newcomer to the game.

  The drawing room was full, crowded with family, connections and close acquaintances. Despite the subdued tones, the noise was substantial. The Dowager was seated on the chaise beside Tolly’s mother. Devil steered Honoria to where Amelia and Amanda were nervously conversing with a very old lady.

  “If you need help with names or connections, ask the twins. It’ll make them feel useful.”

  Honoria inclined her head and coolly returned: “Much as I’d like to distract them, there’s really no need. It is, after all, unlikely I’ll meet any of your family again.” Regally aloof, she
raised her head—and met the dark, frowning glance Devil sent her with implacable calm.

  Amanda and Amelia turned as they came up, an identical look of pleading in their eyes.

  “Ah—Sylvester.” The old lady put out a crabbed hand and gripped Devil’s sleeve. “A shame it has to be such a sad occasion on which I see you again.”

  “Indeed, Cousin Clara.” Fluidly, Devil drew Honoria into their circle, trapping her hand on his sleeve the instant before she removed it. “I believe,” he drawled, “that you’ve already met . . .” An untrustworthy gleam lit his eyes; inwardly aghast, her gaze locked with his, Honoria held her breath—and saw his lips curve as he looked down at Cousin Clara. “Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?”

  Honoria almost sighed with relief. Her serene smile somewhat strained, she trained it on Clara.

  “Oh, yes! Dear me, yes.” The old lady visibly brightened. “Such a great pleasure to meet you, dear. I’ve been looking forward to—” Catching herself up, Clara glanced impishly at Devil, then smiled sweetly at Honoria. “Well—you know.” Reaching out, she patted Honoria’s hand. “Suffice to say we’re all perfectly delighted, my dear.”

  Honoria knew one person who was less than perfectly delighted, but, with Amanda and Amelia looking on, she was forced to allow Clara’s transparent supposition to pass with nothing more than a gracious smile. Looking up, she fleetingly met Devil’s gaze—she could have sworn she detected a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

  He immediately broke the contact. Releasing her, he covered Clara’s hand with his, stooping so she did not have to look up so far. “Have you spoken to Arthur?”

  “Not yet.” Clara glanced about. “I couldn’t find him in this crush.”

  “He’s by the window. Come—I’ll take you to him.”

  Clara beamed. “So kind—but you always were a good boy.” With brief nods to the twins, and a gracious one for Honoria, the old lady allowed Devil to lead her away.