Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Honoria raised her brows. “I can’t see why. If you’d paid a trifling sum for one of your friends, you’d allow them to repay you without fuss.”

  “The sum is not trifling, you are not ‘one of my friends,’ and in case it’s escaped your notice, I’m not the sort of man to whom a woman can confess to being conscious of owing every stitch she has on, to him, and then expect to be allowed to pay him back.”

  Honoria’s silk chemise suddenly grew hot; tightening her arms over her breasts, she tilted her chin. His conqueror’s mask, all hard planes and ironclad determination, warned her she would win no concessions on that front. Searching his eyes, she felt her skin prickle. She scowled. “You . . . devil!”

  His lips twitched.

  Honoria took two paces into the room, then whirled and paced back. “The situation is beyond improper—it’s outrageous!”

  Pushing away from the mantelpiece, Devil raised an arrogant brow. “Ladies who dice with me do find situations tend to end that way.”

  “I,” Honoria declared, swinging to face him and meeting his eyes, “am far too wise to play games with you. We need some agreement over this bill.”

  Devil eyed her set face, and inwardly cursed. Every time he glimpsed a quick escape from the dilemma his uncharacteristically fanciful self-indulgence had landed him in, she blocked it. And demanded he negotiate. Didn’t she realize she was the besieged and he the besieger? Evidently not.

  From the moment he’d declared his intention to wed her, she’d flung unexpected hurdles in his path. He’d overcome each one and chased her into her castle, to which he’d immediately laid siege. He’d succeeded in harrying her to the point where she was weakening, considering opening her gates and welcoming him in—when she’d stumbled on his moment of weakness and turned it into a blunt weapon. Which she was presently wielding with Anstruther-Wetherby stubbornness. His lips thinned. “Can’t you overlook it? No one knows about it other than you and me.”

  “And Celestine.”

  “She’s not going to alienate a valuable customer.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “Might I suggest,” Devil tersely interpolated, “that, considering the situation between us, you could justifiably set the matter of this bill aside, to be decided after your three months have elapsed? Once you’re my duchess, you can justifiably forget it.”

  “I haven’t yet agreed to marry you.”

  “You will.”

  Honoria heard the absolute decree in his words. She eyed his stony face, then raised one brow. “I can hardly accept a proposal I haven’t heard.”

  Conquerors didn’t make polite requests; his instinct was to seize what he wanted—the more he wanted, the more forceful the seizure. Devil looked into her eyes, calmly watching, calmly waiting; he read the subtle challenge in her face, the underlying stubbornness in the tilt of her chin. How much did he want this prize?

  He drew a deep breath, then stepped closer and reached for her hand; his eyes on hers, he brushed his lips across her fingertips. “My dear Honoria Prudence, will you do me the honor of being my wife, my duchess—” He paused, then deliberately added: “The mother of my children?”

  Her gaze flickered; she looked away. Placing one fingertip under her chin, Devil turned her face back.

  After a fractional hesitation, Honoria lifted her lids and met his eyes. “I haven’t yet made up my mind.” He might not be able to lie—she could. But he was too potent a force to surrender to without being absolutely certain. A few more days would give her time to check her decision.

  He held her gaze; between them, passion lingered, shivering in the air.

  “Don’t take too long.”

  The words, uttered softly, could have been a warning or a plea. Retrieving her fingers from his clasp, Honoria lifted her chin free of his touch. “If I married you, I would want to be assured no incident similar to the present contretemps would occur again.”

  “I’ve told you I’m not daft.” Devil’s eyes glinted. “And I’m certainly no advocate of self-torture.”

  Ruthlessly, Honoria suppressed her smile.

  The planes of Devil’s face shifted; he caught her hand. “Come for a drive.”

  “One more point . . .” Honoria held firm. She met the aggravation in his eyes, and tried not to feel the warmth, the seductive strength in the fingers and palm clasping hers. “Tolly’s murder.”

  Devil’s jaw firmed. “I will not let you involve yourself in the search for his killer.”

  Honoria met his gaze directly; again, she sensed their wills locking, this time without heat. “I wouldn’t need to actively search for clues if you told me what you and your cousins discover as soon as you discover it.” She’d exhausted all avenues open to her; she needed his cooperation to go on.

  He frowned, then looked away; she’d started to wonder what he was thinking before he looked back. “I’ll agree on one condition.”

  Honoria raised her brows.

  “That you promise that under no circumstances whatever will you personally go searching for Tolly’s killer.”

  Honoria promptly nodded. Her ability to come up with any male felon was severely limited by the social code; her contribution to the investigation would have to be primarily deductive. “So what did Lucifer learn?”

  Devil’s lips thinned. “I can’t tell you.”

  Honoria stiffened.

  “No!” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t rip up at me—I said ‘can’t,’ not ‘won’t. ’ ”

  Honoria narrowed her eyes. “Why ‘can’t’?”

  Devil searched her face, then looked down at their linked hands. “Because what Lucifer learned casts a far from flattering light on one of the family, probably Tolly. Unfortunately, Lucifer’s information was rumor—we’ve yet to establish the facts.” He studied her slim digits entwined with his, then tightened his grip and looked up. “However, if Tolly was involved, then it suggests a possible scenario whereby someone—someone capable of the act or of procuring the same—might have wanted him dead.”

  Honoria noted the fastidiousness that had crept into his expression. “It’s something disreputable, isn’t it?” She thought of Louise Cynster.

  Slowly, Devil nodded. “Exceedingly disreputable.”

  Honoria drew in a long breath—then gasped as a tug set her on course for the door.

  “You need some air,” Devil decreed. He shot her a glance, then admitted through clenched teeth: “So do I.”

  Towed in his wake, Honoria grinned. Her gown was too thin, but she could don her pelisse at the front door. She had won a host of concessions; she could afford to be magnanimous. The day was fine; her heart was light. And her wolf had reached the end of his tether.

  Chapter 13

  “I make it 334.” Honoria restacked the lists in her lapand started counting again.

  His gaze on her profile, Devil raised his brows. They were in the morning room, Honoria at one end of the chaise while he sprawled elegantly at the other; she was adding up the acceptances for the grand ball his aunt Horatia was to host in Berkeley Square the next night, to declare the family out of mourning. Smiling, Devil retrieved a list from the floor. “That’s a goodly number for this time of year. The weather’s put back the shooting, so many have stayed in town. Like Chillingworth—it appears my aunt has seen fit to invite him.”

  “He is an earl.” Honoria glanced up, frowned, then reached over and tugged at the list. “But I gather you’ve known him forever.”

  “It certainly seems like forever. We were at Eton together.”

  “Rivals from your earliest years?”

  “I wouldn’t class Chillingworth as a rival—more like a nuisance.”

  Honoria looked down, hiding her grin. Devil had taken to joining her in the morning room in the post-luncheon hour during which the Dowager habitually rested. He would stay for half an hour, long limbs disposed in the opposite corner of the chaise, his presence filling the room, dominating her senses. They would chat; if he
had information from his cousins, he would tell her, simply and straightforwardly, without evasion.

  From her own efforts, she’d learned nothing more. The Dowager had fulfilled her stated intention of introducing her to the ton; through a mind-numbing round of morning calls, “at-homes,” and afternoon teas, she had met all the major hostesses and been accepted as one of their circle. But in all the gossip and scandalmongering abounding amongst the female half of the ton, not a single scrap had she heard regarding Tolly.

  She looked up. “Have you heard anything?”

  “As it happens, I have.” Honoria opened her eyes wide; Devil’s lips quirked wryly. “Don’t get your hopes up, but Demon’s back.”

  “Did he find Tolly’s man?”

  “Yes. Mick remembered that last night clearly—Tolly, to use Mick’s words, was ‘in a right spate’ when he came in. Unfortunately, Tolly refused to tell him anything concerning the who, the why, or the what.”

  Honoria frowned. “Refused?”

  “Mick—being Mick—asked.”

  “And?”

  “Uncharacteristically got told, in no uncertain terms, to mind his own business.”

  “That was odd?”

  Devil nodded. “Mick had been with Tolly since Tolly was in shortcoats. If he was troubled over something, the most likely occurrence is that Tolly would have talked it over, without reservation, with Mick.”

  “So.” Honoria considered. “What sort of secret would Tolly refuse to discuss with Mick?”

  “That, indeed, is the question.” His gaze on her face, on the slight frown disturbing the sweeping arch of her brows, Devil added: “Along with the puzzle of the time.”

  “The time?”

  “That night, Tolly got in less than an hour after he left Mount Street.”

  They’d assumed Tolly had been out half the night, at some function at which he’d learned the secret that led to his death. Honoria’s frown deepened. “Is Mick sure?”

  “Positive—he remembers particularly as he hadn’t expected Tolly back so soon.”

  Honoria nodded. “How far is it from Mount Street to Tolly’s lodgings?”

  “His lodgings were in Wigmore Street—about twenty minutes from my uncle’s house.”

  “Was there any particular house—of a friend, perhaps—where he might have stopped along the way?”

  “Nothing directly in his path. And none close that we haven’t checked. None of his friends saw him that night.”

  Honoria caught Devil’s eye. “How does such a short time fit with Lucifer’s discreditable rumor?”

  “Not well.” Devil hesitated, then added, “It doesn’t rule it out, but it makes it unlikely. If Tolly had gone—” He broke off, then continued: “If what we thought had happened, then it most likely happened at some earlier date, which doesn’t explain why Tolly only got agitated after he left Mount Street.”

  Studying his face, more revealing now that he didn’t guard his expression in her presence, Honoria inwardly frowned. He remained disturbed by the discreditable rumor, even though it might now be unlinked to Tolly’s death. “What is it?”

  Devil looked up, then grimaced. “It’s merely that, as the head of the family, I don’t appreciate the idea of some skeleton not safely locked in a cupboard.”

  Honoria’s lips softened; she looked away.

  They sat silent for some minutes, Honoria puzzling over the questions Mick’s recollections had raised, Devil outwardly relaxed, his gaze, gently pensive, resting on her face. Then Honoria looked at Devil. “Have you told the others?”

  “They were on the doorstep with Demon. While I wrestle with our discreditable rumor, they’re trying to shake information from any tree they can find. Richard and Demon have gone after the local jarveys; Gabriel, believe it or not, is hobnobbing with street sweepers. Vane and Lucifer are combing the likeliest taverns in the hope they might stumble upon some drunk who saw where Tolly went.”

  “That seems a very long bow to draw.”

  Devil sighed and leaned his head back against the chaise. “It is.” After a moment of staring at the ceiling, he added: “I find it hard to credit but they seem as frustrated as I am.” Slowly, he turned his head and looked at Honoria.

  She met his gaze levelly. “Matters won’t always fall into line just because you decree it.”

  His eyes on hers, Devil raised his brows. “So I apprehend.” There was an undercurrent of subtle self-deprecation in his voice; it was followed almost immediately by a tangible ripple in the atmosphere about them. They stilled, then Devil smoothly reached out and lifted the topmost sheet from the piled lists. “I presume,” he said, ostensibly scanning the list, “that every last one of the grande dames will be present?”

  “Naturally.” Equally smoothly, Honoria followed his lead, ruthlessly ignoring the breathlessness that had afflicted her. They spent the next five minutes trading inconsequential quips, while the restless hunger simmering between them subsided.

  No matter how easy in each other’s company they became, that flame still smoldered, ready to flare at the slightest touch, the least unwary comment. Honoria was sorely tempted to confess that she’d reached her decision, finally and firmly, incontrovertibly. She’d thought long and hard; she could see all the difficulties. She could also see the benefits, and the possibilities; she’d decided to accept the challenge.

  And what better way than to start as she meant to go on? She’d determined to use Horatia’s ball as the stage for her acceptance. Her speech was well rehearsed . . .

  She blinked and returned to reality—and realized her voice had died in mid-sentence. Devil’s gaze was on her face, too perceptive, too knowing. Heat rose in her cheeks.

  He smiled—wolfishly—and fluidly rose. “I’d better see Hobden—he’s come up from St. Ives with the tillage tallies.” He met Honoria’s eyes, then bowed elegantly. “I’ll wish you a good afternoon, my dear.”

  “And I you, Your Grace.” Honoria graciously inclined her head. As Devil strolled to the door, the black armband he still wore caught her eye. Honoria frowned. The six weeks the family had decreed as full mourning ended that night; presumably, tomorrow, he’d leave off his black armband.

  Her frown deepened. He had better leave it off tomorrow night.

  For Honoria, the next evening started auspiciously. Nerves wound tight, she descended the stairs, gowned for conquest. As usual, Webster materialized in the hall before she reached the last step; he crossed to the drawing-room door and placed a hand on the knob before glancing her way.

  His jaw dropped—only momentarily, but the sight did wonders for Honoria’s confidence. “Good evening, Webster. Is His Grace down?”

  “Indeed, ma’am—I mean, miss.” Webster drew in a quick breath and relocated his usual mask. “His Grace is waiting.” With a deep bow, he set the door wide.

  Smoothly, serenely, inwardly so tight she felt she might break, Honoria glided forward.

  Standing before the fireplace, Devil swung around as she entered. As always, his gaze skimmed her, top to toe. Tonight, when he reached her silver sandals, peeking from beneath her hem, he stopped, then, excruciatingly slowly, traced his way back up her length, over the sweep of eau de Nil silk clinging sleekly to her long limbs. His eyes dwelled successively on each flatteringly draped curve, then rose higher, to caress her shoulders, concealed only where the simple, toga-style gown was anchored by a gold clasp on her left shoulder. The spangled silk shawl she carried over her elbows was flimsy; no real distraction. She wore no jewelry other than the gold comb in her hair, itself piled high, curl upon gleaming curl. Honoria felt the sudden intensity in his gaze.

  Her breath caught.

  With long, prowling stride, he crossed the room, his gaze steady on hers. As he neared, he held out one hand; without hesitation, she laid her fingers across his. Slowly, he turned her; dutifully, she twirled. She could feel the heat of his gaze as, at close quarters, it roamed her body, shielded only by gossamer silk. As she completed her
revolution and faced him again, she saw his lips curve. His eyes met hers. “Celestine has my gratitude.”

  His voice reverberated through her; Honoria arched one brow. “Celestine?” She let her gaze linger on his. “And what, pray tell, do I receive?”

  “My attention.” On the words, Devil drew her closer. His gaze lifted to her curls, then dropped to her eyes, then fell to her lips. “Unreserved.”

  Obedient to the pressure of his hand at her back, Honoria arched closer, lifting her lips to his. He met her halfway, yet she was sure she was floating as his lips settled, warm and firm, on hers.

  It was the first kiss they’d shared since their confrontation in the morning room; beyond the fact their lips touched, this caress bore no relation to that previous embrace. This was all pleasure and warmth, delight spiced with enthralling fascination as lips melded and held, then firmed again.

  Honoria’s restless hands came to rest on Devil’s lapels; his free hand curved possessively over one silk-clad hip. Beneath his palms, her skin burned, two layers of fine silk no real barrier to his touch. Willingly, she sank into his arms, yielding to the persuasion of his lips and her own flaring desire.

  A form of magic held them fast; how many minutes they spent in that soul-stealing kiss neither could have said. The click of heels on the hall tiles brought it to an end.

  Devil raised his head and looked at the door; Honoria waited, but he did not step away. His only concession as the door swung wide and his mother appeared in the doorway, was to remove his hand from her hip and, with the hand at her back, gently turn her to the door. Not by word nor, it was clear, even by deed, did he intend concealing the fact he’d been kissing her.

  Honoria blinked. She was slow in following Devil’s lead; when the Dowager’s gaze reached them, she was still half-stretched on her toes, one hand lying on his chest. The Dowager, grande dame that she was, pretended not to notice. “If you are ready, my dears, I suggest we leave. There’s no point waiting in this drawing room.”

  Inclining his head, Devil offered Honoria his arm; she placed her fingertips upon it. A great deal warmer than when she had entered, she left the room by his side.