Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Charles did; despite his initial stiffness, even Richard studied his eldest cousin’s style. Shooting was one of the few gentlemanly pursuits Charles shared with the members of the Bar Cynster; pistol shooting was an activity at which he excelled. Charles accepted Devil’s easy compliments as his due, but after twenty minutes recalled another engagement and took his leave.

  Watching Charles’s retreating back, Richard shook his head. “If he wasn’t such a prig, he might be bearable.”

  Devil studied the score sheets. “What’s the tally?”

  “I lost count when Charles appeared.” Richard glanced at the sheets, then grimaced. “You probably won—you usually do.”

  “Let’s declare it a draw.” Devil laid the pistols aside. “For me, it served its purpose.”

  “Which was?” Brows rising, Richard followed Devil from the stall.

  “Distraction.” With a nod for Manton, who smiled and bowed in return, Devil led the way from the gallery.

  Richard ambled in his wake, coming up with him on the pavement. Glancing into Devil’s frowning face, Richard raised his brows higher. “Well, you’re certainly that.”

  Devil blinked and focused. “What?”

  “Distracted.”

  Devil grimaced. “It’s just that . . . I’ve forgotten something—something about Tolly’s murder.”

  Instantly, Richard sobered. “Something important?”

  “I’ve an ominous feeling it might be crucial, but everytime I try to catch hold of it, it slips back into the mist.”

  “Stop trying so hard.” Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Go talk to Honoria Prudence—distract yourself some more.” He grinned. “Your vital clue will probably come to mind in the most unlikely situation.”

  Stifling the impulse to inform his brother that it was Honoria Prudence he needed distracting from, Devil nodded. They parted, Richard heading for his lodgings, Devil striding along the pavements toward Grosvenor Square.

  In his present condition, the walk wouldn’t hurt.

  The wind had risen by the time Devil reached his front door in the small hours of the morning. After leaving Richard, he’d returned home only to dress for the evening. Like most of his recent evenings, the past night had been devoted to what, borrowing Honoria’s description, he now mentally dubbed “Lucifer’s discreditable rumor.” It was not something he or his cousins could investigate directly—their views were too widely known. No one would talk openly in their presence for fear of repercussions. Which meant he’d had to find a pawn to do their investigating for them—he’d finally settled on one Viscount Bromley. His lordship was bored, dissipated, a hardened gamester, always on the lookout for distraction.

  A renowned cardplayer himself, Devil had found no dif-ficulty in dangling the right lure before his lordship’s nose. As of tonight, the viscount was well on the way to losing his shirt. After which, his lordship was going to prove exceedingly helpful. And after that, he’d probably never play piquet again.

  Grinning grimly, Devil paused, latchkey in hand; eyes narrowing, he scanned the night sky. It was dark, but not so dark he couldn’t see the thunderheads rolling in, lowering blackly over the housetops.

  He quickly let himself in. He hoped Webster had remembered his instructions.

  The storm broke with an almighty crash.

  It flung Honoria straight into hell. Only this time, it was a different hell, with a different scene of carnage.

  From above, she looked down on the wreck of a carriage, all splintered wood and crushed leather seats. The horses, tangled and torn, were screaming. Beside the carriage lay the figure of a man, sprawled, long limbs flung in impossible angles. Black locks covered his eyes; his face was pale as death.

  He lay unmoving, with the absolute stillness of one gone from this world.

  The black misery that welled from Honoria’s heart was stronger than ever before. It caught her, effortlessly whirled her, then dragged her down into a vortex of desolation, the vale of unending tears.

  He was gone—and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find voice to protest, could find no strength to call him back. With a choking sob, hands outstretched, beseeching the gods, she stepped forward.

  Her fingers met solid flesh. Warm flesh.

  “Hush.”

  The nightmare shattered; despair howled, then slid away, slinking back into the darkness, relinquishing its hold. Honoria woke.

  She was not in her bed but standing before the window, her feet cold on the boards. Outside, the wind shrieked; she flinched as rain stung the pane. Her cheeks were wet with tears she couldn’t recall shedding; her fine lawn nightgown was no match for the room’s chill. She shivered.

  Warm arms surrounded her, steadied her. Wonderingly, she looked up—for one instant, she wasn’t sure which was reality and which the dream—then the heat reaching through his fine shirt registered. With a sob, she flung herself against him.

  “It’s all right.” Devil closed his arms about her; with one hand, he stroked her hair. She was quivering; her fists, tight balls, clutched his shirt. Slipping his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair, he stroked her nape, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. “It’s all right.”

  She shook her head furiously. “It’s not all right.” Her voice was choked, muffled in his chest. Devil felt her tears, hot against his skin. Gripping his shirt, she tried, ineffectually, to shake him. “You were killed! Dead.”

  Devil blinked. He’d assumed her nightmare concerned her parents’ and siblings’ deaths. “I’m not dead.” He knew that for certain; she was wearing nothing bar a single layer of fine lawn, a fact his rakish senses had immediately noted. Luckily, he’d come prepared. Reaching out, he snagged the blanket he’d left on the window seat. “Come—sit by the fire.” She was tense, cold and shivering; she wouldn’t sleep until she was relaxed and warm.

  “There’s no fire—one of the footmen put it out. There’s something wrong with the chimney.” Honoria imparted the information without lifting her head. She had no idea what was going on; her heart was thumping wildly, sheer panic walked her nerves.

  Devil turned her to the door. “In the sitting room.”

  He tried to set her from him; when she wouldn’t let go, he heaved a sigh and draped the blanket about her back and shoulders, tucking it about her as best he could.

  Honoria accepted his ministrations meekly—just as long as she didn’t have to let go.

  She felt him hesitate; he muttered something incomprehensible, then stooped and swung her into his arms. The movement broke her hold; she clutched two fresh handfuls of his shirt and pressed her cheek to his chest, relieved beyond measure when his arms tightened about her. The turbulence inside her was frightening.

  As if she was a child, he carried her into the sitting room and sat in a large armchair facing the blazing fire. He settled her in his lap; she immediately curled close, pressing tightly into his hard body. Both chair and fire had changed since she’d retired, a fact she noted, but that was the most minor aspect of the confusion clouding her mind.

  Her heart was still racing, high in her throat; her lips were dry. There was a metallic taste in her mouth; her skin felt coldly clammy. Her mind was awhirl, thoughts and fears, present and past, jostling for prominence, demanding responses. Reality and fearful fancy merged, then separated, then merged again, partners in a giddy dance.

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t talk—she didn’t even know what she felt.

  Devil asked no questions but simply held her, stroking her hair, her back, his large palms moving slowly, hypnotically, yet without any sensual intent. His touch was pure comfort.

  Honoria closed her eyes and leaned into his strength; a shuddering sigh escaped her, some of her tension drained. For countless minutes, she lay in his arms, listening to his heart, steady and sure, beating beneath her cheek. Like a rock, his strength anchored her; under its influence, the kaleidoscope of her emotions slowed, then settled—suddenly, everything was clear.

>   “Your phaeton.” Twisting, she looked up at him. “It wasn’t an accident—you were meant to die.”

  The flames lit his face; she could see his frown clearly. “Honoria, it was an accident. I told you—the axle broke.”

  “Why did it break? Do axles usually break—especially in carriages from the sort of carriagemaker you patronize?”

  His lips firmed. “We might have hit something.”

  “You said you hadn’t.”

  She felt his sigh. “Honoria, it was an accident—the rest is all nightmare. The fact is, I’m alive.”

  “But you’re not supposed to be!” She struggled to sit up but his arms firmed, holding her still. “I don’t have nightmares about deaths that didn’t happen. You were meant to be killed. The only reason you’re alive is . . .” Lost for words, she gestured.

  “I’m a Cynster,” he supplied. “I’m invincible, remember?”

  He wasn’t—he was a flesh-and-blood man, no one knew that better than she. Honoria set her lips mutinously. “If someone tampered with the axle, wouldn’t it show?”

  Devil looked into her eyes, unnaturally bright, and wondered if sleepwalkers got fevers. “The whole carriage, axle and all, was reduced to splinters.” What could he, what should he, say to ease her mind? “Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  He realized, instantly, that that wasn’t a wise choice. Fighting his hold, Honoria squirmed and sat straighter. “Of course!” Eyes wide, she stared at him. “Tolly—Tolly was coming to warn you. Whoever’s trying to kill you had to kill him before he did.”

  Briefly, Devil closed his eyes—in pain. Opening them, he lifted her and resettled her, clamping his arms about her. Then he met her gaze. “You are weaving this from whole cloth—and from the remnants of your nightmare. If you like, we can discuss this in the morning, when you can examine the facts in the cold light of day.”

  Even in her present state, he could sense the rebellion within her. Her chin firmed, then tilted. Turning her head, she settled back against his chest. “As you wish.”

  Too wise to take exception to her tone, he waited, patiently, for some of her haughty tension to leave her, then tightened his arms again.

  Staring into the leaping flames, Honoria reexamined her newfound certainty and could not fault it. She knew what she knew, even if he refused to see it. He was a Cynster male—he believed he was invincible. She’d no intention of arguing the point, any more than she intended to change her perspective. Her “facts” might not appear all that substantial in daylight, but she wasn’t about to deny them.

  Her life, her purpose, was now crystal-clear. She knew, absolutely, with complete and utter conviction, precisely what she had to do. He’d challenged her to face her deepest fear; fate was now challenging her to face a deeper truth—the truth of what she felt for him.

  She would give him what he asked, all he asked, and more; she would let nothing—no one—take him from her. She might be his, but he was hers. Nothing under heaven could change that.

  Last time death had threatened those she loved, she’d been helpless, unable to save them. This time, she would not stand by; she would not let any mere mortal steal her destiny from her.

  Conviction, total certainty, infused her. Her earlier confusion had passed; she felt calm, in control. Focused. Aware. She frowned. “Why are you here?”

  He hesitated, then answered: “You always sleepwalk during storms.”

  “Always?” Then she remembered the night Tolly died. “In the cottage?”

  She felt Devil nod. Safe in his arms, she considered, then shook her head. “That can’t be right. It’s been eight years since the accident. I haven’t woken anywhere other than in my bed and I’ve slept in so many different houses, through so many different storms.” It had only been when violent death had hovered close—at the cottage, and now, in the aftermath of his accident. Honoria mentally nodded, her conclusion confirmed. If death’s presence was what evoked her nightmare, then death had stalked him that morning.

  Behind her, Devil shrugged. “You walked tonight—that’s all that matters. I’ll stay until you sleep.”

  Her gaze on the flames, Honoria raised her brows. And considered that in some detail. Increasingly salacious detail. Then she grimaced. His muscles were locked, not tensed with passion but holding it at bay.

  Turning her head, she looked up, into his face, all hard angles and austere planes. Raising a hand, she traced one lean cheek; at her touch, he froze. “I don’t suppose you’d consider taking me to bed?”

  His jaw locked; flames danced in his eyes. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Devil met her gaze; when he spoke, his tone was flat.

  “You’re upset—distraught. And you haven’t made your decision yet.”

  Honoria sat up and twisted to face him. “I’m not upset now. And I have made up my mind.”

  Devil winced. Teeth gritted, he lifted her and set her bottom back on his thigh. “I’m not taking you to bed—to wife—purely because you’re afraid of lightning!”

  Honoria narrowed her eyes at him—his expression was not encouraging. “This is ridiculous.” She felt soft, warm and empty inside.

  “Forget it.” Devil ground the words out. “Just—sit—still.”

  Honoria stared at him, then uttered a strangled, disgusted sound and slumped back against his chest.

  “Go to sleep.”

  She bit her tongue. In the orangery, she’d surprised him; after the accident, her tending him had simply been too much. He wouldn’t again make the mistake of letting her touch him—without that, she stood no chance of getting his body to change his mind.

  The warmth surrounding her had unlocked her muscles. Safe, certain—determined to prevail—she slid into untroubled slumber.

  She woke the next morning neatly tucked in her bed. Blinking her eyes wide, she was almost at the point of dismissing her memories of the night as dreams when her gaze alighted on the odd blanket draped across the bed’s corner. She narrowed her eyes at the inoffensive plaid; her recollections became much clearer.

  With a disgusted humph, she sat up and threw back the covers. It was clearly time she had a long talk with his Obstinate Grace of St. Ives.

  Gowned appropriately, she swept into the breakfast parlor primed to declare herself won—only to discover he’d left the house early, ostensibly on business. He was not expected to return until shortly before dinner, after which he would escort her to the Theater Royal.

  She amended her plans—he invited some country neighbors passing through town to join them in their box. The Draycotts were charming, and utterly unshakable. At Devil’s invitation, Lord Draycott accompanied them back to Grosvenor Square, the better to discuss repairs to the Five-Mile fence.

  There was no storm that night.

  The next morning, Honoria rose early, determined to catch her worm. He didn’t even appear, taking breakfast in his library, in the protective presence of his steward.

  By evening, she’d reached the end of her tether. Why he was avoiding her she had no idea, but his actions left her no choice. There was one approach guaranteed to gain his complete and undivided attention—as far as she was concerned, there was no reason she couldn’t employ it.

  Chapter 16

  D onnnnnnng.

  Devil spared not a glance for the long-case clock as he passed it on the stairs. Crossing the gallery, he lifted his candle in insouciant salute to his father’s portrait, then strode on, into the long corridor that led to his rooms.

  His sire, he was sure, would applaud his night’s work.

  In his pocket lay three notes inscribed with Viscount Bromley’s square script. Bromley was already deep in debt, although by how much he was probably unaware. Of course, the last hand had seen the luck change. Devil smiled. He’d have Bromley tied tight in less than a week.

  Despite his success, as he drew nearer his door, he tensed; the frustration he continually held at bay exerted its power. An ache settled in his gu
t; muscle after muscle turned heavy, as if he was fighting himself. Grimacing, he reached for the doorknob. As long as he limited his time with Honoria to public, social venues, he could cope.

  He’d told her the truth—he was more than capable of manipulating, coercing, or seducing her into marriage. Indeed, his very nature compelled him to do so, which was why he felt like a wild beast caged. He was a born conqueror—taking what he wanted came naturally. Subtleties, sensitivities, were usually of little consequence.

  His expression hardening, he entered his room. Shutting the door, he crossed to the tallboy; setting the candlestick by the mirror on its top, he untied his armband, unbuttoned his waistcoat, then eased the diamond pin from his cravat.

  Reaching out to lay the pin in its box, his gaze slid past his reflection—white glimmered in the shadows behind him.

  His head snapped around. Then, his tread utterly silent, he crossed to the chair by the fire.

  Even before he touched the silk, he knew to whom it belonged. The fire, a mere glow of coals, was still warm enough to send her scent rising, wafting upward to ensorcel him. He only just stopped himself from lifting the soft silk to his face, from inhaling the beguiling fragrance. Stifling a curse, he dropped the peignoir as if it was as hot as the fire’s coals. Slowly, he turned to the bed.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. Even from this distance, he could see her hair, a rippling chesnut wave breaking across his pillows. She lay on her side, facing the center of the bed. The sight drew him like a lodestone. He was beside the bed, looking down on her, before he knew he’d moved.

  No woman had ever slept in his bed—at least not during his tenure. His father had been of the stated opinion that a duke’s bed was reserved for his duchess; he had agreed—no other woman had lain between his silken sheets. To return late at night to discover those sheets warmed by the one woman he wanted to find asleep there, breathing gently, soft, sleek limbs sunk deep into the down, left him reeling.