Devil's Bride with Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 mantelp
iece. “Honoria, we’re discussing tracking a murderer—a cold-blooded killer—not discovering who stole the Queen of Hearts’s tarts.”

  “I had assimilated 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.

  On one heartbeat, she was the leader, on the next, he resumed command, his lips hard, his body a steel cage surrounding her. A cage she no longer wished to escape. She surrendered, gladly yielding; ravenous, he stole her very breath. Breasts aching, heart thundering, Honoria stole it back.

  Between them, desire smoldered, flared, then exploded, flames licking greedily, devouring all reticence. Honoria gave herself up to them, to the beckoning pleasure, to the thrill of desire, to the urge of molten need.

  She pressed herself against him, flagrantly enticing, hips shifting in unconscious entreaty. Fingers sliding into his thick hair, she reveled in the raw hunger that rose, naked, elemental, between them.

  Their lips parted briefly, for less than a heartbeat; who pressed the next kiss was moot. They were lost together, trapped in the vortex, neither in control, both beyond reason. Hunger welled, swelled; urgency mounted, inexorable, compelling.

  An almighty crash shook them to their senses.

  Devil lifted his head, arms tightening protectively as he looked toward the door. Gasping, literally reeling, Honoria clung to him; dazed, she followed his gaze.

  From beyond the door came sounds of calamity—wails and recriminations exchanged between two maids—then Webster’s sonorous tones cut across the commotion, bringing the plaints to an end. The sound of tinkling glass and the scrape of a whisk on the polished boards followed.

  Honoria could barely make out the sounds over the thundering in her ears. Her heart thudded heavily; she had yet to catch her breath. Eyes wide, she looked into Devil’s face—and saw the same driving desire, the same inchoate longing gripping her, reflected in his silvered eyes. Flames lit the crystal cores; sparks flew.

  His breathing was as ragged as hers. Every muscle in his body was taut, coiled. Like a spring about to break.

  “Don’t—move.”

  He bit the words out; his eyes blazed. Light-headed, barely able to drag in her next breath, Honoria didn’t even think of disobeying. The planes of his face had never looked so hard, so graven. His eyes held hers steadily; she dared not blink as, rigid, he battled the force that threatened to consume them—the passion she had unleashed.

  Degree by painful degree, the tension holding them decreased. His lids lowered, long lashes veiling the subsiding tempest. Gradually, his locked muscles eased; Honoria breathed again.

  “The next time you do that, you’ll end on your back.” There was no threat in his words; they were a statement of fact.

  Hedonistic, unpredictable—she’d forgotten about the wild. A peculiar thrill shot through Honoria, immediately swamped beneath a tide of guilt. She had seen the effort her naive tactic had cost him; remnants of their passion still shimmered about them, licking at her nerves, shivering over her skin. His lids slowly rose; she met his gaze unflinchingly.

  And put up a hand to touch his cheek. “I didn’t know—”

  Turbulence engulfed them as he brusquely drew back.

  “Don’t—” His features hardened; his gaze transfixed her. “Go. Now.”

  Honoria looked into his eyes—and obeyed. She stepped out of his arms; they fell from her but not readily. With one last, hesitant glance, she turned away; head high, shaken to her toes, she left him.

  The three days that followed were the hardest Honoria had ever faced. Distracted, her nerves permanently on edge, her stomach a hard knot of reaction, she struggled to find some way out of the impasse that faced her. Hiding her state from the Dowager left her drained, yet being alone was not a desirable alternative; once free, her mind dwelled incessantly on what she had seen, what she had felt, what she had learned in the morning room.

  Which only added to her distraction.

  Her only consolation was that Devil seemed as distracted as she. By mutual consent, they met each other’s eyes but briefly; each touch—when he took her hand or she placed it on his arm—rocked them both.

  He’d told her from the first that he wanted her; she hadn’t understood what he meant. Now she knew—instead of frightening her or shocking her, the physical depth of his need thrilled her. She gloried in it; at some fundamental level, her heart positively sang.

  Which left her feeling exceedingly wary.

  She was standing before her sitting-room window, mulling over her state, when a knock fell on the door.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She straightened. “Come.”

  The door swung inward; Devil stood on the threshold. He raised a brow at her.

  Honoria raised a brow back.

  Lips thinning, he entered the room, shutting the door behind him. His expression was unreadable—not impassive so much as deliberately uninformative.

  “I’m here to apologize.”

  Honoria met his gaze steadily, certain the word “apologize” rarely passed his lips. Her feelings took flight, only to plummet a second later. Her stomach hollow, her heart in her throat, she asked: “For what?

  His quick frown was genuinely puzzled, then it evaporated; his gaze grew hard. “For appropriating Celestine’s bill.” His tone made it clear that if she wished for an apology for what had transpired in the morning room, she’d be waiting until hell froze.

  Honoria’s unruly heart sang. She fought to keep a silly—totally unnecessary—smile from her lips. “So you’ll give me the bill?”

  He studied her eyes, then his lips compressed. “No.”

  Honoria stared. “Why apologize if you won’t give me the bill?”

  For a long moment, he looked at her, frustration seep
ing into his expression. “I’m not apologizing for paying Celestine’s account—I am apologizing for stepping on your independent toes—that was not my intention. But as you so rightly pointed out, the only reason such a bill would cross my desk was if you, as my wife, had referred it to me.” His lips twisted. “I couldn’t resist.”

  Honoria’s jaw nearly dropped; rescuing it in time, she swallowed a gurgle of laughter. “You signed it . . . pretending to be my husband?” She had to struggle to keep a straight face.

  The aggravation in Devil’s eyes helped. “Practicing to be your husband.”

  Abruptly, Honoria sobered. “You needn’t practice that particular activity on my account. I’ll pay my bills, whether I marry you or not.”

  Her crisp “or not” hung between them; Devil straightened and inclined his head. “As you wish.” His gaze wandered to the landscape above the fireplace.

  Honoria narrowed her eyes at his profile. “We have yet to come to terms over this bill you inadvertently paid, Your Grace.”

  Both description and honorific pricked Devil on the raw. Bracing one arm along the mantelpiece, he trapped Honoria’s gaze. “You can’t seriously imagine I’ll accept recompense—monetary recompense—from you. That, as you well know, is asking too much.”

  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!”