That was unique, at least in his experience. He couldn’t define it, could not even describe it—he only knew it was precious, too valuable to risk.
Honoria was also too valuable to risk, at any level, in any way.
He frowned at the newssheet—and wondered what she was doing.
Later that afternoon, having parted from Vane, Devil strolled home through the gathering dusk. He crossed Pic-cadilly and turned into Berkeley Street.
“Ho! Sylvester!”
Devil halted and turned, then waited until Charles joined him before strolling on. Charles fell into step; he had lodgings in Duke Street, just beyond Grosvenor Square.
“Back to your old haunts, I take it?”
Devil smiled. “As you say.”
“I’m surprised—I thought Leicestershire would hold you rather longer. They’ve had excellent sport, so I’ve heard.”
“I didn’t go to the Lodge this season.” Manor Lodge was the ducal hunting box. “I went out with the Somersham pack but the runs were hardly worth it.”
Charles looked puzzled. “Is Aunt Helena well?”
“Perfectly.” Devil shot him a sidelong glance; his lips twitched. “I’ve had other distractions to hand.”
“Oh?”
“I married recently, remember?”
Charles’s brows rose briefly. “I hadn’t imagined marriage would cause any change in your habits.”
Devil merely shrugged. They circumnavigated Berkeley Square, then turned down a alleyway that ran between two houses, connecting the square with Hays Mews.
“I take it Honoria remained at Somersham?” Devil frowned. “No. She’s here—with me.”
“She is?” Charles blinked. After a moment, he murmured: “I must remember to pay my respects.”
Devil inclined his head, unwilling to commit Honoria to any transports of delight. He knew perfectly well how his other cousins viewed Charles; for his part, he’d always tried for tolerance. They strode on, eventually halting at the corner of Grosvenor Square. Duke Street lay ahead; Devil was but yards from his door.
Abruptly, Charles swung to face him. “I hesitate to allude to such a delicate matter, but I feel I must speak.”
Coolly, Devil raised his brows—and took a firm grip on his tolerance.
“Bringing Honoria to London, so early in her tenure, to require her to countenance your wider liaisons within months of your marriage, is unnecessarily cruel. She may not be experienced in tonnish behavior but her understanding is, I believe, superior. She will doubtless realize you’re bestowing your interest elsewhere. Women are sensitive to such matters—if you had left her at Somersham, she would not be exposed to such hurt.”
His expression blank, Devil looked down at Charles; he’d lost all touch with tolerance—instead, he was battling to keep the lid on his formidable temper. If Charles had not been family, he’d be choking on his teeth. It took concerted effort to keep a snarl from his face. “You mistake the matter, Charles. It was Honoria’s wish that she accompany me, a wish I saw no reason to deny.” His rigidly even tone had Charles stiffening; his gaze would have frozen hell. “Furthermore, you appear to be laboring under a misapprehension—at present, I have no intention of seeking any ‘wider liaison’—my wife holds my interest to the exclusion of all others.”
It was the truth, the literal truth, stated more clearly than he’d allowed his own mind to know it.
Charles blinked—he looked stunned.
Devil’s lips twisted in chilly self-deprecation. “Indeed—there’s more to marriage than even I foresaw. You should try it—I can recommend it as a challenging experience.”
With a curt nod, he strode for his door, leaving Charles, blank-faced, staring after him.
Chapter 20
The next morning, as soon as he was free of his most urgent business, Devil climbed the stairs to the morning room.
Honoria looked up as he entered; she smiled warmly. “I thought you’d be busy for hours.”
“Hobden’s on his way back to the Place.” Devil strolled to the chaise and sat on the arm beside her. Resting one arm along the chaise’s back, he picked up one of the lists from Honoria’s lap. “Our guests?”
She peeked. “That’s the connections. These are the friends.”
Devil took the lists and scanned them. They’d discussed her notion of an impromptu ball the evening before. Reasoning that the exercise would keep her occupied—distracted from Bromley and his doings—he’d readily concurred. “There are a few names you might add.”
Honoria picked up a pencil and dutifully scribbled as he reeled off a short list of his own. When he said “Chillingworth” she looked up in surprise. “I thought the earl was no favorite of yours?”
“On the contrary—he’s a prime favorite.” Devil smiled, one of his Prince of Darkness smiles. “Who would I taunt if I didn’t have Chillingworth by?”
Honoria looked her reply but left the earl on the list. Chillingworth could look after himself.
“I had wondered,” Devil said, studying her profile, “if you were free to come for a drive?”
Honoria looked up, her arm brushing his thigh. Her eyes touched his, then she grimaced. “I can’t.” She gestured to the writing materials on the table. “If the ball’s to be next Friday, I need to send the invitations out today.”
Devil had never written a ball invitation in his life. He was about to suggest he might learn, when Honoria continued: “Louise is bringing the twins by to help.”
With a swift smile, Devil uncoiled his long legs. “In that case, I’ll leave you to your endeavors.”
His fingers trailed against her cheek as he stood, then he grinned and strolled to the door; Honoria watched it close behind him. She stared at the panels, her expression wistful, then she grimaced and went back to her lists.
The next morning, when the morning room door opened, Honoria looked up with an eager smile. Only to discover it was Vane who sought an audience.
“Devil said I’d find you here.” Smiling charmingly, he strolled forward. “I’ve a request to make.”
The gleam in his eye suggested just what that request might be; Honoria eyed it with matriarchal disapproval.
“Who?” she asked.
“Lady Canterton. And Harry suggested Lady Pinney.”
Honoria held his gaze for a pregnant moment, then reached for her pencil. “I’ll send the invitations today.”
“Thank you.”
“With one proviso.” She looked up in time to see wariness creep into his eyes.
“What proviso?”
There was a hint of steel in the question; Honoria ignored it. “You will each dance one dance with each of the twins.”
“The twins?” Vane stared at her. “How old are they?”
“Seventeen. They’ll be presented this year—Friday will be their first ball.”
Vane shuddered.
Honoria raised a brow. “Well?”
He looked at her, grim resignation in his eyes. “Very well—one dance each. I’ll tell Harry.”
Honoria nodded. “Do.”
Her next visitors followed in quick succession, all on the same errand. Gabriel succeded Vane; Lucifer followed. The last through the morning-room door was Richard. “I know,” Honoria said, reaching for her much-amended list. “Lady Grey.”
“Lady Grey?” Richard blinked. “Why Lady Grey?”
Honoria blinked back. She’d seen him slip away from Horatia’s ball with the dark-haired, alabaster-skinned beauty.
“Isn’t she . . . ?” She gestured with her pencil.
“Ah, no.” Richard’s grin was reminiscent of Devil at his worst. “That was last year. I was going to ask for Lady Walton.”
Ask for—like a treat. And, like a treat, Lady Walton would doubtless fall, a ripe plum into his lap. Honoria decided it was useless disapproving; she added Lady Walton to her list.
“And I dutifully promise to stand up with both Amanda and Amelia.”
“Good
.” Honoria looked up in time to witness Richard’s insouciant bow.
“A very good idea, this ball of yours.” He paused at the door, a Cynster smile on his lips. “We were all looking for a way to get the Season rolling. Nothing could be better than an impromptu ball.”
Honoria shot him a warning look; chuckling, he left.
She went on with her planning, trying not to listen for footsteps beyond the door, trying not to wonder whether Devil would drop by to hear of his cousins’ selections, to ask her what she was doing, to offer his views.
He didn’t.
When she entered the breakfast parlor the next morning, she was pleased to find Devil still present, sipping coffee and scanning The Gazette. Her place was now at the table’s other end, an expanse of polished mahogany between them. Taking her seat, she beamed a warm smile across the silver service.
Devil returned the gesture, the expression more evident in his eyes than on his lips. Folding The Gazette, he laid it aside. “How are your plans progressing?”
Although he’d dined at home the previous night, he’d been preoccupied with business; he had come to bed late, conversation very far from his mind. Between sipping tea and nibbling toast, Honoria filled him in.
He listened attentively, interpolating comments, ending with: “You’re setting a new fashion, you know. I’ve already heard of two other hostesses who are planning early, impromptu entertainments.” Smiling radiantly, Honoria shrugged. “Where St. Ives leads, the others will follow.”
He grinned appreciatively, then his eyes locked on hers. “I’ve had the horses brought up from the Place. It’s fine outside—I wondered if you’d care to ride?”
Honoria’s heart leapt—she sorely missed their private hours. “I—”
“Your pardon, Your Grace.”
Turning, Honoria watched as Mrs. Hull bobbed a curtsy to Devil, then faced her. “The caterers have arrived, ma’am. I’ve put them in the parlor.”
“Oh—yes.” Happiness deflating like a pricked balloon, Honoria smiled weakly. “I’ll join them shortly.” The florists were also due that morning, as were the musicians.
Mrs. Hull withdrew; Honoria turned back to meet Devil’s eyes. “I’d forgotten. The supper menu needs to be decided today. I won’t have time to ride this morning.”
With a suave smile, Devil waved dismissively. “It’s of no account.”
Honoria held back a frown—that smile did not reach his eyes. But she could think of nothing appropriate to say; with an apologetic smile, she stood. “By your leave.”
Devil inclined his head, his superficial smile still in place. He watched Honoria leave, then set down his cup and stood. Slowly, a frown replaced his smile. He walked into the hall; behind him, Webster gave orders for the parlor to be cleared. An instant later, he appeared at his elbow.
“Shall I send for your horse, Your Grace?”
Devil focused, and found his gaze resting on the stairs up which Honoria had gone. “No.” When he rode alone, he rode early, before others were about. His features hardening, he turned to the library. “I’ll be busy for the rest of the morning.”
The day of the duchess of St. Ives’s impromptu ball dawned crisp and clear. In the park, wispy mist wreathed beneath the trees; shrill birdcalls echoed in the stillness.
Devil rode along the deserted tan track, the heavy thud of his horse’s hooves drumming in his ears. He rode with single-minded abandon, fast yet in absolute control, his body and his mount’s in fluid concert as they flew through the chill morning. At the end of the track, he hauled the snorting chestnut’s head about—and rode back even faster.
Nearing the end of the tan, he eased back, pulling up before a stand of oak. The deep-chested horse, built for endurance, blew hard, and dropped his head. Devil loosened the reins, chest swelling as he drew the air deep.
There was no one in sight, nothing but trees and well-tended lawns. The tang of damp grass rose as the chestnut shifted, then settled to crop. Devil filled his chest again, and felt the cold reach his brain. And, as often happened in this solitude, his unease, the nagging disquiet that had gnawed at him for days, crystallized, clarified. The insight was not encouraging.
The idea that he was irritated because his wife was so busy organizing her ball that she had no time for him did not sit well—yet denying his jealousy, the waiting, the wanting to be with her, was pointless. Even now, he could feel the black emotion roiling inside. Yet he had no justifiable cause for complaint. Duchesses were supposed to give balls. Honoria was behaving precisely as a wife should—she’d made no awkward demands, no requests for attention he didn’t wish to give. She hadn’t even accepted the attention he’d been only too willing to bestow.
That fact rankled. Deeply.
Frowning, Devil shook his shoulders. He was being unreasonable—he’d no right to expect his wife to be different, to comport herself by some different code—one he couldn’t, even now, define. Yet that was precisely what he did want, the desire at the heart of his dissatisfaction.
Unbidden, his mind conjured up that moment when, in his woodsman’s cottage, she’d leaned against him. He’d looked down, seen the warmth and understanding in her eyes, and felt her weight, soft and womanly, against him. And realized just how much he now had that Tolly would never have, never have a chance to experience.
He drew a deep breath; the crisp cold sang through his veins. He wanted Honoria—had wanted her from the first—but his want was not quite what he’d thought it. The physical want, the possessive want, the protective want, the need for her loyalty, her commitment—all these he’d fulfilled. What remained?
Something, certainly—something strong enough, powerful enough, to unsettle him, to obsess him, to undermine effortlessly his normally unassailable control. Something beyond his experience.
Brows quirking, he examined that conclusion and could not fault it. Lips firming, he took up his reins. He wasn’t going to get any real peace until he fulfilled this want, too.
Both he and the chestnut had cooled. Leaning forward, he patted the horse’s sleek neck and dug in his heels. The chestnut obediently stepped out, shifting fluidly into a loping canter.
The bark of the tree before which they’d stood splintered. The sound reached Devil; glancing back, he saw the fresh lesion in the trunk, level with his chest. In the same instant, a telltale “cough” reached his ears.
He didn’t stop to investigate; he didn’t rein in until he reached the park gate where others were now gathering for their morning ride.
Devil halted to let the chestnut settle. Guns were not permitted in the park. The keepers were exempt, but what would they shoot at—squirrels?
The chestnut had calmed; deadly calm himself, Devil headed back to Grosvenor Square.
The duchess of St. Ives’s impromptu ball was an extravagant success. Held, not in the large ballroom, but in the relative intimacy of the music room, the evening overflowed with laughter, dancing, and an easy gaiety not often encountered within the rigid confines of the ton.
Many present, of course, were related; the rest were longstanding acquaintances. The tone was set from the first, when the duke and duchess led the company in a vigorous, breathless waltz. All hundred guests took the hint, setting themselves to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere, the champagne that flowed freely, the excellent supper and the similarly excellent company. Some five hours after the first had arrived, the last guests, weary but smiling, took their leave. Webster shut the front door, then set the bolts.
In the center of the hall, Devil looked down at Honoria, leaning on his arm. Lights still danced in her eyes. He smiled. “A signal success, my dear.”
Honoria smiled back, resting her head against his arm. “It went very well, I think.”
“Indeed.” His hand over hers where it lay on his sleeve, Devil turned her toward the library. It had become their habit to end their evenings there, sipping brandy, exchanging comments. They halted on the threshold; footmen and maids were clearing glasses
and straightening furniture. Devil glanced at Honoria. “Perhaps, tonight, we should take our drinks upstairs.”
Honoria nodded. Devil accepted a lighted candelabrum from Webster; together they started up the stairs.
“Amelia and Amanda were exhausted.”
“For quite the first time in their lives.”
Honoria smiled fondly. “They danced every dance bar the waltzes. And they would have danced those if they could have.” Glancing up, she noted the slight frown marring her husband’s handsome countenance; looking forward, she inwardly grinned. The twins’ presence had triggered an intriguing reaction in their male cousins—repressive looks had been de rigueur. She could foresee certain interesting scenes as the Season unfolded.
The thought reminded her of another interesting scene, one in which she’d participated. “Incidentally, I give you fair warning, I will not again invite Chillingworth if you behave as you did tonight.”
“Me?” The look of innocence Devil sent her would have done credit to a cherub. “I wasn’t the one who started it.”
Honoria frowned. “I meant both of you—he was no better.”
“I could hardly let him get away with casting a slur on my ability to satisfy you.”
“He didn’t! It was you who twisted his words that way.”
“That was what he meant.”
“Be that as it may, you didn’t have to inform him that I—” Honoria broke off, cheeks flaming—again. She caught the gleam in Devil’s green eyes. Pulling her hand from under his, she pushed him away; he didn’t even stagger. “You’re incorrigible.” Lifting her skirts, she climbed the last stairs. “I don’t know why you insisted on inviting him when all the conversation you exchanged was a litany of thinly veiled insults.”
“That’s why.” Retaking her arm, Devil drew it through his as they crossed the gallery. “Chillingworth’s the perfect whetstone to sharpen my wit upon—his hide’s as thick as a rhinoceros’s.”
“Humph!” Honoria kept her chin high.
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