Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  She’d been looking for excitement, for adventure and intrigue—fate had landed her here. Far be it from her to argue.

  The wake was a crush. Many of the bucks and bloods who had come up from London stayed for the final scene. In half an hour, Honoria had been introduced to more dangerous blades than she’d thought to meet in a lifetime. Luckily, her inclusion within the family group had sent a clear message; she was not troubled by any of the visitors.

  The twins again took to their instruments; the crowd filled the music room and the drawing room and overflowed onto the terrace.

  While chatting with Cynster relatives and tonnish family acquaintances, Honoria kept a careful eye on Devil and his five accomplices. A pattern was soon apparent. Devil stood in the drawing room, his back to the open terrace doors; the others roamed the crowd, every now and then either stopping by Devil’s side quietly to impart some information or catching his eye.

  She could do nothing to intercept that silent communication; as for the other, however, . . . Honoria focused on Lady Sheffield, her present interrogator.

  “Of course,” her ladyship intoned, “this distressing business will delay matters somewhat.”

  Deliberately vague, Honoria raised her brows. “Indeed?”

  Lady Sheffield eyed her consideringly. “Three months of mourning—that makes it December.”

  “Winter,” Honoria helpfully observed. She smiled at Lady Sheffield, and gave her something for her pains. “Pray excuse me, ma’am—I must speak with Webster.”

  With a smile, she glided to the door, quite certain how her words would be interpreted. In the hall, she wove through the knots of guests. Plates piled with tiny sandwiches sat waiting on a sideboard; picking one up, she proceeded through the music room and onto the terrace.

  Reaching the spot immediately behind Devil’s back, she took up her position, her back to the drawing room. The sandwiches on her plate instantly attracted suitable cover.

  “Lady Harrington,” an older lady introduced herself. “Know your grandfather well, miss. Haven’t seen him for a while. Daresay he’s keeping well?”

  “I daresay,” Honoria replied, keeping her voice low.

  “Hurst knows nothing, nor does Gilford.”

  Without turning around and risking one of Devil’s cousins noticing her, Honoria couldn’t tell which one was reporting. But she knew Devil’s voice. “Vane’s checked with Blackwell. Try Gelling.”

  “Nice sandwiches, these.” Lady Harrington took another. “There’s Lady Smallworts—she knows your grandfather, too. Here—Dulcie!”

  Lady Harrington waved at another bedizened lady; behind Honoria, another report was coming in. “Nothing from Dashwood and yes, I leaned heavily. He’s not holding anything back. Not his style, this sort of caper.”

  There was silence, then Devil asked: “Anyone else here from that part of town?”

  “I’ll try Giles Edgeworth.”

  Some older gentleman approached Devil, and he was forced to converse; Honoria grasped the opportunity to give her attention to Lady Smallworts.

  “Dear me, yes!” Lady Smallworts was examining her face through lorgnettes. “There’s a definite likeness there, don’t you think, Arethusa? About the chin.”

  Making a mental note to examine her chin when next she glanced in her mirror, Honoria plastered a smile on her lips and set herself to getting the two old dames chatting. Then she tuned her ears to the activity behind her.

  “No luck with Farnsworth, nor Girton either.”

  Devil sighed. “There has to be something, somewhere.”

  “Must be—we’ll just have to keep looking until we find it.” After a pause, whichever cousin it was said: “I’ll try a touch on Caffrey.”

  “Careful—I don’t want this all over town by morning.”

  “Trust me.”

  Honoria could almost see the Cynster smile that went with the words.

  Again Devil’s attention was claimed by others; Honoria put her tuppence worth into the discussion over whether sprigged muslin would still be all the rage next Season.

  It was some time before another of his cousins came to Devil’s side. Guests were starting to depart when Vane reported; Honoria recognized his voice. “Forget Hillsworth or, I suspect, any of that ilk. If the problem’s in that line, we’ll need to get Harry to dig deeper.”

  “Speak of the Demon . . .”

  “No go with any of my lot.”

  “Here come the others,” Vane said.

  “Not a whisper—not so much as a twitch.”

  “No luck.”

  “Not so much as a hint of a suspicion.”

  “Which means,” Devil said, “that we’ll have to go hunting.”

  “But in which direction?”

  “In all directions.” Devil paused. “Demon, you take the tracks and all connected enterprises. Vane, the guards and the taverns. Gabriel, the dens and finance in general. Scandal—you can do what you do best—chat up the ladies. Which leaves the catteries to Lucifer.”

  “And you?” Vane asked.

  “I’ll take the local angle.”

  “Right—I’m for London tonight.”

  “So am I.”

  “And me—I’ll give you a lift if you like. I’ve got a prime ’un between the shafts.”

  Their deep voices faded, blending with the murmurs of the crowd. Lady Smallworts and Lady Harrington had moved onto the mysteries of the latest poke bonnets. It was time for Honoria to retreat—she’d heard all she needed. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies?”

  “Actually, my dear.” Lady Harrington grasped Honoria’s wrist. “I had meant to ask whether it’s true.”

  “True?”

  On the word, Honoria heard from behind her: “Dear me, coz—what trouble you do get into when you don’t have me covering your back.”

  It was Vane’s drawl; Honoria knew the instant Devil turned and saw her—she felt his gaze on her neck, her shoulders. She stiffened. She longed to swing about, but her ladyship clung tight.

  “Why, yes.” Lady Harrington smiled. “About you and—” She broke off, gaze lifting to a point beyond Honoria’s left shoulder, eyes widening with delight. “Ah—good afternoon, St. Ives.”

  “Lady Harrington.”

  It wasn’t his voice, and the subtle menace beneath it, that sent shock waves coursing through Honoria—it was the large hand that curved possessively about her waist.

  Devil captured the hand Lady Harrington freed. Honoria watched her fingers, trapped in his, rise inexorably toward his long lips. She steeled herself to feel his lips on her fingers.

  He reversed her hand and pressed his lips to her wrist.

  If she’d been a weaker woman, she’d have fainted.

  Smoothly, Devil turned to Lady Harrington. “You were saying, ma’am?”

  Lady Harrington beamed. “Nothing of any importance—think you’ve given me all the answer I need.” She all but winked at Honoria, then jabbed Lady Smallworts in the arm. “Come along, Dulcie—I saw Harriet on the lawn. If we hurry, we might catch her before she leaves. Your Grace.” Her ladyship nodded to Honoria. “We’ll see you in town, my dear. Give my regards to your grandfather.”

  “Yes, of course,” Honoria half gasped. Her lungs had seized, courtesy of the long fingers spread over her ribs. If he kissed her wrist again, she would faint.

  “Wave to their ladyships,” her tormentor instructed.

  “With what,” she hissed back. “The plate?”

  “I really don’t think you need the plate anymore—Thomas will take it.”

  A footman appeared and relieved her of the plate. There were few people left on the terrace. Honoria waited, but the grip on her waist did not ease. Instead, Devil wrapped his other arm about her waist, too, her hand still held in his. She could feel him, his chest, his thighs, steely-hard behind her, his arms an unbreakable cage about her.

  “Did you learn much, out here on the terrace?” The words, soft, deep and low, tickled her ear.
>
  “Reams about sprigged muslin. And did you know that the latest poke bonnets have a ruched rim?”

  “Indeed? What next?”

  “Precisely what Lady Smallworts wanted to know.”

  “And what do you want to know, Honoria Prudence?”

  He had a distinctly lethal way of saying her name—he rolled the “r”s, just slightly, so the perfectly prim English words transformed into something more sensuous. Honoria fought down a shiver. “I want to know what you’re about.”

  She felt him sigh. “What am I to do with you, you meddlesome woman?” He rocked her, slightly, to and fro.

  The sensation of losing touch with the earth made Honoria gasp. He hadn’t even shifted his grip. “You can put me down for a start!”

  She was saved by the Dowager. “Sylvester! What on earth are you doing? Put Honoria down at once!”

  He obeyed—reluctantly; the second Honoria’s feet touched earth, the Dowager took her arm. “Come, my dear—there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Without a backward glance, Honoria escaped with the Dowager.

  She took care to play least-in-sight for the rest of the day. While most guests left directly after the wake, many of the family lingered. Honoria had no intention of finding herself unexpectedly alone with Devil in his present mood. The sum-merhouse, a white-timber hexagon wreathed by a yellow rambler, became her refuge.

  Her embroidery in her lap, she watched the carriages roll down the drive—watched Devil play the host and wave them on their way. Afternoon was fading to evening when Charles Cynster descended the front steps and started across the lawn, heading straight for the summerhouse.

  Inclining his head gravely, he entered. “Good evening, my dear. I wanted to speak with you before I left—Sylvester told me where to find you.”

  So much for her refuge. Honoria studied Tolly’s older brother critically. He was certainly older than Devil, which made him the oldest of the Cynster cousins. He cut an impressive figure, six feet tall and solidly built, but lacked the lean Cynster lines. His face was rounder, with heavy jowls. His eyes, resting on her, were plain brown; given his recent loss, Honoria was surprised by how intent his expression was.

  The summerhouse boasted a long wickerwork settee with chintz cushions, and nothing else. With a wave, she invited Charles to sit; somewhat to her relief, he declined the settee to settle on a windowsill. Facing her. Honoria raised a polite brow. Presumably, Devil had sent Charles to persuade her to leave Tolly’s death to the Cynsters.

  “I wanted to thank you for aiding Tolly. Sylvester mentioned you’d helped.” Charles’s lips twisted in a fleeting smile. “To use his phrase, ‘above and beyond what might reasonably be expected of a lady of your station.’ ”

  Graciously, Honoria inclined her head. “Despite your cousin’s beliefs, I did nothing more than any lady of practical sensibilities.”

  “Be that as it may . . .” Charles’s words trailed away; Honoria glanced up and met his gaze. “My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, I hope you will excuse me if I speak plainly?”

  “I would prefer you did so.” Setting aside her embroidery, Honoria folded her hands and gave him her full attention.

  “It appears to me that, rather than being rewarded for your help, you have been placed in an invidious position.” Charles glanced at her. “Forgive me—this is a delicate subject. But I understand that, by virtue of rendering assistance to Tolly and thus being stranded by the storm, you were forced to spend the night in company with Sylvester, and thus now find yourself compromised and, not to put too fine a point on it, forced to accept his offer.”

  Honoria opened her lips—Charles raised his hand. “No, if you please—allow me to finish. I realize that many ladies would be aux anges over becoming the duchess of St. Ives, whatever the circumstances. I can see, however, that you are not of that giddy ilk. You’re an Anstruther-Wetherby, daughter of an old and ancient line—quite as proud as we Cynsters. You are a woman of sound sense, independence, and—as you acknowledged—of a practical bent.

  “You have, I believe, chosen to live life quietly—it hardly seems fair that in return for your good offices, you should be forced to become Sylvester’s wife, a role that will not only be demanding but also very likely less than rewarding.” He paused, then added: “For a lady of sensitivity.” He hesitated, weighing his words, then continued: “Sylvester bears a very specific reputation, as do most of the Cynsters. It seems unlikely that a leopard so devoted to hunting will readily change his spots.”

  He looked at Honoria; she raised her brows haughtily. “There is little in your assessment with which I would argue, Mr. Cynster.”

  Charles’s brief smile did not light his eyes. “Indeed, my dear, I believe we are two who would understand each other well, which is why I hope you will understand my motives in proposing an alternative solution to your undeserved predicament.”

  “An alternative?” Honoria was conscious of increasing unease. She had not expected Charles to undermine Devil; she was truly surprised that he had.

  “A more acceptable alternative to a lady of your sensibility.”

  Honoria looked her question.

  “Marrying Sylvester would not be in your best interests—anyone with understanding can see that. You stand, however, in need of an offer, in restitution if nothing else. As Tolly was my brother, in order to retrieve your standing, I would be happy to offer you my hand. My estate, of course, is nothing compared to Sylvester’s; it is, however, not inconsiderable.”

  Honoria was stunned; only years of training kept the fact from her face. She did not have to think to frame her reply—the words came spontaneously to her lips. “I thank you for your offer, sir, but I am not of a mind to marry—not for this nor, indeed, any other foreseeable reason.”

  Charles’s face blanked. After a moment, he asked, “You don’t intend to accept Sylvester’s offer?”

  Lips compressed, Honoria shook her head. “I have no intention of marrying at all.” With that firm declaration, she reached for her embroidery.

  “You will be pressured to accept Sylvester’s offer—both by the Cynsters and your own family.”

  Honoria’s eyes flashed; she raised her brows haughtily. “My dear sir, I am not at all amenable to unwarranted interference in my life.”

  Silence ensued, then Charles slowly stood. “I apologize, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, should I have given offense.” He paused, then added: “However, I urge you to remember that, should a time come when you feel it necessary to marry to escape the situation arising from Tolly’s death, you have an alternative to marrying Sylvester.”

  Engrossed in jabbing her needle into her canvas, Honoria did not look up.

  “Your humble servant, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby.”

  Barely glancing at Charles’s bow, Honoria stiffly inclined her head. Charles turned on his heel and descended the steps; Honoria watched, narrow-eyed, as he returned to the house. When he disappeared, she frowned and wriggled her shoulders.

  If she ever had to marry a Cynster, she’d rather try taming the tyrant.

  The tyrant came knocking on her door late that evening.

  Devil’s uncles, aunts, and younger cousins had stayed for dinner, then all except Tolly’s family had departed, letting the staff catch their collective breath. A cloak of calm had settled over the Place, a restful silence only found in those houses that had seen birth and death many times.

  Leaving the Dowager and Tolly’s parents swapping bittersweet memories, Honoria had retired to her chamber. She had intended to compose her letter to Michael. Instead, the peace outside drew her to the window; she sank onto the window seat, her mind sliding into the night.

  The knock that interrupted her undirected reverie was so peremptory she had no doubt who was there. She hesitated, then, stiffening her spine, rose and crossed to the door.

  Devil was standing in the corridor, looking back toward the stairs. As she set the door wide, he turned and met her gaze. “Come for a wal
k.”

  He held out his hand; Honoria held his gaze steadily—and slowly raised one brow. His lips twitched, then he fluidly sketched a bow. “My dear Honoria Prudence, will you do me the honor of strolling with me in the moonlight?”

  She preferred his order to his request; the effortless charm lurking beneath his words, uttered in that soft, deep voice, was enough to turn any lady’s head. But it needed no more than the blink of an eye to decide why he was here. “I’ll get my shawl.”

  The swath of fine Norwich silk lay on a chair; draping it about her shoulders, Honoria pinned the ends, then headed for the door. She intended making it plain that she was not about to pull back from her interest in Tolly’s murder.

  Devil took her hand and drew her over the threshold and shut the door, then settled her hand on his sleeve. “There’s another stairway that gives onto the side lawn.”

  In silence, they left the house to stroll beneath the huge trees dotting the lawn, passing from shadow to moonlight and back again.

  The silence was soothing; the pervasive tang of leaves, green grass, and rich earth, scents Devil always associated with his home, was tonight spiced with a subtle fragrance, an elusive scent he had no difficulty placing.

  It was her—the fragrance of her hair, of her skin, of her perfume—lily of the valley with a hint of rose—an expensive, alluring mix. Beneath all wafted the heady scent of woman, warm and sensual, promising all manner of earthly delights. The evocative scent teased his hunter’s senses and heightened the tension gripping him.

  Tonight, he was prey to two driving desires—at the moment, he could pursue neither goal. There was nothing he could do to avenge Tolly’s death—and he could not take Honoria Prudence to his bed. Not yet. There was, however, one point he could address—he could do something about her chin.

  He had no intention of letting her involve herself with Tolly’s murder, but his action on the terrace had been ill-advised. Intimidation would not work with this particular lady. Luckily, an alternative strategy lay to hand, one much more to his liking. Using it would kill two birds with one stone. Cloaked in shadow, Devil smiled—and turned their steps toward the summerhouse.