Immediately, the tenor of their kiss changed; his tongue glided sensuously over hers, then alongside—she sensed his invitation. Responding, she was drawn deep into an intimate game, of thrust and parry, of artlessly evocative caresses, of steadily escalating desire. When his hand closed over her breast, she arched; his long fingers found her nipple, tantalizingly circling it before closing in a firm caress, which only left her aching for more.
Instead, his hand left her; her lips trapped beneath his, Honoria was considering pulling away to protest, when she felt her bodice give. An instant later, his hand slid beneath the twill, cupping her breast fully.
Heat seared her; as his fingers closed, then stroked, her breast grew heavy. Honoria tried to break their kiss to catch her breath; he refused to let her go, deepening the kiss instead as she felt his fingers tangle with the silk ribbons of her chemise. Giddy, her senses reeling, she felt the ribbons give, felt the silk shift and slide—then his hand, his fingers, stroked her bare skin, intimately, unhurriedly.
Sweet fever rose and spread through her; her senses sang. Every particle of awareness she possessed was fixed on where he caressed her. With each questing sweep of his fingers, he knew her more.
Devil broke their heady kiss so that he could move her back slightly and shift his attentions to her other breast. She dragged in a shuddering breath, but kept her eyes shut and didn’t protest; lips curving, he gave her what she wanted. Her skin was smooth as satin, rich to the touch; his fingertips tingled as he stroked her, his palm burned when he cupped the soft weight. Her height belied her curvaceousness; each breast filled his palm, a satisfyingly sensual sensation. His only complaint was that he couldn’t see what his fingers traced; her carriage dress was too stiff, the style too well cut, to brush her bodice aside.
He returned to the first breast; his fingers tightened. Honoria’s eyes glinted from beneath her lashes. He caught her gaze. “I want you, sweet Honoria.” Gravelly with leashed desire, his voice was very deep. “I want to watch you, naked, writhing in my arms. I want to see you, naked, spread beneath me.”
Honoria couldn’t stop the shiver that raced through her. Eyes trapped in his, she struggled to draw breath, struggled to steady her giddy head. The planes of his face were hard-edged; desire glowed in his eyes. His fingers shifted; a shaft of pure delight streaked through her. She shivered again.
“There’s much more that I can teach you. Marry me, and I’ll show you all the pleasure I can give you—and all that you can give me.”
If she’d needed any warning of how dangerous he was, how intent he was, it was there in that last phrase; Honoria heard his possessiveness ring. Any pleasure he gave her she would pay for—but would possessing her truly be such pleasure to him? And, given all she now knew, was being possessed, by him, any longer a destiny to be feared? Breathing shallowly, she raised her hand and sent it skating over his chest. Muscles shifted, then locked. Other than a hardening of his features, his face showed no reaction.
Honoria smiled knowingly; raising her hand, she boldly traced his jaw, traced the sensual line of his lips.
“No—I will go upstairs, I think.”
They both froze, eyes locked on the other’s. The Dowager’s voice carried clearly from the hall as she issued instructions to Webster, then heels clicked as she swept past the library door.
Eyes wide, excruciatingly aware that his hand lay firm about her naked breast, Honoria swallowed. “I think I’d better go up.” How long had they been here, scandalously dallying?
Devil’s smile turned devilish. “In a minute.”
It wasn’t one, but ten. When she finally climbed the stairs, Honoria felt like she was floating. Reaching the gallery, she frowned. Devil’s pleasure, she suspected, could be seriously addictive; of his possessiveness she had not a doubt. But passion?—that should be intense, uncontrollable, explosively powerful; Devil had been in control throughout. Her frown deepening, she shook her head and headed for the morning room.
Chapter 12
“I don’t believe it!” Seated before her escritoire, Honoria stared at the single sheet of parchment in her hand. For the third time, she read the simple message, then, her jaw setting ominously, she rose and, letter in hand, headed for the library.
She didn’t knock. She flung the door wide and marched in. Devil, seated in his accustomed place, raised his brows.
“I take it there’s a problem.”
“Indeed.” Honoria’s eyes glittered. “This!” With a flourish, she deposited her letter on the desk. “Explain that, if you would, Your Grace.”
Devil picked up the letter and scanned it, lips firming as he realized its content. Dropping it on the blotter, he leaned back, studying Honoria still standing before the desk, arms crossed, eyes flashing—the very image of an intemperate virago. “I didn’t actually think you’d ask.”
“Didn’t think I’d ask?” The look she bent on him over-flowed with incredulous scorn. “When I spend a small fortune at a modiste’s, I expect to receive a bill. Of course I asked!”
Devil glanced at the letter. “It appears you received an answer.”
“Not an answer I wished to receive.” Turning to pace, skirts swishing, Honoria paused long enough to inform him through clenched teeth: “It is, as you very well know, totally unacceptable for you to pay for my wardrobe.”
“Why?”
Dumbfounded, she stopped and stared. “Why?” Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve been dealing with ladybirds too long, Your Grace. While it may be de rigueur to lavish Celestine’s best on such women, it is not accepted practice for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for ladies of character.”
“While I naturally hesitate to contradict you, Honoria Prudence, you’re wrong on both counts.” With unruffleable sangfroid, Devil picked up his pen, and his next letter. “It’s perfectly acceptable for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for their wives. Ask any of Maman’s acquaintances—I’m sure they’ll verify that fact.” Honoria opened her mouth—he continued before she could speak: “And as for the other, I haven’t.”
Honoria frowned. “Haven’t what?”
Devil looked up and met her eye. “Haven’t lavished Celestine’s best on any of my ladybirds.” Honoria’s expression blanked; he lifted one brow. “That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”
Honoria drew herself up. “That’s irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that I’m not your wife.”
Devil looked down. “A minor inconsistency time will no doubt correct.” With a series of bold strokes, he signed his letter.
Drawing a deep breath, Honoria clasped her hands before her and addressed the air above his head. “I am afraid, Your Grace, that I cannot acquiesce to the present situation. It is entirely inappropriate.” Glancing down her nose, she watched as he reached for another letter. “Any reasonable being would instantly see, and acknowledge, that fact.” With unimpaired calm, Devil picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkstand. Honoria set her teeth. “I must request that you inform me of the total of Celestine’s bill and allow me to recompense you for the sum.”
Devil signed his name, blotted it, set the pen back in its rack—and looked up. “No.”
Honoria searched his eyes—his green gaze was jewel-clear, hard, and uncompromising. Her breasts swelled as she drew a portentous breath; she pressed her lips tightly together, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll send everything back.”
She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
Devil swallowed an oath and came out of his chair. He was around the desk and striding in Honoria’s wake long before she reached the middle of the room. She was reaching for the doorknob when he picked her up.
“What—!” Honoria batted at his hands, fastened about her waist. “Put me down, you arrogant oaf!”
Devil complied, but only long enough to swing her about so that she faced him. He kept his hands locked about her waist, holding her at a distance. For her own safety. The effect she had on him when in haughty mood was bad en
ough; haughty and angry together wound his spring far too tight. One unwary touch and he might unwind—which would certainly surprise her.
“Stop wriggling. Calm down.” That advice was greeted with a furious glare. Devil sighed. “You know you can’t send Celestine’s things back—as I’ve already paid for them, she’ll simply send them back here again. All you’ll achieve is to inform Celestine, her staff, and my staff that you’re throwing some incomprehensible tantrum.”
“I am not throwing a tantrum,” Honoria, declared. “I am behaving with exemplary reticence. If I gave vent to my feelings, I’d be screaming!”
Devil tightened his hold. “You are.”
Honoria’s glare turned baleful. “No I’m not. I can scream much louder than that.”
Devil winced—and locked the muscles in his arms. He was definitely going to put that claim to the test. Later. He trapped her irate gaze in his. “Honoria, I am not going to divulge to you a figure you do not need to know, and you are not going to attempt to return Celestine’s gowns.”
Honoria’s grey gaze turned steely. “You, my lord, are the most arrogant, overbearing, high-handed, tyrannical, dictatorial despot it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”
Devil raised a brow. “You forgot autocratic.”
She stared at him; he could feel the frustration mounting within her, swelling like a barely capped volcano.
“You are impossible!” The word came out in a hiss—like steam escaping. “I bought those gowns—I have a right and a duty to pay for them.”
“Wrong—as your husband, that right and duty is mine.”
“Only if I request your assistance! Which I haven’t! And even if I did need help, I couldn’t ask you because,” Honoria drew a deep breath and carefully enunciated, “we’re . . . not . . . married!”
“Yet.”
Capping that terse syllable should have been impossible; Honoria resorted to a seething glare of operatic proportions and carried on regardless. “If you have some vague notion that I’m unable to pay such an amount, you’re wrong. I’m perfectly willing to introduce you to Robert Child, of Child’s Bank, who handles my estate. I’m sure he’ll be happy to inform you that I’m no pauper!” She pushed again at Devil’s arms; frowning, he let her go.
“I didn’t pay because I thought you couldn’t.”
Honoria glanced at him; his eyes declared he was telling the truth. “Well,” she said, somewhat mollified, “if that wasn’t the reason, what was?”
Devil’s jaw hardened. “I told you.”
Honoria had to think back, then, her own features hardening, she shook her head. “No, no, no! Even if we were married, you have no right to pay bills that are mine, not unless I ask you to. In fact, I can’t think why Celestine sent the bill to you at all.” She tripped on the last words, and looked up, directly into his eyes. Abruptly, she narrowed hers. “It was you, wasn’t it? Who sent that note to Celestine?”
Exasperated, Devil frowned at her. “It was just an introduction.”
“As what? Your wife?” When he didn’t answer, Honoria ground her teeth. “What on earth am I to do with you?”
Devil’s features hardened. “Marry me.” His voice was a frustrated growl. “The rest will follow naturally.”
Honoria tilted her chin. “You are being deliberately obtuse. May I please have my account from Celestine?”
His frown deepening, darkening his eyes, Devil looked down at her. “No.” The single syllable was backed by centuries of undisputed power.
Honoria held his gaze steadily—and felt her temper swell, felt indignation soar. Gazes locked, she could feel their wills, tangible entities, directly opposed, neither giving an inch. Slowly, she narrowed her eyes. “How,” she inquired, her voice steely calm, “do you imagine I feel knowing that every stitch I have on was paid for by you?”
Instantly, she saw her mistake—saw it in his eyes, in the subtle shift that lightened the green, in the consideration that flashed through their depths.
He shifted closer. “I don’t know.” His voice had dropped to a gravelly purr; his gaze grew mesmerically intent. “Tell me.”
Inwardly railing, Honoria saw any chance of getting Ce-lestine’s bill evaporate. “I do not believe we have anything further to discuss, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me?”
She heard her own words, cool and distant. His gaze hardened; his expression was as controlled as her own. He searched her eyes, then, rigidly formal, inclined his head, and stepped aside, clearing her path to the door.
Honoria’s breath caught as she tried to draw it in. She bobbed a curtsy, then, regally erect, glided to the door, conscious of his gaze, shimmering heat on her back, until the door swung closed between them.
She shut the door with a definite click.
The weather, mimicking the atmosphere within St. Ives House, turned decidedly chilly. Three nights later, ensconced in one corner of the St. Ives town carriage, Honoria looked out on a dark and dreary landscape whipped by wind and incessant rain. They were on their way to Richmond, to the duchess of Richmond’s ball; all the haut ton would be present, the Cynsters included. None of the family would dance, but appearance was mandatory.
It was not, however, the prospect of her first real ball that had knotted her nerves. The tension that held her was entirely attributable to the impressive figure, clothed in black, lounging directly opposite, his inner tension, a match for hers, radiating through the darkness. The Lord of Hell could not have had more complete command of her awareness.
Honoria’s jaw tensed; her stubbornness swelled. Her gaze glued to the misery beyond the window, she conjured up an image of the Great Sphinx. Her destiny. She had started to waver, to wonder whether, perhaps . . . until his demonstration that a tyrant never changed his spots. It was, she acknowledged, deep disappointment that had left the odd emptiness inside her, as if a treat had been offered and then withdrawn.
Richmond House, ablaze with lights, shone through the darkness. Their carriage joined the long queue leading to the portico. Innumerable stop-start jerks later, the carriage door was opened; Devil uncoiled his long length and stepped down. He assisted the Dowager up the porch steps, then returned. Avoiding his eye, Honoria placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her down, then escort her in the Dowager’s wake.
Negotiating the stairs proved an unexpected trial; the unyielding press of bodies forced them close. So close she could feel the heat of him reach for her, feel his strength envelop her. The flimsiness of her lavender-silk gown only heightened her susceptibility; as they reached the head of the stairs, she flicked open her fan.
The duchess of Richmond was delighted to receive them. “Horatia’s near the conservatory.” The duchess touched a scented cheek to the Dowager’s, then held out a hand to Honoria. “Hmm—yes.” Surveying her critically as she rose from her curtsy, the duchess broke into a beaming smile. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear.” Releasing Honoria, she glanced archly at Devil. “And you, St. Ives? How are you finding life as an almost-affianced gentleman?”
“Trying.” His expression bland. Devil shook her hand.
The duchess grinned. “I wonder why?” Slanting a laughing glance at Honoria, the duchess waved them on. “I’ll rely on you, St. Ives, to ensure Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is suitably entertained.”
With stultifying correctness, Devil offered his arm; in precisely the same vein, Honoria rested her fingertips upon it and allowed him to steer her in the Dowager’s wake. She kept her head high, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
Many were too familiar. She wished she could take her hand from Devil’s sleeve, take just one step away, enough to put some distance between them. But the ton had grown so used to the idea she was his duchess-in-waiting, that she was his, that any hint of a rift would immediately focus every eye on them, which would be even worse.
Her serene mask firmly in place, she had to leave her nerves to suffer his nearness.
Devil led her to a position just beyond the ch
aise where the Dowager and Horatia Cynster sat, surrounded by a coterie of older ladies. Within minutes, they were surrounded themselves, by friends, acquaintances, and the inevitable Cynsters.
The group about them swelled and ebbed, then swelled and ebbed again. Then a suavely elegant gentleman materialized from the crowd to bow gracefully before her. “Chillingworth, my dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby.” Straightening, he smiled charmingly. “We’ve not been introduced, but I’m acquainted with your brother.”
“Michael?” Honoria gave him her hand. She’d heard of the earl of Chillingworth; by reputation, he was Devil Cynster’s match. “Have you seen him recently?”
“Ah—no.” Chillingworth turned to greet Lady Waltham and Miss Mott. Lord Hill and Mr. Pringle joined the group, distracting the other two ladies; Chillingworth turned back to Honoria. “Michael and I share the same club.”
And very little else, Honoria suspected. “Indeed? And have you seen the play at the Theatre Royal?” Lady Waltham had waxed lyrical about the production but couldn’t remember its title.
The earl’s brows rose. “Quite a tour de force.” He glanced at Devil, absorbed with Lord Malmsbury. “If St. Ives is unable to escort you, perhaps I could get up a party, one you might consent to join?”
Classically handsome, well set, tall enough to look down into her eyes, Chillingworth was a damsel’s dream—and a prudent mama’s nightmare. Honoria opened her eyes wide. “But you’ve already seen the play, my lord.”
“Watching the play would not be my aim, my dear.” Honoria smiled. “But it would be my aim, my lord, which might disappoint you.”
An appreciative gleam lit Chillingworth’s eyes. “I suspect, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, that I wouldn’t find you disappointing at all.”
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