Breaking their kiss, Devil scooped her up in his arms.
“What—?”
“Sssh,” he hissed. His robe had parted; if he’d waited a second longer, she’d have touched him—and God only knew what might have happened then. Striding rapidly down the corridor, he made for her rooms.
Juggling her, he threw open the door to her sitting room and strode through. He turned to shut the door; Honoria wriggled in his hold until she was stretched against him, her arms about his neck. The door locked, Devil turned back—directly into her kiss.
He set her on her feet; relinquishing all restraint, he let his hands have their way. They already knew her—knew her intimately—and wanted to know her again. The caresses he pressed on her were blatant, expressly gauged to set her need soaring. His followed; in self-preservation he fended off her hands. Their caresses—his successful, hers less so—quickly degenerated into a panting, heated game, rapidly fueling the conflagration that already had them in its grip.
With a sound of keen frustration, Honoria drew back from their kiss. “I want—”
“Not here,” Devil ground out. “The bedroom.” He took her mouth again; the game resumed, neither willing to break free.
In desperation, with a sound close to a scream, Honoria wrenched away from his roving hands. Her skin was alight, on fire, her body no less so. If he didn’t fill her soon, she’d swoon. Grabbing one of his hands, she hauled him to her bedchamber door. Flinging it open, she dropped his hand and entered.
Halting in the pool of moonlight streaming through the window, she faced him; tugging the bow of her translucent overrobe undone, she shrugged the sheer garment from her shoulders. As it pooled at her feet, she held out her hands—Devil had closed the door, then paused. She felt his gaze, hot as the sun, slide over her body, still shielded by soft satin.
Devil kept his hand on the cool metal of the doorknob and clung to the moment like a drowning man. He tried to remind himself about control, and that he’d taken her only once, that she might still be sore, that she would certainly still need time to adjust to his invasion. The facts registered with his conscious mind, the small remnant that still functioned. The rest was centered on her, on the throbbing ache in his loins—on his desperate need to claim her.
Her nightgown was a fascinating creation—solid satin with slits to her hips. The long line of her legs had showed briefly, tantalizingly, then she’d halted, and the skirts had fallen primly straight—an illusion of virtuous womanhood.
Her fingers flickered in entreaty—slowly, he strolled forward, letting his robe fall to the ground behind him. Naked, he ignored her hands, letting her touch him as she would. With his own, he cupped her face, then, slowly, stretching each moment until they both quivered, he bent his head and set his lips to hers.
He kissed her deeply, ravenously—forcefully—he needed to stay in control. He locked his muscles as her hands slid about his waist. They halted, gripping him as she accepted his kiss, opening herself to it without restraint. Then she slid her hands over his back; she pressed herself briefly against him, then, to his surprise, pulled away. Puzzled, Devil let her go.
Her gaze shadowed, mysterious, she took his hand and led him to the canopied bed. Halting beside it, she faced him; her eyes on his, she raised her hands and opened the shoulder clasps that anchored her gown. It slithered down, revealing the full globes of her breasts, pale ivory in the moon’s faint light. The gown gathered at her waist; with a wriggle, she freed it, letting it whisper to the floor.
With no hint of reticence, of coyness or shyness—with a directness that stole his breath and much more—she stepped close. She placed her hands on his ribs, then sent them gliding upward; she stretched sensuously against him, wrapping her arms about his neck, lifting her lips for his kiss, pressing her breasts to his chest, sinking her hips against his thighs. Offering herself to him.
Something inside him shattered.
He reached for her and she was there—he wasn’t certain if he’d hauled her hard against him or if she’d pressed closer. Her lips were under his, open and eager; their tongues twined, invoking all the devils of passion that ever were. Nothing else mattered.
Completion, fulfillment, was their only aim—the only thought in their fevered brains. Devil knew his horses had bolted but could summon no will to haul on their reins. She commanded his senses, his strength, every particle of his awareness; her needs, heightening to near frenzy, were the perfect counterpart of his own.
The desire to join flowed strongly through them, a powerful, fiery force. It beat in their veins, found expression in their gasping breaths; it invested each touch, each bold caress, with pleasure so intense it was close to pain.
Pulling back on a gasp, Honoria lifted one knee to the bed; Devil lifted her and placed her upon it, letting her draw him down. He let her feel his weight, reveling in the supple softness of the arms that slid around him, of her body undulating beneath him. She parted her thighs; he drew away only enough to reach down and stroke her, feeling the slickness of her need, the heat of her arousal.
An incoherent plea left her lips; she tilted her hips in unmistakable invitation. Her hands wandered down; they reached his ribs before Devil, settling fully upon her, his hips cradled between her thighs, caught them, one in each of his.
Her eyes, glinting from beneath weighted lids, met his. Deliberately, Devil anchored first one hand, then the other, on either side of her head. He was beyond thought, far beyond any concept of control—the force that drove him, consumed him, compelled him to possess her. Completely. Utterly.
The slick heat between her thighs bathed his throbbing staff; he nudged her thighs wider—she complied, but even in that, she managed to shake him, settling her hips deeper, perfectly positioned for his penetration, letting her thighs relax, leaving herself open. Vulnerable. Inviting him to take her.
The emotion that rolled through him was so powerful, so deep, Devil had to close his eyes briefly, holding back the storm. Opening them, he drew a deep breath, his chest pressing against her breasts, and bent his head to hers.
Their lips met, then melded; their fires ignited. With one powerful thrust, he joined with her—and the conflagration began.
He moved on her, within her; she moved beneath him, about him. Her body caressed him in so many ways, he lost the distinction between him and her. He stroked deeply within her and felt her rise, felt the fiery flight start.
Honoria surrendered to it, to the elemental heat that burned between them. It consumed them, a pure fire that burned away all pretense, leaving only truth and emotion forged in its searing flames. She felt him within her and accepted him eagerly, taking him in, both possessed and possessing. The sunburst rose and drew rapidly nearer; their bodies strove, racing to their fate.
Then it was upon them. It caught them in its heat, in its unquenchable delight, in sensation so exquisite she screamed. She clutched him tightly and he was with her. Locked together, they soared, gasped, then fractured—into a selfless void of aching peace beyond the reach of human senses.
Devil returned to the mortal plane first. Slowly, every muscle heavy with sated lust, he lifted away, then settled the pillows about them. His gaze roamed Honoria’s face, serene, softly glowing. Gently, he smoothed her hair, drawing his fingers through the silken mass, letting it slip free to lie across the crisp linen. For long moments, silent and still, he studied her face. Then his gaze drifted down, skimming her body, fair skin glowing in the silvery light.
Seconds later, he reached for the covers, drawing them up to her chin. He settled on his back beside her, one arm behind his head, a frown tangling his black brows.
He was in that pose when Honoria stirred; from under heavy lids, she studied his face, dark features etched by the moonlight. He seemed pensive. Pensive herself, she let her gaze roam the broad expanse of his chest, dark hairs shading its width, each muscle band sharply defined. The covers reached to his waist; beneath them, she could feel the hair-dusted hardnes
s of his leg beside hers.
She smiled, a cat savoring cream. Her skin was warmly flushed, her limbs deliciously weighted. She felt at peace, fulfilled—possessed. Deeply, thoroughly, possessed. Just the thought sent a frisson of pleasure through her.
The day was behind her. The unsettling uncertainty which had seized her the minute she’d regained her room after scurrying like a wanton maid through the corridors in the half-light of dawn, had disappeared, eradicated by the night’s fire. Her lips curved; she could still feel the inner glow. On the thought, she glanced up—Devil was watching her.
His hesitation was palpable, then he shifted, raising a hand to lift a lock of hair from her forehead. “Why weren’t you in my bed?”
Honoria held his gaze, even though his eyes were too shadowed for her to see. “I didn’t know whether you wanted me there.”
Fleetingly, his frown deepened, then eased. But his lips did not curve as, with one finger, he lightly brushed her cheek. “I want you—and I want you there.”
The deep words all but shimmered in the moonlight; Honoria smiled. “Tomorrow.” She heard him sigh and saw his quick grimace.
“Unfortunately not.” He lay back, his eyes still on hers. “While I’d much rather have you in my bed, until we marry, I’ll have to suffer the restrictions of yours.” He lifted one foot, demonstrating that even high on the pillows as he was, his feet reached the footboard.
Honoria frowned. “Why can’t we sleep in your bed?”
“Propriety.”
She opened her eyes wide. “This is propriety?” Her sweeping gesture encompassed his naked presence, which took up quite half of her bed.
“You can’t be seen wandering the corridors in your peignoir every morning—the servants wouldn’t approve. If they see me wandering about in my robe, they’ll accept the sight with unimpaired aplomb—this is, after all, my house.”
Honoria humphed. Wriggling about, she settled on her side, facing away from him. “I suppose you know all the correct procedures.”
She felt him shift; a second later, warm limbs surrounded her. The light stubble of his jaw grazed her bare shoulder; his lips touched her ear.
“Believe it.” He settled behind her. “And speaking of correct procedures, I should send a notice to The Gazette, stating our wedding day.”
Honoria studied the shadows. “When should it be?”
He kissed her nape. “That’s for you to say—but I’d hoped for December first.”
Four weeks away. Honoria frowned. “I’ll need a gown.”
“You can command any modiste—they’ll scramble for the honor.”
“Celestine will do.” Honoria saw no reason not to avail herself of Celestine’s flair just because he’d commanded the modiste’s attention.
“All the other arrangements you can leave to Maman and my aunts.”
“I know,” Honoria replied with feeling. “I spent a wretchedly awkward morning—your mother decided to visit the old housekeeper who ran the Place when your parents married. The entire conversation concerned the hows and wheres of arranging a wedding at Somersham.”
Devil chuckled. “How did she know?”
“I don’t know,” Honoria lied. It was, she was sure, her odd, utterly inexplicable blushes that had given her away.
“I’ll need to write to Michael.”
“I’ll be writing to him tomorrow—give me your letter and I’ll enclose it with mine.” Devil studied the back of her head.
“Incidentally, I spoke to old Magnus this morning.”
Honoria swung about. “Grandfather?” Incredulous, she stared. “Why?”
Devil raised his brows. “He is the head of your family.”
“You don’t need his permission to marry me.”
“No.” His lips quirked. “However, the Anstruther-Wetherbys and Cynsters go back a long way. We’ve been scoring points off each other since the Ark beached.”
Honoria studied his face. “How did he take the news?”
Devil grinned. “Philosophically, in the end. He knew you were living within my household, so it wasn’t a total shock.”
Honoria narrowed her eyes, then humphed and turned her back on him.
Devil’s grin dissolved into a smile. Leaning forward, he planted a kiss behind her ear. “Go to sleep—you’ll need your strength.”
His words held a definite promise. Smiling, Honoria settled her cheek into her pillow, snuggled her back against his chest—and did as she was bid.
* * *
The next day, their letters to Michael were duly dispatched. The day after, a notice announcing the marriage of Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, eldest daughter of Geoffrey Anstruther-Wetherby and his wife Heather, of Nottings Grange, Hampshire, to Sylvester Sebastian Cynster, duke of St. Ives, appeared in The Gazette. The marriage would take place on December 1 at Somersham Place.
Despite the haut ton’s preoccupation with departing London, the news spread like wildfire. Honoria gave thanks that the only social events remaining were small, select afternoon teas and “at-homes”—farewells to friends before society adjourned to the shires for the shooting and subsequently to their estates for Christmas. The dustcovers had been placed over the chandeliers—the ton was in retreat from London and would not return until February.
As she and Devil had foreseen, his mother and the other Cynster ladies threw themselves into organizing the wedding with undisguised relish. The Dowager warned Honoria that it was family tradition that the bride, while making all the final decisions, was not allowed to do anything—her sole role, according to all precepts, was to appear to advantage and keep her husband in line. Honoria quickly decided there was much to be said for tradition.
Devil watched from a distance, reassured by her readiness to take on the position of his wife. She’d already impressed his aunts; with their encouragement, she took up the matriarchal reins—his mother was ecstatic.
By the end of five whirlwind days, they were ready to leave London; Devil’s final chore was to reel in Viscount Bromley.
When the enormity of his losses, the perilous nature of his finances, was fully explained, Bromley, a hardened case, philosophically shrugged and agreed to Devil’s terms. He was in a postion to ascertain the truth of “Lucifer’s discreditable rumor,” to identify the Cynster involved and learn all the facts. All this he agreed to do—by the first of February.
Satisfied, on every count, Devil laid aside his black armband and, with his wife-to-be on his arm, retired to Somersham Place.
Chapter 18
The ballroom at Somersham Place was filled to over-flowing. Afternoon sunlight poured through the long windows, striking glints from the curls and coifs of damsels and dowagers, rakes and roue´s, gentlemen and haughty matrons. Gowns of every hue vied with bright jewels and equally bright eyes. The full flower of the ton was present—to see, to witness, to appreciate.
“She’s the last marriageable Anstruther-Wetherby female and as rich as bedamned—isn’t it just like Devil to have such a pearl fall into his lap.”
“Such a handsome couple—Celestine designed her gown expressly.”
Surrounded by such comments, by felicitations and congratulations, Honoria circulated through the throng, smiling, graciously inclining her head, exchanging the required words with all those who’d come to see her wed.
She was now the duchess of St. Ives. The past months of consideration, the last weeks of frenetic activity, had culminated in a simple service in the chapel in the grounds. The church had been packed, the overflow surrounding it like a jeweled sea. Mr. Merryweather had pronounced them man and wife, then Devil had claimed his kiss—a kiss she’d remember all her life. The sun had broken through as the crowd surged forth, forming a long aisle. Bathed in sunshine, they’d run a gauntlet of well-wishers all the way to the ballroom.
The wedding banquet had commenced at noon; it was now close to three o’clock. The musicians were resting—only six waltzes had been scheduled, but she’d already dan
ced more. The first had been with Devil, an affecting experience. She’d been starved of breath by its end, only to be claimed by Vane, then Richard, followed by Harry, Gabriel, and Lucifer in quick succession. Her head had been spinning when the music finally ceased.
Scanning the crowd, Honoria spied Devil talking to Michael and her grandfather, seated near the huge fireplace. She headed toward them.
Amelia bobbed up in her path. “You’re to bring Devil to cut the cake. They’re setting up the trestles in the middle of the room—Aunt Helena said Devil would toe the line more easily if you ask.”
Honoria laughed. “Tell her we’re on our way.”
Thrilled to be involved, Amelia whisked herself off.
Devil saw her long before she reached him; Honoria felt his gaze, warm, possessively lingering, as she dealt with the continual claims on her attention. Reaching his side, she met his eyes briefly—and felt her tension tighten, felt anticipation streak through her, the spark before the flame. They’d shared a bed for four weeks, yet the thrill was still there, the sudden breathlessness, the empty ache of longing, the need to give and take. She wondered if the feeling would ever fade.
Serenely, she inclined her head, acknowledging her grandfather. At Devil’s behest, they’d met briefly before leaving London; focused on her future, she’d found it unexpectedly easy to forgive the past.
“Well, Your Grace!” Leaning back, Magnus looked up at her. “Here’s your brother going to stand at the next election. What d’you think about that, heh?”
Honoria looked at Michael; he answered her unvoiced question. “St. Ives suggested it.” He looked at Devil.
Who shrugged. “Carlisle was ready to put your name forward, which is good enough for me. With the combined backing of the Anstruther-Wetherbys and the Cynsters, you should be assured of a sound constituency.”
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