Devil's Bride with Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  “I did let him waltz with you.”

  “Only because I made it impossible for you to do otherwise.” She’d used the waltz to separate the two dueling reprobates—unsuccessfully as it transpired.

  “Honoria, if I do not wish you to waltz with a particular gentleman, you won’t.”

  She looked up, a protest on her lips. The undercurrent beneath his words registered, she met his eye—and decided it was safer simply to humph again.

  When she looked forward, Devil grinned. He’d enjoyed the evening without reservation; even the emergence of the twins as budding Aphrodites couldn’t tarnish his mellow mood. As they turned toward the ducal apartments, he slid his arm about Honoria and drew her against him.

  Honoria let him, enjoying his nearness. She remained puzzled by his relationship with Chillingworth. While waltzing with Vane, she’d asked his opinion; he’d smiled. “If they weren’t so busy being rivals, they’d be friends.” Their rivalry, now she’d viewed it at close quarters, was not entirely facetious, yet neither was it serious. From any distance, however, they appeared deadly rivals.

  “Is Charles always so subdued?” She’d noticed him watching as she waltzed with Chillingworth; his expression had been oddly blank.

  “Charles? Now there’s one who won’t approve your innovation—unfettered gaiety was never his strong suit.”

  “Your other cousins reveled in ‘unfettered gaiety.’ ” Honoria cast him a pointed glance. “Totally unfettered.” Each one of the Bar Cynster, excepting only Devil, had disappeared from the festivities at some point, reappearing later with smug, cat-who-had-found-the-cream smiles.

  Devil grinned. “Gabriel tendered his felicitations along with the firm hope that you’ll make your impromptu ball a yearly event.”

  Honoria opened her eyes wide. “Are there really that many accommodating ladies within the ton?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Devil held his door wide.

  Honoria threw him a speaking glance, then, nose high, swept over the threshold. But she was smiling as she glided deeper into the room, lit by a fire burning cheerily in the grate. The candelabra held high, dispelling the shadows, Devil crossed to the tallboy, setting the candlestick beside a silver tray holding a crystal decanter and two glasses.

  Pouring brandy into one glass, he handed it to Honoria. Warming the glass between her hands, she waltzed to the armchair by the hearth and sank onto its well-stuffed arm. Raising the glass, she breathed in the fumes.

  And froze. She blinked. Across the rim of her glass, she saw Devil grasp the second glass, half-full of amber liquid. He raised it.

  “No!”

  Her breathless shout made him turn. But the glass still rose—any second, he’d swallow his usual first gulp.

  Honoria dropped her glass; it fell, amber liquid splashing across the jewel-hued rug. Vocal cords paralyzed, she flung herself at Devil, striking the glass from his grasp. It shattered against the tallboy.

  “What—?” Devil lifted her, swinging her clear of the shards raining down. White-faced, Honoria clung to him, her gaze fixed on the liquid dripping down the tallboy.

  “What’s wrong?” Devil stared at her; when she didn’t answer, he looked around, then, grasping her arms, set her from him and looked into her face. “What?”

  She drew a shaky breath, then looked into his face. She gulped. “The brandy.” Her voice was weak, quavery; she hauled in another breath. “Bitter almonds.”

  Devil froze—literally. The cold started at his feet and spread upward, claiming muscle after muscle until he was chilled through. His hands fell from Honoria as she pressed close, sliding her arms around him, clinging so tight he could barely breathe. Breathing, indeed, was an effort. For one instant, he stopped altogether—the instant when he realized he’d handed her a glass of poison. His gut clenched tight. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against her curls, closing his arms about her. Her perfume reached him; he tightened his hold, feeling her body, warm and alive, against his.

  Suddenly, Honoria looked up, nearly hitting his chin with her head. “You were nearly killed!” It was an accusation. Her expression mutinous, she clutched his waistcoat, and tried to shake him. “I told you before—I warned you! It’s you they’re trying to kill.”

  A conclusion he could hardly argue. “They didn’t succeed. Thanks to you.” Devil tried to draw her back into his arms. Honoria resisted.

  “You were one gulp away from death—I saw you!”

  Her eyes were fever-bright, her cheeks flushed. Devil bit back a curse—not at her, but at his would-be murderer. “I’m not dead.”

  “But you nearly were!” Her eyes flashed blue fire. “How dare they?”

  Devil recognized shock when he heard it. “We’re both alive.”

  His calming words fell on deaf ears; Honoria swung away and started to pace. “I can’t believe it!” She threw out one hand. “This is utterly wrong!”

  Devil followed as she paced toward the bed.

  “I won’t allow it—I forbid it! You’re mine—they can’t have you.” She swung around; finding him close, she grabbed his lapels. “Do you hear?” Her eyes were silver saucers, sheened with tears. “I am not going to lose you, too.”

  “I’m here—you won’t ever lose me.” Devil slid his arms about her; she was so tense she was quivering. “Trust me.”

  She searched his eyes; tears spangled her lashes.

  “Hold me,” he commanded.

  She hesitated, then obeyed, slowly unclenching her fists, sliding her arms about him. She rested her head against his shoulder but remained tense, taut—determined.

  Framing her jaw, Devil lifted her face, looked down on pale cheeks, at eyes awash with tears, then he bent his head and kissed her set lips. “You’ll never lose me,” he whispered. “I’ll never leave you.”

  A shudder rippled through her. Damp lashes lowered, Honoria lifted her face, offering her lips. Devil took them, then took her mouth. The caress lengthened, deepened, slowly, inexorably spiraling into passion. He needed her—she needed him—an affirmation of life to chase away death’s specter.

  Honoria drew back only long enough to wrap her arms about his neck. She clung to him, to the vibrant life enshrined in their kiss. His arms locked about her, his chest hard against her breasts, his heartbeat a heavy, repetitive thud reverberating through her. Her defensive tension shifted, transmuted; she pressed herself to him. She answered his kiss and desire rose, not in passionate frenzy, but as a swelling presence impossible to deny. Like rivers unleashed, it welled from them both, merging to a torrent, carrying all thought, all conscious will before it, impelling, compelling, not with need but with the need to give.

  Neither questioned its rightness, neither attempted to fight it—a force more than strong enough to deny the deaths they’d faced. Surrendering, to it, to each other, they stripped, barely aware of the clothes they left strewn across the floor. The touch of skin against warm skin, of hands searching, of lips and tongues caressing, played on their senses, feeding the swelling crescendo.

  Naked, aroused, they took to their bed, limbs twining, then parting, only to close intimately again. Soft murmurs rose, Devil’s deep rumble beneath Honoria’s breathless gasps. Time stretched; with freshly opened eyes and heightened senses, they learned each other anew. Devil revisted every soft curve, every square inch of Honoria’s ivory skin, every fluttering pulse point, each and every erogenous zone. No less ensorcelled, Honoria rediscovered his hard body, his strength, his perception, his unfailing expertise. His commitment to her fulfilment—matched only by hers to his.

  Time suspended as they explored, lavishing pleasure on each other, their murmurs transmuting to soft cries and half-suppressed groans. Only when there was no more left to give did Devil lie back, lifting Honoria over him. Straddling him, she arched and took him in, sinking slowly down, savoring every second, until he was buried deep.

  Time fractured. A crystal moment, it hung between them, quivering, invested with sensatio
n. Gazes locked, they both held still, then Honoria let her lids fall. Heart thundering, hearing—feeling—his heartbeat deep within her, she savored the strength that had invaded her, silently acknowledging the power that held her in its coils. Beneath her, Devil closed his eyes, his mind awash with the softness that had accepted him, that now held him so powerfully he could never break free.

  Then they moved, their bodies in perfect communion, their souls committed beyond will or thought. Too experienced to rush, they savored each step down the lengthy road, until the gates of paradise opened before them. Together, they entered in.

  “Under no circumstances is Her Grace to be left unattended at any time.” Devil reinforced that edict with a flat look, trained impartially on the three retainers ranged before him on the library rug.

  All three—Webster, poker-straight, his expression more impassive than ever, Mrs. Hull, rigidly upright, lips pinched with concern, and Sligo, his face more mournful than ever—looked uncertain.

  Grudgingly, Devil amended: “Other than in our apartments.”

  That was where Honoria presently was and, if experience was any guide, where she’d remain for a good few hours yet. She’d been deeply asleep when he’d left her—after fully sating his senses and hers; the exercise had left him feeling more vulnerable than he’d ever felt before. But she was safe in their rooms, given the burly footman stationed within sight of the door.

  “When I’m absent from the house, Webster, you’ll admit no one other than one of my aunts or Vane. If any call, Her Grace is indisposed. We will not be entertaining in the immediate future—not until this matter is resolved.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.”

  “Both you and Mrs. Hull will ensure no one has any chance to tamper with any food or provisions. Incidentally,” Devil’s gaze fixed on Webster’s face, “did you check the rest of that brandy?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. The rest of the bottle was uncontaminated.” Webster straightened. “I can assure Your Grace I did not fill that decanter with poisoned spirits.”

  Devil met his gaze directly. “So I had assumed. I take it we’ve hired no new staff lately?”

  Webster’s stiffness eased. “No, Your Grace. As is our habit, we brought up more of our people from Somersham to assist last night, hands already familiar with our ways. There were no strangers amongst the staff, m’lord.” Fixing his gaze on a point above Devil’s head, Webster continued: “Last night, every member of the staff had some prescribed activity they had to perform at virtually any given time.” Webster let his gaze drop to meet Devil’s eyes. “The long and the short of it is that none of our staff were missing from their duties long enough to have reached your apartments and returned undetected. We must assume, I believe, that some guest aware of the location of the ducal apartments introduced the poison, my lord.”

  “Quite.” Devil had already thought through that point, that and a great deal more; he shifted his gaze to Sligo. “You, Sligo, will accompany Her Grace wherever she goes. If she should decide to walk in public, you will be by her side—not behind her.” He met Sligo’s gaze levelly. “You’re to guard her with your life.”

  Sligo nodded; he owed Devil his life several times over and saw nothing odd in the request. “I’ll make sure no one gets to her. But . . .” He frowned. “If I’m to be with Her Grace, who’s to be with you?”

  “I’ve faced death before—this is no different.”

  “If I could suggest, Your Grace,” Webster intervened. “At least a footman—”

  “No.” The single word cut off all protest. Devil eyed his servitors straitly. “I’m more than capable of protecting myself.” His tone dared them to contradict him; naturally, none of them did. He nodded a dismissal. “You may go.”

  He stood as they filed to the door; Webster and Sligo left, but Mrs. Hull hung back. When, tight-lipped, she looked at him, Devil, resigned, lifted a brow.

  “You’re not really invincible, you know.”

  Devil’s lips twisted wryly. “I know, Hully, I know. But for God’s sake, don’t tell Her Grace.”

  Mollified by his use of his childhood name for her, Mrs. Hull sniffed. “As if I would. You just busy yourself finding whoever was so lost to all proper feeling as to put poison in that decanter—we’ll look after Her Grace.”

  Devil watched her leave, and wondered if any of the three had any idea how much he was entrusting to their care. He’d told them true—he’d faced death many times. Honoria’s death he couldn’t face at all.

  “I’m putting my trust in you to ensure that no harm comes to His Grace.” Pacing before the morning-room windows, Honoria sent a raking glance over the three servitors lined up on the rug—Webster, Mrs. Hull, and Sligo. “I assume he’s already spoken to you regarding the incident last night?”

  All three nodded; Webster acted as spokesman. “His Grace gave us orders to ensure no repetition of the incident, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure he did.” Devil had left the house before she’d awoken, an occurrence delayed by him. He’d kept her awake into the small hours—she’d never known him so demanding. When he’d stirred her awake at dawn, she’d applied herself wholeheartedly to appeasing his considerable appetite, assuming, with what little wit she’d been able to command, that it was some long-overdue realization of his mortality that made him so hungry for life.

  She’d expected to discuss the shocking incident of the poison with him over breakfast—instead, she’d missed breakfast altogether.

  “It is not my intention to counteract any of His Grace’s orders—whatever he has decreed must be done. However”—pausing, she glanced at the three faces before her—“am I right in assuming he gave no orders for his own protection?”

  Webster grimaced. “We did make the suggestion, ma’am—unfortunately, His Grace vetoed the idea.”

  “Flat,” Sligo corroborated, his tone making it clear what he thought of that decision.

  Mrs. Hull’s lips thinned to a prim line. “He always was exceedingly stubborn.”

  “Indeed.” From the way all three were watching her, Honoria knew she had only to say the word. The context, however, was somewhat delicate—she could not, in all conscience, contradict her husband’s edicts. She looked at Webster. “What was the suggestion His Grace vetoed?”

  “I suggested a footman as a guard, ma’am.”

  Honoria raised her brows. “We have other suitable men in our employ, do we not—men who are not footmen?”

  Webster blinked only once. “Indeed, ma’am. From underbutlers to scullery boys.”

  “And there’s the grooms and stablelads, too,” Sligo added.

  Honoria nodded. “Very well.” She met each pair of eyes. “To preserve my peace of mind, you will ensure you are always in a position to tell me where His Grace is at any time while he is absent from this house. Nothing, however, must be done against His Grace’s expressed wishes. I trust that’s clear?”

  Webster bowed. “Indeed, ma’am. I’m sure His Grace would expect us to do all possible to keep you from fretting.”

  “Precisely. Now, do you have any idea where he is at present?”

  Webster and Mrs. Hull shook their heads. Sligo looked at the ceiling. “I believe” he said”—he rocked slightly on his toes—“that the Cap’n’s with Mister Vane.” Lowering his gaze, he met Honoria’s eyes. “At his lodgings in Jermyn Street, ma’am.” When Honoria, along with both his peers, looked their question, Sligo opened his eyes wide. “A lad from the stables had to go that way with a message, ma’am.”

  “I see.” For the first time since smelling bitter almonds, Honoria felt a touch of relief. She had allies. “Do you think this stablelad might still be about his business when His Grace leaves his cousin?”

  Sligo nodded. “Very likely, ma’am.”

  Honoria nodded back, decisively, dismissively. “You have your orders, from both myself and His Grace. I’m sure you will carry them out diligently.”

  Sligo nodded; Mrs. Hull curtsied. Webster bowed
low. “You may rely on us, Your Grace.”

  Chapter 21

  Vane stared at Devil, unfeigned horror in his face. “Just how many attempts on your life have there been?”

  Devil raised his brows. “If Honoria’s supposition is correct, three. There’s still nothing to suggest my phaeton was tampered with, but, given these other two episodes, I’m inclined to think she may be right.” They were in Vane’s parlor; seated at the table, Devil raised a tankard of ale and took a long sip.

  Standing before the windows, Vane was still staring. “The phaeton, the poison—what was the third?”

  “Someone took a shot at me in the park yesterday morning.”

  “You were out early?”

  Devil nodded. Vane’s gaze blanked; he turned to stare, unseeing, out of the window. Devil waited. After the dramatic events of the night, he felt deadly calm. In between making love to his wife, he’d spent the night thinking. Near death was a wonderful focuser—nearly losing Honoria had eradicated all pretense, exposed all the logical reasons he’d used to justify their marriage as the facade they actually were. What he felt for his wife had nothing to do with logic.

  Abruptly, he shifted, and glanced at Vane—then inwardly, mockingly, shook his head. At himself. Whenever his thoughts even touched on that point—that emotion he could not, would not, define—he pulled back, edged away. That unnameable emotion left him feeling so vulnerable he found it near impossible to countenance, to even admit its existence. It opened up a gaping hole in his defenses; his instinctive response was to rebuild his walls with all speed.

  But he would have to face it soon. Insecurity lay, a leaden weight in his gut; the uncertainty was driving him insane. Honoria cared for him—last night had proved that. She might even care in the way women sometimes did, at some different level from any sexual interest. On some other plane. He desperately needed to know.

  Finding out without asking, without revealing his intense interest in the answer, was a challenge he intended to devote his entire attention to—just as soon as he’d dealt with his would-be murderer.