Honoria drew a deep breath. "It's not that." She hesitated, then, encouraged by Louise's calm expression, forged on: "I haven't actually agreed to marry Devil-just to consider the idea." With a gesture that encompassed the room, she added: "I feel like a fraud."
To her relief, Louise didn't laugh or turn the comment lightly aside. Instead, after a moment scrutinizing her face, she put a hand on her arm. "You're not certain, are you?"
"No." Her voice was barely a whisper. After a minute, she added: "I thought I was." It was the truth-plain, unvarnished; the realization left her stunned. What had he-they-done to her? What had happened to Africa?
"It's normal to feel hesitant." Louise spoke reassuringly, with no hint of condescension. "Especially in such a case, where the decision is so much your own." She glanced at Honoria. "My own case was similar. Arthur was there, ready to lay his heart and all that came with it at my feet-everything hung on my whim." Her lips curved, her gaze becoming lost in reminiscence. "It's easy to make decisions when no one but yourself is involved, but when there are others to consider, it's natural to question your judgment. Particularly if the gentleman concerned is a Cynster." Her smile deepened; she glanced again at Honoria. "Doubly so if he's Devil Cynster."
"He's a tyrant," Honoria declared.
Louise laughed. "You'll get no argument from me on that score. All the Cynsters are dictatorially inclined, but Devil dictates to all the rest."
Honoria humphed. "He's inflexible-and far too used to getting his own way."
"You should ask Helena about that someday-she has stories that will curl your hair. You won't need the tongs for a week."
Honoria frowned. "I thought you were encouraging me."
Louise smiled. "I am-but that doesn't mean I can't see Devil's faults. But for all those-and you won't find a Cynster wife who's not had to cope with the same-there's a great deal to be said for a man who will unfailingly be there to shoulder the burdens, who, regardless of all else, is devoted to his family. Devil may be the leader of the pack-the president of the Bar Cynster-but give him a son or a daughter, and he'll happily sit in Cambridgeshire and play spillikins every night."
Unbidden, the image Louise's words conjured up took shape in Honoria's mind-a large, black-haired, harsh-featured male sprawled on a rug before a blazing fire with a child in petticoats clambering over him. Watching the scene, she felt a warm glow of pride, of satisfaction; she heard the child's shrill giggles over a deeper rumbling laugh-she could almost reach out and touch them. She waited-waited for the fear that had always dogged her to rise up and swallow the image whole, to banish it to the realm of unattainable dreams. She waited-and still the image glowed.
Firelight sheened on both black heads, unruly locks thick and wild. It gilded the child's upturned face-in her mind, Honoria stretched out her hand to the man's familiar shoulder, hard and stable as rock beneath her fingers. Unable to help herself, fascinated beyond recall, she reached, hesitantly, so hesitantly, for the child's face. It shrieked with laughter and ducked its head; her fingers touched hair like silky down, soft as a butterfly's wing. Emotion welled, unlike any she'd known. Dazed, she shook her head.
Then she blinked rapidly and hauled in a quick breath. She focused on Louise, idly scanning the crowd. What had she said? "The Bar Cynster?"
"Ah!" Louise sent her an arch look, then glanced about. No one was close enough to hear. "They think we don't know, but it's a standing joke among the gentlemen about town. Some wit coined the term when Richard and Harry followed Devil and Vane to London, supposedly to denote a…certain rite of passage. With Richard and Harry, of course, there was never any doubt that they would follow Devil and Vane into the customary Cynster pursuits." Her emphasis and the look in her eye left no doubt as to what those pursuits were. "Later, when Rupert and Alasdair went on the town, it was merely a matter of time before they, too, were called to the Bar Cynster."
"Like a barrister being called to Temple Bar?" Honoria kept her mind focused on the point.
"Precisely." Louise's smile faded. "Tolly would have been next."
It was Honoria's turn to lay a hand on Louise's arm and squeeze reassuringly. "I'd imagined the name derived from the heraldic term."
"The bar sinister?" Louise shook off her sorrow and pointedly met Honoria's gaze. "Between you, me, and the other Cynster ladies, I'm quite certain many gentlemen about town refer to our sons as 'noble bastards.' " Honoria's eyes widened; Louise grinned. "That, however, is not something anyone, gentleman or lady, would be willing to admit in our presence."
Honoria's lips twitched. "Naturally not." Then she frowned. "What about Charles?"
"Charles?" Louise waved dismissively. "Oh, he was never part of it."
Two ladies approached to take their leave; when the handclasps were over and they were private once more, Louise turned to Honoria. "If you need any support, we're always here-the others in a similar bed. Don't hesitate to call on us-it's an absolute rule that Cynster wives help each other. We are, after all, the only ones who truly understand what it's like being married to a Cynster."
Honoria glanced over the thinning crowd, noting the other family members, not just the Dowager, Horatia, and Celia, but other cousins and connections. "You really do stick together."
"We're a family, my dear." Louise squeezed Honoria's arm one last time. "And we hope very much that you'll join us."
*****
"There!" Heaving a relieved sigh, Honoria propped the parchment inscribed with her brother's direction against the pigeonholes of the escritoire. Describing her doings to Michael without letting her troubled state show had proved a Herculean task. Almost as difficult as facing the fact that she might be wrong-and that Devil, the Dowager, Michael, and everyone else might be right.
She was in the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. The windows on either side of the fireplace overlooked the courtyard below. Propping her elbow on the desk, she put her chin in her hand and stared outside.
Eight years ago she'd suffered her loss; seven years ago she'd made up her mind never to risk losing again. Until three days past, she hadn't reviewed that decision-she'd never had reason to do so. No man, no circumstance, had been strong enough to force a reevaluation.
Three days ago, everything had changed. Lady Osbaldestone's sermon had shaken her, setting the consequences of refusing Devil firmly in her mind.
Louise and the twins had compounded her uncertainty, showing her how close to the family she'd already become.
But the most startling revelation had been the image evoked by Louise, the image she'd resurrected in every spare moment since-the image of Devil and their child.
Her fear of loss was still there, very real, very deep; to lose again would be devastating-she'd known that for eight years. But never before had she truly wanted a child. Never before had she felt this driving need-a desire, a want, that made her fear seem puny, something she could, if she wished, brush aside.
The strength of that need was unnerving-not something she could readily explain. Was it simple maternal desire gaining strength because Devil would be so protective, that, because he was so wealthy, their child would have every care? Was it because, as Cynsters, both she and their child would be surrounded by a loving, supportive clan? Or was it be cause she knew that being the mother of Devil's child would give her a position no other could ever have?
If she gave Devil a child, he would worship at her feet.
Drawing a deep breath, she stood and walked to the window, gazing unseeing at the weeping cherry, drooping artistically in the courtyard. Was wanting Devil, wanting him in thrall, the reason she wanted his child? Or had she simply grown older, become more of a woman than she had been at seventeen? Or both? She didn't know. Her inner turmoil was all-consuming, all-confusing; she felt like an adolescent finally waking up, but compared to growing up this was worse.
A knock on the door startled her. Straightening, she turned. "Come!"
The door swung inward; Devil stood on the thresh
old. One black brow rose; inherently graceful, he strolled into the room. "Would you care for a drive, Honoria Prudence?"
Honoria kept her eyes on his, refusing all other distractions. "In the park?"
His eyes opened wide. "Where else?"
Honoria glanced at her letter, in which she'd carefully skirted the truth. It was too early to make any admission-she wasn't yet sure where she stood. She looked at Devil. "Perhaps you could frank my letter while I change?"
He nodded. Honoria moved past him; without a backward glance, she retreated to her bedchamber.
Ten minutes later, clad in topaz twill, she returned to find him standing before one window, hands behind his back, her letter held between his long fingers. He turned as she approached. As always, whenever he saw her anew, his gaze swept her, possessively, from head to toe.
"Your letter." He presented the folded parchment with a flourish.
Honoria took it, noting the bold black script decorating one corner. It was, she would swear, the same script that had adorned the note Celestine had, so opportunely, received.
"Come. Webster will put it in the post."
As they traveled the long corridors, Honoria inwardly frowned. Celestine had not sent in her bill. It was over a week since the last gowns had arrived.
With her letter entrusted into Webster's care, they headed for the park, Sligo, as usual, up behind. Their progress down the fashionable avenue was uneventful beyond the usual smiles and nods; her appearance in Devil's curricle no longer created any great stir.
As they left the main knot of carriages, Honoria shifted-and glanced frowningly at Devil. "What are they going to say when I don't marry you?" The question had been bothering her for the past three days.
The look he shot her matched her own. "You are going to marry me."
"But what if I don't?" Honoria stubbornly fixed her gaze on his equally stubborn profile. "You ought to start considering that." The ton could be quite vicious; until Lady Osbaldestone's sermon, she'd viewed him as an adversary comfortably impervious to the slings and arrows of society. Her ladyship had changed her perspective; she was no longer comfortable at all. "I've warned you repeatedly that I'm unlikely to change my mind."
His sigh was full of teeth-gritted impatience. "Honoria Prudence, I don't give a damn what anyone says except you. And all I want to hear from you is 'Yes.' And as for our wedding, its occurrence is far more likely than you getting within sight of Cairo, let alone the Great Sphinx!"
His accents left no doubt that the subject was closed. Honoria stuck her nose in the air and stared haughtily down at a group of innocent passersby.
Grim silence reined until, the turn accomplished, they headed back toward the fashionable throng. Slanting a glance at Devil's set face, Honoria heard Lady Osbaldestone's words: make it work. Was it possible? Fixing her gaze in the distance, she airily inquired: "Was Tolly particularly good at hiding his feelings?"
Devil stared at her-she could feel his green gaze, sharp and penetrating; stubbornly, she kept her face averted. The next instant, they were drawing in to the verge. The carriage rocked to a halt; Sligo rushed to the horses' heads.
"Hold 'em-wait here." With that terse command, Devil tied off the reins, stood, stepped past her, and jumped to the ground. Fluidly, he turned and plucked her from the seat. Ignoring her gasp, he set her on her feet, hauled her hand through his arm, and strode off across the lawn.
Honoria hung on to her hat. "Where are we going?"
Devil shot her a black glance. "Somewhere we can talk freely."
"I thought you said Sligo was half-deaf?"
"He is-others aren't." Devil scowled discouragingly at a party of young people. The fashionable throng was rapidly thinning, left behind in their wake. "Anyway, Sligo knows all about Tolly and our search."
Honoria's eyes narrowed-then flew wide. The rhododendron walk loomed ahead. "I thought you said we were to observe the strictures?"
"Wherever possible," Devil growled, and whisked her into the deserted walk. Screened by the thick bushes, he halted and swung to face her. "Now!" Eyes narrowed, he captured her gaze. "Why the devil do you want to know if Tolly was a dab hand at hiding his feelings?"
Chin up, Honoria met his gaze-and tried not to notice how very big he was. He was tall enough and broad enough to screen her completely-even if someone strolled up on them, all they would see of her was a wisp of skirt. She tipped her chin higher. "Was he-or wasn't he?"
The eyes boring into hers were crystal-clear, his gaze sharp as a surgeon's knife. She saw his jaw clench; when he spoke, his voice was a deep feral growl. "Tolly couldn't dissemble to save himself. He never learned the knack."
"Hmm." Honoria shifted her gaze to the bushes.
"Why did you want to know?"
She shrugged. "I just…" She glanced up-her glib reply died on her lips, slain by the look in his eye. Her heart leapt to her throat; determinedly, she swallowed it. "I just thought it was of interest that he spent the evening before he was shot playing with his brother and sisters, apparently in excellent spirits." Elevating her nose, she let her gaze drift over the glossy green leaves.
Devil stared at her. "He did?"
Honoria nodded. Silence stretched; eyes on the bushes, she waited, barely breathing. She could feel his gaze, still intense, on her face; she knew when he looked away. Then, with a deep resigned sigh that seemed to come from his boots, he set her hand back on his sleeve, and turned her along the walk. "So-tell me-what have you learned?"
It wasn't the most gracious invitation to collusion, but Honoria decided it would do. "The twins mentioned their last dinner with Tolly when I saw them on Wednesday." Strolling beside him down the secluded walk, she related the twins' description. "I had the impression Tolly and the twins were close. If he was agitated, even if he was trying to hide it, I would have thought they'd have noticed."
Devil nodded. "They would have-they're as sharp as tacks." He grimaced. "Uncle Arthur told me Tolly went there for dinner. He gave me the impression Tolly was somewhat reserved. I'd forgotten how young men react to their fathers-it was probably no more than that."
He fell silent, pacing slowly down the serpentine path; Honoria held her tongue, content to let him ponder her findings. Although he walked by her side, she felt surrounded by his strength. What had Louise said? Unfailingly protective? That was, she had to admit, a comforting trait.
Eventually the rhododendrons ended; the walk debouched onto a wide sweep of lawn. "Your information," Devil said, as they stepped clear of the walk, "narrows the field rather drastically."
"Whatever Tolly learned, whatever sent him to find you, he must have stumbled on it after he left the family that evening." She looked up and saw Devil grimace. "What is it?"
He glanced at her, lips thin, his gaze considering. Then he answered. "Tolly's man went home to Ireland before we could talk to him. He'll know if Tolly was in the boughs when he came in that night." Honoria opened her mouth. "And yes-we're tracking him down. Demon's over there now."
Honoria glanced around, noting the many nursemaids and governesses, charges in tow, dotted across the lawn. "Where are we?"
Devil stopped. "In the nursery section. The rhododendrons keep the darlings out of sight and sound of their fond mamas." He half turned to retrace their steps-an earsplitting cry rent the peace.
"Deyyyyyyyy-vil!"
All heads turned their way, most displaying disapproving expressions. Devil turned back in time to catch Simon as he flung himself against his cousin.
"Hello! Didn't'spect to see you here!"
"I didn't expect to see you either," Devil returned. "Make your bow to Honoria Prudence."
Simon promptly complied. Smiling in return, Honoria noted the boy's ruddy cheeks and bright eyes, and marveled at the resilience of youth. She looked up as two women, the twins, Henrietta, and little Mary came bustling up in Simon's wake. Devil made her known to Mrs. Hawlings, the younger girls' nurse, and Miss Pritchard, the twins' governess.
> "We'd thought to take advantage of the weather while we may," Mrs. Hawlings explained. "The fogs and rains will be here soon enough."
"Indeed." Honoria saw Devil draw Simon aside. She could guess the subject under discussion. Left to deal with-or was that distract?-the governess and nurse, she exchanged polite nothings with a facility born of long practice. The expectant look in the twins' bright eyes as they glanced from her to Devil and back again did not escape her. She could only be thankful they did not voice the question clearly exercising their minds.
The sun found a chink in the clouds and beamed down; the twins and Henrietta fell to weaving daisy chains. Little Mary, her fingers too plump to manage the slim stems, sat beside her sisters on the grass, big blue eyes studying first the three women chatting nearby, then Devil, still talking to Simon. After a long, wide-eyed scrutiny, she picked up her doll and, on sturdy legs, stumped up to Honoria's side.
Honoria didn't know she was there until she felt a small hand slip into hers. Startled, she glanced down. Mary looked up and smiled-confidently, openly trusting-then tightened her pudgy-fingered grip and, looking back at her sisters, leaned against Honoria's legs.
It took all Honoria's years of practice to preserve her composure, to look back at Mrs. Hawlings and Miss Pritchard and continue to converse as if nothing had happened. As if there wasn't a hot, soft hand snuggled into hers, as if there wasn't a soft weight propped against her legs, a soft cheek pressed against her thigh. Luckily, neither woman knew her well enough to know that her expression was not normally so blank.
Then Devil strolled up, one hand on Simon's shoulder. He saw Mary and glanced at Honoria. She kept her expression bland, determinedly uninformative under his sharp-eyed scrutiny; he looked down and held out a hand. Mary dropped Honoria's hand and went to him. Devil swung her up in his arms; Mary clung and snuggled her head down on his shoulder.
Honoria breathed deeply, her gaze locked on little Mary clinging close; the emotions rolling through her, sharp need, poignant desire swamping all fear, left her giddy.
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