Devil's Bride (13 page)

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 walk.”

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.

She lost patience before they reached it. “What steps are you taking to apprehend your cousin's killer?”

“The matter will be dealt with—rest assured of that.”

He felt her glare. “That's not what I asked.”

“That is, however, all the answer you need.”

She stiffened, then sweetly inquired: “Has anyone informed you, Your Grace, that you are without doubt the most arrogant man in Christendom?”

“Not in those precise words.”

The comment robbed her of speech long enough for him to lead her up the summerhouse steps. He halted in the pavillion's center, releasing her. Shafts of moonlight streaked the floor, patterned with the shadows of the leaves. Through the dimness, he saw her breasts swell.

“
Be
that as it may—”

Honoria's words ended on a half squeak; one instant, her tormentor was standing, loose-limbed and relaxed, before her—the next, long fingers had firmed about her chin. And he was suddenly much closer. “What are you
doing
?” Her eyes had flown wide; she was breathless. She didn't try to free her chin; his grip felt unbreakable.

His lids lifted; his eyes, even paler in the weak light, met hers. “Distracting you.”

His deep murmur was certainly distracting; Honoria felt it in her bones. Other than on her chin, he wasn't touching her, yet she felt herself sliding into his hold. He drew her upward and she stretched, her head tilting further; her heart tripped, then started to race. His eyes held hers, mesmerizing in the moonlight, ageless, seductive, all-knowing. His head slowly lowered—her lips softened, parted.

She could not have pulled back had the heavens fallen.

The first touch of his lips sent an aching shudder through her; his arms immediately closed about her, drawing her against him. Hardness surrounded her; muscles with less give than steel caged her. His head angled; the pressure of his lips increased.

They were hard, like the rest of him—commanding, demanding; a heartbeat later they were warm, enticing, seductively persuasive. Honoria stilled, quivering, on some invisible threshold—then he tugged and she plunged forward, into the unknown.

It was not the first time she'd been kissed, yet it was. Never before had there been magic in the air, never before had she been taken by the hand and introduced to a world of sensation. Pleasure rose, warm and enthralling, then whirled through her, a kaleidoscope of delight, leaving her giddy. Pleasurably giddy.

What little breath she managed to catch, he took, weaving his web until she was caught beyond recall. The tip of his tongue traced her lips, a beguilingly artful caress. She knew she'd be wise to ignore it; he was leading her into realms beyond her knowledge, where he would be her guide. A most unwise situation—a dangerous situation.

His lips firmed; heat welled, melting all resistance. On a sigh, she parted her lips farther, yielding to his arrogant demand.

He took what he wanted—the intimate caress sent sensation streaking through her, a bolt of lightning striking to her core. Shocked, Honoria drew back on a gasp.

He let her retreat—just so far. Stunned, her wits reeling, she searched his face. One black brow slowly arched; his arms tightened.

“No.” Honoria braced against his hold—or tried to; her muscles had the consistency of jelly.

“There's no need to panic—I'm only going to kiss you.”

Only?
Honoria blinked wildly. “That's bad enough. I mean—” She hauled in a breath and tried to focus her wayward wits. “You're dangerous.”

He actually chuckled; the sound shredded her hard-won control—she shivered.

“I'm not dangerous to you.” His hands stroked soothingly, seductively, down her back. “I'm going to marry you. That puts the shoe on the other foot.”

Had her wits been completely addled? Honoria frowned. “What shoe—and which foot?”

His teeth gleamed. “According to all precepts, Cynster wives are the only beings on earth of whom Cynster men need be wary.”

“Really?” He was pulling her leg. Honoria tried to whip up her indignation, an impossible task given he had bent his head and was gently nibbling her lips.

“Just kiss me.” He whispered the words against her lips as he drew her hard against him. The contact set her nerves quivering again; his lips, lightly teasing, left her mind in no state to quibble.

Devil kissed her again, waiting with the patience of one who knew, until she yielded completely. Her melting surrender was all the more sweet, knowing as he did that she would prefer it was otherwise. Too wise, too experienced, he did not push her too far, keeping a tight rein on his passions. She lay softly supple in his arms, her lips his to enjoy, the sweet cavern of her mouth his to taste, to plunder, to claim; for tonight, that would have to be enough.

He would much rather have claimed her—taken her to his bed and filled her, celebrated life in that most fundamental of ways—a natural response to death's presence. But she was innocent—her skittering reactions, her quiescence, spoke to him clearly. She would be his and his alone—but not yet.

The reality of his need impinged fully on his mind; Devil mentally cursed. Her softness, pressed from breast to thigh against him, was a potent invocation, feeding his demons, calling them, inciting them. He drew back; chest swelling, he studied her face, wondering . . . even while he shackled his desires. Her eyes glinted beneath her lashes.

Her mind still adrift, Honoria let her gaze roam his face. There was no softness in his features, no hint of gentleness, only strength and passion and an ironclad will. “I am not going to marry you.” The words went directly from her brain to her lips—an instinctive reaction.

He merely raised a brow, irritatingly supercilious.

“I'm going to send for my brother tomorrow to come and escort me home.”

His eyes, silver in the night, narrowed fractionally. “Home—as in Hampshire?”

Honoria nodded. She felt unreal, out of touch with the world.

“Write a note for your brother—I'll frank it tomorrow.”

She smiled. “And I'll put it in the post myself.”

He smiled back—she had a premonition he was laughing at her though his chest, so close, was not quaking. “By all means. We'll see what he thinks of your decision.”

Honoria's smile turned smug; she felt quite lightheaded. He, Cynster that he was, thought Michael would support his cause. Michael, of course, would agree with her—he would see, as instantly as she had, that for her, marrying Devil Cynster was not a good idea.

“And now, if we've settled your immediate future to your satisfaction . . .” His lips brushed hers; instinctively, Honoria tracked them.

A twig cracked.

Devil raised his head, every muscle tensing. He and Honoria looked out into the night; the sight that met their incredulous eyes had him straightening. “What the . . . ?”

“
Sssh!
” Honoria pressed her hand to his lips.

He frowned and caught her hand, but remained silent as the small procession drew nearer, then passed the summer-house. Through moonlight and shadow, Amelia, Amanda and Simon led the little band. Henrietta, Eliza, Angelica and Heather with Mary in tow followed. Each child carried a white rose. Devil's frown deepened as the dense shadow of the trees swallowed them; of their destination there could be little doubt. “Wait here.”

Honoria stared at him. “You must be joking.” She picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps.

He was on her heels as they slipped from shadow to shadow, trailing the small band. The children halted before Tolly's freshly filled grave. Honoria stopped in the deep shadows beneath an oak; Devil stopped behind her. Then his hands gripped her waist; he lifted her to put her aside.

She twisted in his hold and flung herself against him. “
No!
” Her furious whisper made him blink. Her hands gripping his shoulders, she whispered: “You mustn't!”

He frowned at her, then lowered his head so he could whisper in her ear: “Why the hell not? They're not frightened of me.”

“It's not that!” Honoria frowned back. “You're an adult—not one of them.”

“So?”

“So this is their moment—their time to say good-bye. Don't spoil it for them.”

He searched her face, then his lips thinned. Lifting his head, he looked at the contingent lined up at the foot of the grave but made no further move to join them.

Honoria wriggled and he let her go; she turned to watch. The chill beneath the trees penetrated her thin gown—she shivered. The next instant, Devil's arms came around her, drawing her back against him. Honoria stiffened, then gave up and relaxed, too grateful for his warmth to quibble.

A conference had taken place at the graveside; now Amelia stepped forward and threw her rose on the mound. “Sleep well, Tolly.”

Amanda stepped up. “Rest in peace,” she intoned, and flung her rose to join her twin's.

Next came Simon. “Good-bye, Tolly.” Another rose landed on the grave.

One by one, the children added their roses to the small pile, each bidding Tolly farewell. When they were done, they looked at each other, then re-formed their procession and hurried back to the house.

Honoria held Devil back until the children passed by. He sent her an unreadable, distinctly Cynster look when she finally let him loose, then took her hand; together, they trailed the children back to the lawn.