Devil's Bride (17 page)

His hand closed over her breast.

The shock of his touch, of the sliding caress of long, strong fingers, was muted by the cambric of her carriage dress. There was nothing to mute the shock of her reaction—like lightning it speared through her, incandescent fire arcing through her veins. Beneath his hand, her breast swelled; her nipple had tightened to a firm bud even before his fingers found it. Honoria tried to gasp, but he was still kissing her; in desperation, she took her breath from him—and discovered that she could.

His fingers stroked, gently kneaded, and her abandoned senses sang. While the warmth of his caresses spread through her, heating her, heightening the melting sensation deep inside, Honoria mastered the art of breathing through their kiss—suddenly, she was no longer so giddy.

Suddenly she could think enough to know what she felt. Enough to appreciate the quivering excitement that held her, the thrill of anticipation that invested every nerve, every square inch of her skin. Enough to recognize the desire that thrummed heavily in her veins—the compulsion to actively return his kiss, to draw his hard body to hers, to invite, incite—do whatever she could—to quench and fill the molten void within her.

The knowledge rocked her, shocked her—and gave her the strength to draw back.

Devil sensed her withdrawal. Beneath his hand, her breast was hot and swollen, the furled bud of her nipple a hard button against his palm. Yet her retreat was obvious—in their kiss, in the sudden sinking of her senses. He knew women too well, too thoroughly, to miss the battle she waged—the battle to block her own inclination, to suppress the desire that had welled within her in answer to his need.

Inwardly, he cursed; she was causing him no end of pain. He was sorely tempted to open her bodice and slide his hand in—to show her what that would do to her, what more there was yet to come. But her innocence was a cross he'd steeled himself to bear—the knowledge that he would be the one to school her in love's ways, the only man she would ever know intimately, was a powerful inducement.

She was no prude—she was attracted to him at a level so deep it excited him just to know it. She was ripe for seduction, by him; she would be his—his wife—there was no way he'd let her escape him. Raising his head, he watched as her lids fluttered, then rose, revealing misty grey eyes still silvered with passion. He trapped her gaze. “I should warn you that I've made myself four promises.”

His voice, deepened by passion, gravelly with frustration, rumbled between them. Honoria blinked dazedly; Devil suppressed a feral grin. “I'm going to enjoy watching your face the first time I pleasure you.” Dipping his head, he brushed her lips with his. “And the second and third time as well.”

He drew back—Honoria's eyes were wide, startled. “Pleasure . . . ?”

“When I make that molten heat inside you explode.”

“
Explode
?”

“In a cataclysmic starburst.” Devil tightened the fingers that still lay about her breast, then let them slide in a languid caress, his thumb circling her ruched nipple. A quivering shiver raced through her. Deliberately, he caught her eye. “Trust me—I know all about it.”

She searched his eyes, her own widening; suddenly, she drew a breath.

“And,” Devil said, bending to taste her lips again, cutting off whatever she'd thought to say, “my fourth promise will be the culminating event.”

He drew back and watched her debate her next move; eventually, she cleared her throat and asked: “What else have you promised yourself?”

Devil's face hardened. “That I'll be watching your face as I fill you, as you take me inside you, as you give yourself to me.”

Honoria stilled—it took all her strength to suppress her reaction, a flaring impulse to passion and possession, a lancing desire so thrillingly vital, so compelling it literally stole her breath. The unexpected insight—into herself, into what might be—was shocking. Most shocking of all was the fact it didn't scare her. But she knew where her future lay—it couldn't be with him. Her eyes locked on his, she shook her head. “It won't happen. I'm not marrying you.”

She pushed against him; he hesitated, then drew back, letting her sit up. The instant she did, his fingers closed about her chin; he turned her to face him. “Why not?”

Honoria looked into his narrowed eyes, then haughtily lifted her chin from his hold. “I have my reasons.”

“Which are?”

She shot him a resigned glance. “Because you are who you are for a start.”

His frown turned black. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Honoria struggled to her feet—instantly, his hand was there to help. He followed her up. She bent and picked up the rug. “You're a tyrant, an unmitigated autocrat, utterly used to your own way. But that's beside the point.” The folded rug in her arms, she faced him. “I have no ambition to wed—not you, not any man.”

She met his gaze and held it; he continued to frown. “Why not?” The demand, this time, was less aggressive.

Honoria swiped up her parasol and started toward the curricle. “My reason is my own and not one I need share with you.” He was a duke—dukes required heirs. Reaching the curricle, she glanced back—basket in hand, he was trailing in her wake, his expression frowningly intent. When he stopped in front of her, she looked him in the eye. “Please understand, I
won't
change my mind.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then he reached for the rug, tossed it into the boot, and swung the basket after it. Letting down the flap, he followed her to the side of the carriage. Honoria turned and waited; she caught her breath as his hands slid about her waist.

They firmed, but he didn't lift her. Suddenly breathless, Honoria looked up—into crystal green eyes that belonged to a conqueror.

He held her, held her gaze, for a full minute, before saying: “We have a standoff, it seems, Honoria Prudence.”

Honoria attempted a look of hauteur. “Indeed?”

His lips lengthened, compressed to a line. “Indeed—for I have
no intention
of changing my mind, either.”

For one finite instant, Honoria met his gaze, then she raised her brows and looked away.

Jaw clenched, Devil lifted her to the carriage seat, then followed her up. A minute later, they were back on the road; he let his horses have their heads, the whipping wind soothing his overheated brain. Possessiveness had never gripped him so hard, never sunk its talons so deep. Fate had given her to him, to have and to hold. He would have her—take her to wife—there was no alternative.

She had a reason, she said—one she wouldn't tell him. So he'd find out and eradicate it. It was that or go mad.

“Y
es?” entered the library. Devil looked up from a ledger as Webster

“Chatham just rode in, Your Grace—the gentleman you were expecting is waiting as directed.”

“Good.” Shutting the ledger, Devil stood. “Where is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?”

“I believe she's in the rose garden, Your Grace.”

“Excellent.” Devil headed for the door. “I'm going riding, Webster. I'll be back in an hour with our guest.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Two grooms ran up as Devil strode into the stable yard. “Saddle up the bay and get Melton to saddle Sulieman.”

“Ah—we've not sighted Melton since early, Y'r Grace.”

Devil raised his eyes to the skies. “Never mind—I'll get Sulieman. You fig out the bay.”

When he led Sulieman into the yard, the bay was waiting. Mounting, Devil accepted the bay's reins and rode out. Six days had passed since Honoria had dispatched her summons to her brother.

Cresting a low rise, he saw a carriage halted in the road ahead, one of his grooms chatting to the coachman. Beside the carriage, a gentleman paced impatiently. Devil's eyes narrowed, then he sent Sulieman down the road.

The gentleman glanced up at the sound of hooves. He straightened, head rising, chin tilting to an angle Devil recognized instantly. Drawing rein, he raised a brow. “Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, I presume?”

The answering nod was curt. “St. Ives.”

Michael Anstruther-Wetherby was in his mid-twenties, of athletic build, with the same steady assurance, the same directness, that characterized his sister. Used to sizing men up in an instant, Devil rapidly readjusted his image of his prospective brother-in-law. Honoria's smugness had painted her brother as weaker than she, perhaps lacking the true Anstruther-Wetherby character. Yet the man eyeing him straitly, challenge and skepticism very clear in his blue eyes, had a decidedly purposeful chin. Devil smiled. “I believe we have matters to discuss. I suggest we take a ride beyond the reach of interruptions.”

The blue eyes, arrested, held his, then Michael nodded. “An excellent idea.” He reached for the bay's reins, then he was in the saddle. “If you can
guarantee
no interruptions, you'll have achieved a first.”

Devil grinned, and set course for a nearby hillock. He halted on the crest; Michael drew up alongside. Devil glanced his way. “I've no idea what Honoria wrote, so I'll start at the beginning.”

Michael nodded. “That might be wise.”

Gazing over his fields, Devil outlined the events leading to Honoria's presence at the Place. “So,” he concluded, “I've suggested that getting married is appropriate.”

“To you?”

Devil's brows flew. “Whom else did you have in mind?”

“Just checking.” Michael's grin surfaced briefly, then he sobered. “But if that's the case, why have I been summoned to escort her to Hampshire?”

“Because,” Devil replied, “your sister imagines she's so long in the tooth that a reputation is neither here nor there. She plans to be the next Hester Stanhope.”

“Oh, lord!” Michael cast his eyes heavenward. “She's not
still
set on Africa, is she?”

“It's her dearest wish, so I've been informed, to ride in the shadow of the Sphinx, pursued, no doubt, by a horde of Berber chieftains, then to fall victim to Barbary Coast slave traders. I understand she believes she's starved of excitement and the only way she'll get any is to brave the wilds of Africa.”

Michael looked disgusted. “I'd hoped she'd grown out of that by now. Or that some gentleman would appear and give her mind a new direction.”

“As to the first, I suspect she'll grow more determined with age—she is, after all, an Anstruther-Wetherby, a family renowned for its stubbornness. But as to giving her mind a new direction, I already have that in hand.”

Michael looked up. “Has she agreed to marry you?”

“Not yet.” Devil's expression hardened. “But she will.”

There was an instant's silence, then Michael asked: “Free of any coercion?”

Devil's eyes met his; one brow lifted superciliously. “Naturally.”

Michael studied Devil's eyes, then his features relaxed. He looked out over the fields; Devil waited patiently. Eventually, Michael looked his way. “I'll admit I would be glad to see Honoria safely wed, especially to a man of your standing. I won't oppose the match—I'll support it however I can. But I won't agree to pressure her into any decision.”

Devil inclined his head. “Aside from anything else your sister is hardly a biddable female.”

“As you say.” Michael's gaze turned shrewd. “So what do you want of me?”

Devil grinned. “My brand of persuasion doesn't work well at a distance. I need Honoria to remain within reach.” With a gesture, he indicated that they should ride on, and touched his heels to Sulieman's flanks.

Michael cantered alongside. “If Honoria's set on returning home, I'll need some reason to gainsay her.”

Devil shot him a glance. “Is she her own mistress?”

“Until she's twenty-five, she's in my care.”

“In that case,” Devil said, “I have a plan.”

By the time they cantered into the stable yard, Michael was entirely comfortable with his brother-in-law to be. It appeared that his sister, usually an irresistible force, had finally met a sufficiently immovable object. He matched his stride to Devil's as they headed for the house.

“Tell me,” Devil said, his gaze roving the house, checking for impending interruptions. “Has she always been frightened of storms?”

He glanced at Michael in time to see him wince.

“They still make her twitch?”

Devil frowned. “Rather more than that.”

Michael sighed. “Hardly surprising, I suppose—I still get edgy myself.”

“Why?”

Michael met his eyes. “She told you our parents were killed in a carriage accident?”

Devil searched his memory. “That they were killed in an accident.”

“There was rather more to it than that.” Michael drew a deep breath. “Neither Honoria nor I are frightened of storms—at least, we weren't. On that day, our parents took the other two for a drive.”