Devil's Bride (37 page)

Fed by their striving bodies, by each panting breath, by each soft moan, each guttural groan, the sunburst swelled, larger, brighter, more intense.

It exploded between them—Honoria lost herself in the primal energy, all fire and light and glorious, heart-stopping sensation. Blind, she couldn't see; deaf, she couldn't hear. All she could do was feel—feel him under her hands and know he was with her, feel the warmth that filled her and know she was his, feel the emotion that held them, forged strong in the sunburst's fire—and know nothing on earth could ever change it.

The sunburst died and they drifted back to earth, to the earthly pleasures of silk sheets and soft pillows, to sleepy murmurs and sated kisses, and the comfort of each other's arms.

Devil stirred as the last candle guttered. Even before he lifted his head, he'd assimilated the fact that there was a woman, sleeping the sleep of the sated, more or less beneath him. Before he levered his shoulders away from her and looked down, he'd recalled who that woman was.

The knowledge swelled the emotion that gripped him; his gaze roved her face, gently flushed, swollen lips slightly parted. Her bare breasts rose and fell; she was deeply asleep. Triumph roared through him; smug self-satisfaction swaggered in its wake. With a grin she would probably have taken exception to, had she been in any condition to see it, he lifted from her, careful not to wake her. He'd tried to withdraw from her earlier, before he'd succumbed, but she'd clung to him fiercely and muttered an injuction he'd had insufficient strength to disobey. Despite his weight, she'd wanted to prolong their intimacy, not an aim he could argue against with any conviction.

Their intimacy had been spectacular. Superb. Sufficiently remarkable to startle even him.

He settled on his stomach, feeling her soft weight against his side. The sensation had its inevitable effect; determinedly, he ignored it. He had time and more to explore the possibilities—the rest of his life, in fact. Anticipation had replaced frustration; from the first, he'd sensed in her an underlying awareness, a sensual propensity rare in women of her kind. Now he knew it was real, he would take care to nuture it; under his tutelage, it would blossom. Then he would have time and more to reap the rewards of his control, his care, his expertise, to slake his senses in her, with her—to make her his slave.

Turning his head on the pillow, he studied her face. Lifting his hand, he brushed a stray lock from her cheek; she snuffled, then wriggled onto her side, snuggling against him, one hand searching, coming to rest on his back.

Devil stilled; the emotion that stirred within him was not one he recognized—it stole his breath and left him curiously weak. Oddly shaken. Frowning, he tried to bring it into focus, but by then it had subsided. Not left him, but sunk deep again, into the depths where such emotions dwelled.

Shaking off the sensation, he hesitated, then, very gently, slid one arm across Honoria's waist. She sighed in her sleep, and sank more heavily against him. Lips curving gently, Devil closed his eyes.

When next he awoke, he was alone in his bed. Blinking fully awake, he stared at the empty space beside him in abject disbelief. Then he closed his eyes, dropped his head back into the pillows, and groaned.

Damn the woman—didn't she know . . . ? Obviously not—it was a point of wifely etiquette on which he'd have to educate her. She wasn't supposed to leave their bed until he did—by which time she wouldn't be able to. That was the way things were. Would be. From now on.

This morning, however, he'd have to go for a long ride.

S
uccess bred success. Late the next night, as he let himself into his hall, Devil reflected on that maxim. He'd successes on more than one front to celebrate; only one major item on his personal agenda remained unfulfilled—and he was making slow progress even there.

Picking up the waiting candlestick, he headed for the library, crossing directly to his desk. A folded letter sat prominently displayed. He broke the plain seal. In the flickering candlelight, he scanned the single sheet, and the enclosures, then smiled. Heathcote Montague, his man of business, had, as usual, delivered the goods.

Devil drew the two notes of hand he'd extracted from Viscount Bromley that evening from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them on the blotter; selecting a key from his watch chain, he opened the middle drawer of the desk, revealing a stack of twelve other notes of hand bearing Brom-ley's signature. They joined the others—and the six notes discreetly bought by Montague from other gentlemen who, having observed Bromley taking a tilt at him, had been only too glad to convert the viscount's promises to hard cash.

Flicking through the stack, Devil calculated the total, then compared it with Montague's assessment of Bromley's true worth. It wasn't difficult to gauge where the viscount now stood—in the mire, well on the way to being helplessly adrift on the River Tick. Precisely where he wanted him.

With a satisfied smile, Devil placed both letter and notes back in the desk drawer, locked it, and stood. Picking up the candlestick, he left the library and headed upstairs. To celebrate one victory he'd already won.

The house lay silent about him as he strode swiftly to his room. By the time he reached his door, anticipation had dug in its spurs; he was thoroughly aroused. Opening the door, he stepped through, shutting it behind him, his eyes immediately searching the shadows of his bed.

An instant later, his fist connected with the oak panels; he swore—violently. She wasn't there.

Breathing deeply, he stood stock-still, his gaze on the undisturbed covers, struggling to free his mind of the fog of disappointment, frustration—and a nagging discomfort centerd in his chest. He needed to think. Again.

Crossing to the tallboy, he plunked the candlestick atop it; and scowled at the bed. A familiar tension took hold.

Devil swore. Closing his eyes, he uttered one, comprehensive, utterly applicable oath, then, features hardening, shrugged out of his coat. It took less than a minute to strip. Donning a robe, he glanced down at his bare feet. He hesitated, then cinched the belt of the long robe tight. Cooling his overheated blood might help. Leaving the candle wavering on his tallboy, he closed his door and strode, purposefully, down the dark corridors.

He was finished with thinking. Whatever Honoria's reasons for not being in his bed, waiting, as he'd spent the whole evening fantasizing she would be, he did not wish to know. He wasn't going to argue or even discuss it. But surely not even a well-bred, gently reared twenty-four-year-old barely ex-virgin could imagine that once was enough? That he could survive until their wedding night going on as before—not after he'd sampled her body, her passion, the challenge of her untutored wantonness?

As he marched past his ancestors, Devil cast them a narrowed-eyed look. He left the gallery, then swung left, into the corridor leading to Honoria's rooms.

And collided with a wraith in ivory satin.

She would have bounced off him but he caught her, trapping her against him. His body knew her instantly. Desire lanced painfully through him, her satin-clad curves stroking him to throbbing life as he juggled her. Her instinctive shriek never made it past a first gasp—he stopped it, sealing her lips with his.

Instantly, she relaxed, wriggling her arms free, then twining them about his neck. She pressed closer, kissing him back, flagrantly inciting. She offered her mouth—he took it rapaciously. Swaying seductively, she caressed his chest with her breasts; one arm tightening about her, Devil closed his hand about one firm mound, finding it already swollen, the peak a hard pebble against his palm.

With a gasp, she sank against him, a melting surrender so delicious it left him reeling. Her hands slid beneath his robe, searching out the muscles of his chest, fingers tangling in the crisp hair. Each touch was driven, invested with urgency, the same urgency coursing his veins.

Swallowing a guttural groan, Devil cupped her bottom and drew her hard against him. He lifted her, tilting her hips so his aching erection rode heavily against her. Suggestively, he rocked her, his tongue mimicking the rhythm; she closed her lips and held him, warm and wet, soft and slick.

The deliberate temptation, the flagrant promise in the intimate caress, set his demons raging; the gentle tug as her fingers found the tie of his robe sounded a belated alarm.

Stunned, staggered, his control in shreds, Devil couldn't summon enough strength for even an inward groan. She was going to kill him. The door to his mother's bedroom lay across the corridor.

If she'd been more experienced, he'd have been tempted to do it anyway—to set her bottom on the top of the side table by his mother's door and bury himself between her thighs. The illicit pleasure, knowing they dared not make a sound, would have wound them both tight.

But they were already tight enough—and even if she could handle the position, she would never be able to keep quiet. She'd screamed last night, more than once, an achingly sweet sound of feminine release. He wanted to hear it again—and again. Tonight. Now. But not here.

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.