Devil's Bride (39 page)

Thrilled to be involved, Amelia whisked herself off.

Devil saw her long before she reached him; Honoria felt his gaze, warm, possessively lingering, as she dealt with the continual claims on her attention. Reaching his side, she met his eyes briefly—and felt her tension tighten, felt anticipation streak through her, the spark before the flame. They'd shared a bed for four weeks, yet the thrill was still there, the sudden breathlessness, the empty ache of longing, the need to give and take. She wondered if the feeling would ever fade.

Serenely, she inclined her head, acknowledging her grandfather. At Devil's behest, they'd met briefly before leaving London; focused on her future, she'd found it unexpectedly easy to forgive the past.

“Well, Your Grace!” Leaning back, Magnus looked up at her. “Here's your brother going to stand at the next election. What d'you think about that, heh?”

Honoria looked at Michael; he answered her unvoiced question. “St. Ives suggested it.” He looked at Devil.

Who shrugged. “Carlisle was ready to put your name forward, which is good enough for me. With the combined backing of the Anstruther-Wetherbys and the Cynsters, you should be assured of a sound constituency.”

Magnus snorted. “He'll get a safe seat, or I'll know the reason why.”

Honoria grinned; stretching up, she planted a kiss on Michael's cheek. “Congratulations,” she whispered.

Michael returned her affectionate kiss. “And to you.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. “You made the right decision.”

Honoria raised a brow, but she was smiling. Turning, she met Magnus's eye. “I am come to steal my husband away, sir. It's time to cut the cake.”

“That so? Well—lead him away.” Magnus waved encouragingly. “I wouldn't want to miss witnessing this phenomenon—a Cynster in tow to an Anstruther-Wetherby.”

Honoria raised her brows. “I'm no longer an Anstruther-Wetherby.”

“Precisely.” Devil met Magnus's gaze, a conqueror's confidence in his eyes as he raised Honoria's hand to his lips. He turned to Honoria. “Come, my dear.” He gestured to the room's center. “Your merest wish is my command.”

Honoria slanted him a skeptical glance. “Indeed?”

“Indubitably.” With polished efficiency, Devil steered her through the throng. “In fact,” he mused, his voice deepening to a purr, “I'm anticipating fulfilling a goodly number of your wishes before the night is through.”

Smiling serenely, Honoria exchanged nods with the duchess of Leicester. “You're making me blush.”

“Brides are supposed to blush—didn't they tell you?” Devil's words feathered her ear. “Besides, you look delightful when you blush. Did you know your blush extends all the way—”

“
There
you are, my dears!”

To Honoria's relief, the Dowager appeared beside them. “If you'll just stand behind the cake. There's a knife there waiting.” She shooed them around the table; family and guests crowded around. Their wedding cake stood in pride of place, seven tiers of heavy fruitcake covered with marzipan and decorated with intricate lace. On the top stood a stag, pirouetting on the Cynster shield.

“Good God!” Devil blinked at the creation.

“It's Mrs. Hull's work,” Honoria whispered. “Remember to mention it later.”

“Make way! Make way!”

The unexpected commotion had all turning. Honoria saw a long thin package waved aloft. Those at the edge of the crowd laughed; comments flew. A corridor opened, allowing the messenger through. It was Lucifer, his mission to deliver the package to Vane, standing before the table opposite Devil. With exaggerated ceremony, Vane accepted the package—a sword in its scabbard—reversing it and presenting it to Devil. “Your weapon, Your Grace.”

The ballroom erupted with laughter.

His smile beyond devilish, Devil reached for the hilt. The blade—his cavalry saber—came singing from its sheath. To cheers and all manner of wild suggestions, he brandished it aloft—a piratical bucanneer in the heart of the elegant
ton
.

Then his eyes met Honoria's. One swift step and he stood behind her, his arms reaching around her. “Wrap your hands about the hilt.”

Bemused, Honoria did so, gripping the thick-ridged rod of the hilt with both hands. Devil wrapped his hands about hers—Honoria suddenly felt faint.

A deep, soft chuckle sounded in her right ear. “Just like last night.”

Last night—when he'd spent the final night of his bachelorhood with his cousins. Sighting Webster carrying a cask of brandy to the library, Honoria had resigned herself to spending her last night as a spinster alone. She'd retired to her bed and tried to fall asleep, only to discover that she'd become too used to having a large, warm, very hard body in the bed beside her. That same large, warm, very hard body had slipped quietly into her room in the small hours of the morning—and slid beneath the covers. She'd pretended to be asleep, then decided cutting off her nose to spite her face was no fun. She'd made her wishes known.

Only to be informed in a deep, sleepy chuckle, that he was too inebriated to mount her. Fiend that he was, he'd suggested she mount him—and had proceeded to teach her how. One lesson she would never forget.

Only when, utterly exhausted, sated to her toes, she'd collapsed on top of him, only to have him take control, pushing her on, possessing her so completely she had all but lost her mind, had she realized that, in keeping with the rest of their bodies, Cynster males also had hard heads. Not thick, not dense—just hard.

The memories poured through her, leaving her weak. Turning her head slightly, she met Devil's eyes—and was immensely glad she hadn't seen his smugly triumphant smile last night; she was seeing enough of it now. It took immense effort to stiffen her spine and close her hands, beneath his, about the saber's hilt, without recalling what it reminded her of. Drawing a deep breath, she poured every ounce of warning she could into her eyes, then looked at the cake. With his help, she raised the saber high.

The blade came singing down; guiding the swing, Devil drew her back, ensuring the saber cut a neat slice in each of the seven layers. Cheers and clapping erupted on all sides; ribald comments flew.

Her knees weak, Honoria fervently prayed everyone present thought those comments were the cause of her flaming cheeks. She prayed even harder that none bar the reprobate she'd married had noticed just where the rounded knob at the end of the sabre's hilt had finally come to rest. Hemmed in by the crowd behind them, they hadn't been able to move far enough back; the knobbed end of the hilt had slipped into the hollow between her thighs.

And for once, she couldn't blame him—the stillness that gripped him, the quick indrawn breath that hissed past her ear, exonerated him; he was as shaken as she. Their eyes met—were hers as nakedly wanting as his? Carefully, he drew the sword from her slackened grasp and handed it to Vane—then swiftly bent his head and brushed her lips with his. “Later.”

The whispered word was a promise; Honoria shivered and felt an answering ripple pass through him. Again their eyes met—they both blinked, both drew breath—and turned aside, putting distance between their overcharged bodies.

In a daze, Honoria did the rounds of her Anstruther-Wetherby relations—the uncles and aunts she'd never known, the cousins who now regarded her with something akin to awe. It was a relief to return to the Cynster circle, to the warm smiles, openly affectionate, to the reassuring nods and the unflagging support. She stopped beside Louise; Ar-thur stood beside her.

Arthur took Honoria's hand. “You make a fine duchess, my dear.” Despite the lines grief had etched in his face, as he raised her hand to his lips, Honoria glimpsed the debonair, devil-may-care gentleman he must once have been. “Sylvester's a lucky man.”

“I'm sure your nephew appreciates Honoria as he ought,” Louise put in from between them.

Arthur smiled—a typical, slow Cynster smile. “Never heard him described as a slow-top.” He looked past Honoria. “Ah—here's Charles.”

Honoria turned, regally acknowledging Charles as he joined them.

“And there's Lady Perry!” Louise put her hand on Ar-thur's arm. “Honoria—please excuse us. We must talk to her ladyship before she leaves.”

With a smile for Honoria and a cool “Charles” to his son, Arthur yielded to his wife's directions and steered her into the crowd.

Bowing correctly, Charles watched them go, then turned to Honoria. “I'm glad to have a moment to speak with you, Miss—” His features hardened. “Your Grace.”

Honoria didn't trust his smile. Their subsequent meetings had not allayed her first instinctive dislike. He was the only Cynster who affected her so—all the rest she instinctively liked. “I had hoped to have the pleasure of a dance with you, sir, but I believe all the dances are done.”

He raised a brow, haughty arrogance one of the few Cyns-ter traits he possessed. “I'm afraid you forget, Your Grace—I'm still in mourning.” He smoothed his black armband. “The others, of course, have forgotten Tolly, but his loss still greatly affects me.”

Biting her tongue, Honoria inclined her head. Of all the Cynsters present, only Charles and his father still wore black armbands.

“But I believe congratulations are
de rigueur
.”

Charles's odd phrasing had her regarding him in surprise. He nodded superciliously. “I'm sure you recall the substance of our earlier conversation—in light of the reservations I expressed to you then, I most sincerely hope you do not live to regret your new state.”

Honoria stiffened.

Scanning the crowd, Charles didn't notice. “But however that may be, I do wish you well—if knowing Sylvester all his life makes me hesitant as to his constancy, I ask you to believe that that circumstance in no way lessens the sincerity of my hopes for your happiness.”

“Yet, if I understand you correctly, you don't believe such happiness likely.” Honoria watched as her words sank in—slowly, Charles brought his gaze back to her face. His eyes were pale, cold, oddly expressionless.

“Your actions have been most unwise. You should not have married Sylvester.”

Quite what she would have replied to such an outrageous assertion Honoria never discovered—Amelia and Amanda, both still in alt, came rushing up in a froth of muslin skirts.

“Aunt Helena says you should move to the door—some of the guests are starting to leave.”

Honoria nodded. From the corner of her eye, she saw Charles draw back.

“By your leave, Your Grace.” With a half-bow to her and a curt nod for his half sisters, he turned on his heel and walked off.

Amanda pulled a face at his back, then linked her arm in Honoria's. “He's such a stuffy old shirt—he never enjoys anything.”

“Sententious,” Amelia pronounced, taking Honoria's other arm. “Now—where should you stand, do you think?”

The short December day drew swiftly to a close; when the clock on the stairs chimed five, it was full dark outside. Standing on the porch by Devil's side, waving the last of the carriages away, Honoria inwardly sighed. Meeting Devil's eyes, she smiled and turned back to the hall. He fell in beside her, capturing her hand, long fingers twining. Most of the family would remain until the next day; they'd retreated to the drawing room, leaving them to do the honors alone. Immediately before the door, Devil halted.

Honoria perforce halted, too, and looked up.

A slow smile greeted her. Raising her hand, Devil brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Well, my dear duchess?” With his other hand, he tipped her chin up—and up; automatically she rose on her toes.

He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, then more deeply. When he lifted his head, they were both heated once more.

Honoria blinked at him. “There's dinner yet.”

His smile deepened. “They're not expecting us to show.” He drew her across the threshold. “This is where we slip away.”

Honoria's lips formed a silent “Oh”; the hall, empty but for Webster, busy closing the door, suggested that her husband, as usual, had the procedure right. When he raised a brow, she acquiesced with a nod; calmly serene, she climbed the stairs by his side. They'd retired together often enough in the past weeks for her to feel no qualms.

A state of affairs that lasted all the way to the top of the stairs. That was when she turned right, toward the corridor that led to her rooms.

Devil's hold on her hand brought her up short. She turned in surprise—only to see him lift one brow, his gaze very green. He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Realization hit. Honoria nodded. Head high, outwardly assured, she allowed him to lead her through the gallery, into the corridor leading to the ducal apartments. Inwardly, her nerves had come alive, fluttering in ever-decreasing spirals until they tensed into knots.

It was ridiculous, she told herself, and struggled to ignore the sensation.

She'd been to the duchess's apartments only once, to approve the new color scheme—all rich creams, soft topaz, and old gold, complementing the warm patina of polished oak. Opening her door, Devil ushered her in; Honoria blinked at the blaze that greeted her.

Lighted candelabra graced the dressing table, the mantel-shelf, a chest of drawers, an escritoire against one wall, and a tantalus set before one window. In their glare, the room appeared much as she'd last seen it, with the huge, canopied bed in pride of place between the long windows. The only new items were the urn of flowers, all yellow and white, that sat upon one chest, her brushes, gleaming silver on the polished dressing table, and her nightgown of ivory silk with its matching peignoir, laid out upon the bed.

Cassie must have put it there; Honoria certainly hadn't thought of it. She wondered if the candelabra were Cassie's idea, too—then noticed Devil seemed unsurprised. Strolling into the room, drawing her with him, he stopped before the fireplace, and drew her smoothly into his arms.