Devil's Bride (44 page)

The idea that he was irritated because his wife was so busy organizing her ball that she had no time for him did not sit well—yet denying his jealousy, the waiting, the wanting to be with her, was pointless. Even now, he could feel the black emotion roiling inside. Yet he had no justifiable cause for complaint. Duchesses were supposed to give balls. Honoria was behaving precisely as a wife should—she'd made no awkward demands, no requests for attention he didn't wish to give. She hadn't even accepted the attention he'd been only too willing to bestow.

That fact rankled. Deeply.

Frowning, Devil shook his shoulders. He was being unreasonable—he'd no right to expect his wife to be different, to comport herself by some different code—one he couldn't, even now, define. Yet that was precisely what he did want, the desire at the heart of his dissatisfaction.

Unbidden, his mind conjured up that moment when, in his woodsman's cottage, she'd leaned against him. He'd looked down, seen the warmth and understanding in her eyes, and felt her weight, soft and womanly, against him. And realized just how much he now had that Tolly would never have, never have a chance to experience.

He drew a deep breath; the crisp cold sang through his veins. He wanted Honoria—had wanted her from the first—but his want was not quite what he'd thought it. The physical want, the possessive want, the protective want, the need for her loyalty, her commitment—all these he'd fulfilled. What remained?

Something, certainly—something strong enough, powerful enough, to unsettle him, to obsess him, to undermine effortlessly his normally unassailable control. Something beyond his experience.

Brows quirking, he examined that conclusion and could not fault it. Lips firming, he took up his reins. He wasn't going to get any real peace until he fulfilled this want, too.

Both he and the chestnut had cooled. Leaning forward, he patted the horse's sleek neck and dug in his heels. The chestnut obediently stepped out, shifting fluidly into a loping canter.

The bark of the tree before which they'd stood splintered. The sound reached Devil; glancing back, he saw the fresh lesion in the trunk, level with his chest. In the same instant, a telltale “cough” reached his ears.

He didn't stop to investigate; he didn't rein in until he reached the park gate where others were now gathering for their morning ride.

Devil halted to let the chestnut settle. Guns were not permitted in the park. The keepers were exempt, but what would they shoot at—squirrels?

The chestnut had calmed; deadly calm himself, Devil headed back to Grosvenor Square.

The duchess of St. Ives's impromptu ball was an extravagant success. Held, not in the large ballroom, but in the relative intimacy of the music room, the evening overflowed with laughter, dancing, and an easy gaiety not often encountered within the rigid confines of the
ton
.

Many present, of course, were related; the rest were longstanding acquaintances. The tone was set from the first, when the duke and duchess led the company in a vigorous, breathless waltz. All hundred guests took the hint, setting themselves to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere, the champagne that flowed freely, the excellent supper and the similarly excellent company. Some five hours after the first had arrived, the last guests, weary but smiling, took their leave. Webster shut the front door, then set the bolts.

In the center of the hall, Devil looked down at Honoria, leaning on his arm. Lights still danced in her eyes. He smiled. “A signal success, my dear.”

Honoria smiled back, resting her head against his arm. “It went very well, I think.”

“Indeed.” His hand over hers where it lay on his sleeve, Devil turned her toward the library. It had become their habit to end their evenings there, sipping brandy, exchanging comments. They halted on the threshold; footmen and maids were clearing glasses and straightening furniture. Devil glanced at Honoria. “Perhaps, tonight, we should take our drinks upstairs.”

Honoria nodded. Devil accepted a lighted candelabrum from Webster; together they started up the stairs.

“Amelia and Amanda were exhausted.”

“For quite the first time in their lives.”

Honoria smiled fondly. “They danced every dance bar the waltzes. And they would have danced those if they could have.” Glancing up, she noted the slight frown marring her husband's handsome countenance; looking forward, she inwardly grinned. The twins' presence had triggered an intriguing reaction in their male cousins—repressive looks had been
de rigueur
. She could foresee certain interesting scenes as the Season unfolded.

The thought reminded her of another interesting scene, one in which she'd participated. “Incidentally, I give you fair warning, I will not again invite Chillingworth if you behave as you did tonight.”

“
Me
?” The look of innocence Devil sent her would have done credit to a cherub. “
I
wasn't the one who started it.”

Honoria frowned. “I meant both of you—
he
was no better.”

“I could hardly let him get away with casting a slur on my ability to satisfy you.”

“He
didn't!
It was you who twisted his words that way.”

“That was what he meant.”

“Be that as it may, you didn't have to inform him that I—” Honoria broke off, cheeks flaming—again. She caught the gleam in Devil's green eyes. Pulling her hand from under his, she pushed him away; he didn't even stagger. “You're
incorrigible
.” Lifting her skirts, she climbed the last stairs. “I don't know why you insisted on inviting him when all the conversation you exchanged was a litany of thinly veiled insults.”

“
That's
why.” Retaking her arm, Devil drew it through his as they crossed the gallery. “Chillingworth's the perfect whetstone to sharpen my wit upon—his hide's as thick as a rhinoceros's.”

“Humph!” Honoria kept her chin high.

“I did let him waltz with you.”

“Only because I made it impossible for you to do otherwise.” She'd used the waltz to separate the two dueling reprobates—unsuccessfully as it transpired.

“Honoria, if I do not wish you to waltz with a particular gentleman, you won't.”

She looked up, a protest on her lips. The undercurrent beneath his words registered, she met his eye—and decided it was safer simply to humph again.

When she looked forward, Devil grinned. He'd enjoyed the evening without reservation; even the emergence of the twins as budding Aphrodites couldn't tarnish his mellow mood. As they turned toward the ducal apartments, he slid his arm about Honoria and drew her against him.

Honoria let him, enjoying his nearness. She remained puzzled by his relationship with Chillingworth. While waltzing with Vane, she'd asked his opinion; he'd smiled. “If they weren't so busy being rivals, they'd be friends.” Their rivalry, now she'd viewed it at close quarters, was not entirely facetious, yet neither was it serious. From any distance, however, they appeared deadly rivals.

“Is Charles always so subdued?” She'd noticed him watching as she waltzed with Chillingworth; his expression had been oddly blank.

“Charles? Now there's one who won't approve your innovation—unfettered gaiety was never his strong suit.”

“Your other cousins reveled in ‘unfettered gaiety.' ” Honoria cast him a pointed glance. “
Totally
unfettered.” Each one of the Bar Cynster, excepting only Devil, had disappeared from the festivities at some point, reappearing later with smug, cat-who-had-found-the-cream smiles.

Devil grinned. “Gabriel tendered his felicitations along with the firm hope that you'll make your impromptu ball a yearly event.”

Honoria opened her eyes wide. “Are there really that many accommodating ladies within the
ton
?”

“You'd be surprised,” Devil held his door wide.

Honoria threw him a speaking glance, then, nose high, swept over the threshold. But she was smiling as she glided deeper into the room, lit by a fire burning cheerily in the grate. The candelabra held high, dispelling the shadows, Devil crossed to the tallboy, setting the candlestick beside a silver tray holding a crystal decanter and two glasses.

Pouring brandy into one glass, he handed it to Honoria. Warming the glass between her hands, she waltzed to the armchair by the hearth and sank onto its well-stuffed arm. Raising the glass, she breathed in the fumes.

And froze. She blinked. Across the rim of her glass, she saw Devil grasp the second glass, half-full of amber liquid. He raised it.

“
No!
”

Her breathless shout made him turn. But the glass still rose—any second, he'd swallow his usual first gulp.

Honoria dropped her glass; it fell, amber liquid splashing across the jewel-hued rug. Vocal cords paralyzed, she flung herself at Devil, striking the glass from his grasp. It shattered against the tallboy.

“What—?” Devil lifted her, swinging her clear of the shards raining down. White-faced, Honoria clung to him, her gaze fixed on the liquid dripping down the tallboy.

“What's wrong?” Devil stared at her; when she didn't answer, he looked around, then, grasping her arms, set her from him and looked into her face. “What?”

She drew a shaky breath, then looked into his face. She gulped. “The brandy.” Her voice was weak, quavery; she hauled in another breath. “Bitter almonds.”

Devil froze—literally. The cold started at his feet and spread upward, claiming muscle after muscle until he was chilled through. His hands fell from Honoria as she pressed close, sliding her arms around him, clinging so tight he could barely breathe. Breathing, indeed, was an effort. For one instant, he stopped altogether—the instant when he realized he'd handed her a glass of poison. His gut clenched tight. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against her curls, closing his arms about her. Her perfume reached him; he tightened his hold, feeling her body, warm and alive, against his.

Suddenly, Honoria looked up, nearly hitting his chin with her head. “You were nearly
killed!
” It was an accusation. Her expression mutinous, she clutched his waistcoat, and tried to shake him. “I told you before—I
warned
you! It's
you
they're trying to kill.”

A conclusion he could hardly argue. “They didn't succeed. Thanks to you.” Devil tried to draw her back into his arms. Honoria resisted.

“You were one gulp away from death—I
saw
you!”

Her eyes were fever-bright, her cheeks flushed. Devil bit back a curse—not at her, but at his would-be murderer. “I'm not dead.”

“But you nearly
were!
” Her eyes flashed blue fire. “
How dare they?
”

Devil recognized shock when he heard it. “We're both alive.”

His calming words fell on deaf ears; Honoria swung away and started to pace. “I can't believe it!” She threw out one hand. “This is utterly
wrong!
”

Devil followed as she paced toward the bed.

“I won't allow it—I
forbid
it! You're
mine
—they can't have you.” She swung around; finding him close, she grabbed his lapels. “Do you hear?” Her eyes were silver saucers, sheened with tears. “I am
not
going to lose you, too.”

“I'm here—you won't ever lose me.” Devil slid his arms about her; she was so tense she was quivering. “Trust me.”

She searched his eyes; tears spangled her lashes.

“Hold me,” he commanded.

She hesitated, then obeyed, slowly unclenching her fists, sliding her arms about him. She rested her head against his shoulder but remained tense, taut—determined.

Framing her jaw, Devil lifted her face, looked down on pale cheeks, at eyes awash with tears, then he bent his head and kissed her set lips. “You'll never lose me,” he whispered. “I'll
never
leave you.”

A shudder rippled through her. Damp lashes lowered, Honoria lifted her face, offering her lips. Devil took them, then took her mouth. The caress lengthened, deepened, slowly, inexorably spiraling into passion. He needed her—she needed him—an affirmation of life to chase away death's specter.

Honoria drew back only long enough to wrap her arms about his neck. She clung to him, to the vibrant life enshrined in their kiss. His arms locked about her, his chest hard against her breasts, his heartbeat a heavy, repetitive thud reverberating through her. Her defensive tension shifted, transmuted; she pressed herself to him. She answered his kiss and desire rose, not in passionate frenzy, but as a swelling presence impossible to deny. Like rivers unleashed, it welled from them both, merging to a torrent, carrying all thought, all conscious will before it, impelling, compelling, not with need but with the need to give.

Neither questioned its rightness, neither attempted to fight it—a force more than strong enough to deny the deaths they'd faced. Surrendering, to it, to each other, they stripped, barely aware of the clothes they left strewn across the floor. The touch of skin against warm skin, of hands searching, of lips and tongues caressing, played on their senses, feeding the swelling crescendo.

Naked, aroused, they took to their bed, limbs twining, then parting, only to close intimately again. Soft murmurs rose, Devil's deep rumble beneath Honoria's breathless gasps. Time stretched; with freshly opened eyes and heightened senses, they learned each other anew. Devil revisted every soft curve, every square inch of Honoria's ivory skin, every fluttering pulse point, each and every erogenous zone. No less ensorcelled, Honoria rediscovered his hard body, his strength, his perception, his unfailing expertise. His commitment to her fulfilment—matched only by hers to his.

Time suspended as they explored, lavishing pleasure on each other, their murmurs transmuting to soft cries and half-suppressed groans. Only when there was no more left to give did Devil lie back, lifting Honoria over him. Straddling him, she arched and took him in, sinking slowly down, savoring every second, until he was buried deep.