The journey to Lord George Cynster’s house in Berkeley Square took a bare five minutes. Another five saw Honoria, with Devil by her side, surrounded by Cynsters. The drawing room was full of them; tall, commandingly arrogant gentlemen and briskly imperious ladies, they threw the other members of the haut ton invited to dinner into the proverbial shade.
Her gown caused a stir—she hadn’t been sure what to expect. What she received were wide smiles and nods of encouragement from the other Cynster ladies—and arrested looks from all the Cynster males. It was Lucifer who translated those looks into words. He shook his dark head at her. “You do realize, don’t you, that if Devil hadn’t snapped you up, you’d be facing a concerted siege?”
Honoria tried to look innocent.
Dinner had been moved forward to seven; the ball would start at nine. Across the sound of twenty conversations, Webster, borrowed for the occasion, announced that the meal was served.
Devil led his aunt into the dining room, leaving Honoria to be escorted thence by Vane. Remembering a like occasion, Tolly’s funeral, Honoria glanced at Vane. “Do you always stand in for him?”
The look he sent her was startled, then his lips lifted. “It would,” he murmured, with the cool hauteur that was his most notable characteristic, “be more accurate to say that we cover each other’s backs. Devil’s only a few months older than I am—we’ve known each other all our lives.”
Honoria heard the devotion beneath the smooth tones and inwardly approved. Vane led her to the chair next to Devil’s, taking the chair beside hers. Flanked by such partners, she looked forward to the dinner with unalloyed anticipation.
The conversation about her revolved about politics and the issues of the day; Honoria listened with an interest she hadn’t previously known, registering Devil’s views, reconciling them with what she knew of His Grace of St. Ives. While the second course was being served, she idly glanced around the table. And noticed the black strip about the arm of each of the Cynster cousins. Devil’s left arm was by her side; she turned her head—the black band, barely noticeable against his black coat, was level with her chin.
Looking down at her plate, she swallowed a curse.
She bided her time until they were strolling the huge ballroom, ostensibly admiring the decorative wreaths. They were sufficiently private; the ball guests were only just arriving in the hall below. As they neared the ballroom’s end, she slipped one finger beneath the black band and tugged. Devil looked down—and raised a brow.
“Why are you still wearing this?”
He met her gaze; she sensed his hesitation. Then he sighed and looked forward. “Because we haven’t yet caught Tolly’s murderer.”
Given the dearth of clues, they might never catch Tolly’s murderer; Honoria kept that thought to herself. “Is it really necessary?” She glanced at his stern profile. “Surely one little waltz won’t addle your wits?”
His lips twisted as he glanced down, but he shook his head. “I just feel . . .” His words trailed away; frowning, he looked ahead. “I’m sure I’ve forgotten something—some key—some vital clue.”
His tone made it clear he’d changed tack; Honoria followed without quibble. She could understand that he felt guilty over his inability to bring Tolly’s killer to justice; she didn’t need to hear him admit it. “Do you remember anything about this clue?”
“No—it’s the most damnable thing. I’m sure there’s something I’ve seen, something I’ve already learned, but I simply can’t fasten on it. It’s like a phantom at the edge of my vision—I keep turning my head to look but can never bring it into view.”
Frustration rang clearly in his tone; Honoria decided to change the subject. “Tell me, is Lady Osbaldestone a Cynster connection?”
Devil glanced to where her ladyship, gimlet gaze fixed on them, sat ensconced in one corner of a nearby chaise. “An exceedingly distant one.” He shrugged. “But that description covers half the ton.”
They strolled, chatting with those they came upon, their perambulation slowing as the ton rolled up, all eager to be seen at the only Cynster ball of the season. In a short half hour, the ballroom was awash with silks and satins; perfume hung heavy on the air. The sheen of curls was fractured by the sparkle and glint of jewels; hundreds of tongues contributed to the polite hum. Being on Devil’s arm guaranteed Honoria space enough to breathe; none were game to crowd her. There were, however, a definite number who, sighting her, were impelled to pay their compliments. Some, indeed, looked set to worship at her feet, even in the teeth of the very real threat of receiving a swift and well-aimed kick from her escort.
Fixed by Honoria’s side, compelled to witness her effect on other males, Devil set his jaw, and tried not to let it show. His mood was steadily turning black—not a good sign, given what he had yet to endure. He’d toyed with the idea of asking her not to dance, but she was not yet his wife. He’d transgressed once; she had, by some benign stroke of fate, consented to forgive him. He was not about to try for twice.
And she liked to dance. He knew that without asking; her attention to the music was proof enough. How he would force himself to let her waltz with some other gentleman, he did not know. He’d planned to get his cousins to stand in his place; instead, like him, they’d held to their resolution. Which left him wrestling with a rampant possessiveness he didn’t at all wish to tame.
To his disgust, the musicians appeared early. Through the inevitable squeaks and plunks, Lord Ainsworth declaimed: “My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, I would be most honored, indeed, overcome with gratification, should you consent to favor me with your hand and allow me to partner you in this measure.” His lordship capped his period with a flour-ishing bow, then looked earnestly, with almost reverent devotion, at Honoria.
Devil tensed, ruthlessly denying the urge to plant his fist in Ainsworth’s vacuous face. Tightening his hold on every wayward impulse, he steeled himself to hear Honoria’s acceptance—and to let her go without causing a scene. Honoria held out her hand; Devil felt his control quake.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her smile serene, Honoria barely touched fingers with Ainsworth. “But I won’t be dancing tonight.”
“My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, your actions bear testimony to your exquisite sensibilities. Forgive me, dear lady, for being so gauche as to even suggest . . .”
Lord Ainsworth spouted on; Devil hardly heard him. When it finally dawned that the woman on his arm was in all likelihood not listening either, he cut his lordship’s performance short. “Sorry, Ainsworth, but we must catch up with Lady Jersey.”
As Sally Jersey had a well-developed dislike of the pompous Ainsworth, his lordship did not offer to accompany them. Crestfallen, he took his leave of them; the others in their circle smiled and dispersed, many taking to the floor as the strains of a waltz filled the room.
Devil placed his hand over Honoria’s and ruthlessly drew her away. As they strolled the edge of the dance floor, their pace enough to discourage idle encounters, he searched for words, finally settling for: “There’s no reason you can’t dance.”
His tone was dark; his delivery flat. He looked down; Honoria looked up. She studied his eyes; the smile that slowly curved her lips held understanding spiced with feminine satisfaction. “Yes, there is.”
Her eyes challenged him to deny it; when he said nothing, her smile deepened and she looked ahead. “I think we should stop by Lady Osbaldestone, don’t you?”
Devil didn’t; the old tartar was guaranteed deliberately to bait him. On the other hand, he needed a major distraction. Dragging in a deep breath, he nodded, and set course for her ladyship’s chaise.
“If there was ever any doubt, that—” with a nod, Vane indicated the group about the chaise on the opposite side of the ballroom, “settles it.”
Standing beside Vane, one shoulder propped against the wall, Gabriel nodded. “Indubitably. Lady Osbaldestone hardly qualifies as a desirable interlocutor.”
Vane’s gaze was fixed on
Devil’s broad back. “I wonder what Honoria said to get him there?”
“Whatever,” Gabriel said, pausing to drain his glass, “it looks like we’ve lost our leader.”
“Have we?” Vane narrowed his eyes. “Or is he, as usual, leading the way?”
Gabriel shuddered. “What a hideous prospect.” He wriggled his broad shoulders. “That felt like someone walked over my grave.”
Vane laughed. “No point in running from fate—as our esteemed leader is wont to say. Which raises the intriguing subject of his fate. When do you think?”
Considering the tableau opposite, Gabriel pursed his lips. “Before Christmas?”
Vane’s snort was eloquent. “It damn well better be before Christmas.”
“What had better be before Christmas?”
The question had them turning; instantly, restraint entered both their expressions. “Good evening, Charles.” Gabriel nodded to his cousin, then looked away.
“We were,” Vane said, his tone mild, “discussing impending nuptials.”
“Indeed?” Charles looked politely intrigued. “Whose?”
Gabriel stared; Vane blinked. After an instant’s pause, Vane replied: “Devil’s, of course.”
“Sylvester’s?” Brow furrowing, Charles looked across the room, then his features relaxed. “Oh—you mean that old business about him marrying Miss Anstruther-Wetherby.”
“Old business?”
“Good heavens, yes.” His expression fastidious, Charles smoothed his sleeve. Looking up, he saw his cousins’ blank faces—and sighed. “If you must know, I spoke to Miss An-struther-Wetherby at some length on the matter. She’s definitely not marrying Sylvester.”
Vane looked at Gabriel; Gabriel looked at Vane. Then Vane turned back to Charles. “When did you speak to Honoria Prudence?”
Charles lifted a supercilious brow. “At Somersham, after the funeral. And I spoke with her shortly after she came up to town.”
“Uh-huh.” Vane exchanged another look with Gabriel.
Gabriel sighed. “Charles, has anyone ever pointed out to you that ladies are prone to change their minds?”
Charles’s answering glance was contemptuous. “Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is an exceedingly well-educated lady of superior sensibilities.”
“Who also happens to be exceedingly well-structured and as such is an exceedingly likely target for Devil’s attentions, in this case, honorable.” Gabriel gestured to the distant chaise. “And if you won’t believe us, just open your eyes.”
Following his gesture, Charles frowned. Honoria, her hand on Devil’s arm, leaned close to say something; Devil bent his head the better to hear her. Their stance spoke eloquently of intimacy, of closeness; Charles’s frown deepened.
Vane glanced at Charles. “Our money’s on Devil—unfortunately, we haven’t found any takers.”
“Mmm.” Gabriel straightened. “A wedding before Christmas,” he slanted a questioning glance at Vane, “and an heir before St.Valentine’s Day?”
“Now that,” Vane said, “might find us some action.”
“Yes, but which way should we jump?” Gabriel headed into the crowd.
Vane followed. “Fie on you—don’t you have any faith in our leader?”
“I’ve plenty of faith in him, but you have to admit there’s rather more to producing an heir than his sire’s performance. Come and talk to Demon. He’ll tell you . . .”
Their words faded. Left behind, Charles continued to frown, staring fixedly at the couple before Lady Osbalde-stone’s chaise.
Chapter 14
As the evening wore on, the gaiety increased. Supper was served at one o’clock. Seated beside Devil at one of the larger tables, Honoria laughed and chatted. Smiling serenely, she studied Devil’s cousins and their supper partners and knew what those ladies were feeling. The same expectation tightened her nerves, heightened her senses. Laughing at one of Gabriel’s sallies, she met Devil’s eye—and understood precisely why ladies of the ton deliberately played with fire.
The musicians summoned them back to the ballroom. The others all rose; Honoria fussed with her shawl, then untangled the ribbons of her fan. She’d intended informing Devil of her decision while sharing their first waltz; denied that opportunity, she was sure that, if she quietly suggested she had something to tell him, he would create another.
She looked up—Devil stood beside her, patient boredom in his face. She held out a hand; smoothly, he drew her to her feet. She glanced around; the supper room was empty. She turned to Devil—only to have him turn her still further, away from the ballroom. Startled, she looked up at him.
He smiled, all wolf. “Trust me.”
He led her to a wall—and opened a door concealed within the paneling. The door gave onto a minor corridor, presently deserted. Devil handed her through, then followed. Blinking, Honoria looked around; the corridor ran parallel to the ballroom, leading toward its end. “Where . . . ?”
“Come with me.” Taking her hand, Devil strode down the corridor.
As usual, she had to hurry to keep up; before she could think of a sufficiently pointed comment, they reached a set of stairs. Somewhat to her surprise, he took the downward flight. “Where are we going?” Why she was whispering she didn’t know.
“You’ll see in a minute,” he whispered back.
The stairs debouched into another corridor, parallel to the one above; Devil halted before a door near its end. Opening it, he looked in, then stepped back and handed her over the threshold.
Pausing just inside, Honoria blinked. Behind her, the lock clicked, then Devil led her down three shallow stone steps and onto a flagged floor.
Eyes wide and widening, Honoria gazed about. Huge panes of glass formed half the roof, all of one wall and half of each sidewall. Moonlight, crystal white, poured in, illuminating neatly trimmed orange trees in clay pots, set in two semicircles about the room’s center. Slipping her hand from Devil’s, she entered the grove. In the moonlight, the glossy leaves gleamed; she touched them—their citrus scent clung to her fingers. In the grove’s center stood a wrought-iron daybed piled with silk cushions. Beside it on the flags sat a wickerwork basket overflowing with embroideries and lace.
Glancing back, she saw Devil, a silvered shadow prowling in her wake. “It’s an orangery.”
She saw his lips twitch. “One of my aunt’s fancies.” The tenor of his voice made her wonder what his fancy was. An expectant thrill shot through her—a violin rent the peace. Startled, she looked up. “We’re under the ballroom?”
Devil’s teeth flashed as he reached for her. “My dance, I believe.”
She was in his arms and whirling before she realized his intent. Not that she wished to argue, but a soupçon of warning might have helped, might have made the sudden impact of his nearness a little easier to absorb. As it was, with arms like iron about her and long thighs hard as oak parting hers, she immediately fell prey to a host of sensations, all distractingly pleasant. He waltzed as he did most things—masterfully, his skill so assured she need do nothing but glide and twirl. They precessed down the grove, then slowly revolved about its perimeter. As they passed the entrance to the enchanted circle, he looked down, into her eyes—and deliberately drew her closer.
Honoria’s breath caught; her heart stuttered, then picked up its pace. The pale silk covering her breasts shifted against his coat; she felt her nipples tingle. Their hips met as they turned, silk shushing softly, sirenlike in the night. Hardness met softness, then slid tantalizingly away, only to return, harder, more defined, a heartbeat later. The ebb and sway of the dance teased her senses; they ached—for him. Eyes wide, her gaze trapped in the clear green of his, Honoria felt the silvery touch of the moonlight and tipped up her head. Her lips, parted, were oddly dry; they throbbed to her heartbeat.
Her invitation could not have been clearer. Caught in the moment, Devil did not even think of refusing. With practised ease, he lowered his head and tasted her, confident in his mastery, only to find h
is head swimming as she drew him in. With an inward curse, he hauled hard on his reins and wrested back control, settling to languidly sample the riches she offered, subtly stoking her flame.
They waltzed between the orange trees; the music stopped and still they revolved. Gradually, their steps slowed; they halted by the daybed.
Honoria quelled a shiver of anticipation. Their kiss unbroken, Devil released her hand; he slid both palms over her silk-clad curves until one rested on each hip, burning through her flimsy gown. Slowly, deliberately, his hands slid further, cupping her bottom, drawing her fully against him. Honoria felt his blatant need, his desire—an answering heat blossomed within her. Her breath was his; caught in their kiss, she lifted her arms and twined them about his neck. She pressed herself against him, soothing her aching breasts against the wall of his chest. The deep shudder that passed through him thrilled her.
She’d rehearsed an acceptance speech—this was even better; actions, after all, spoke far louder than words. With a sigh of pure delight, she sank deeper into his embrace, returning his kiss with unfeigned eagerness.
Tension gripped him. He lifted her; their kiss unbroken, he lowered her to the daybed. And followed her down; Honoria’s breath fled. She knew his body was hard, but she’d never had it pressed against her, limb to limb, down her entire length. The shock was delicious; with a stifled gasp, she pushed aside his coat and eagerly spread her hands over his chest.
And felt the sudden hitch in his breathing, sensed his sudden surge of desire. From deep within, she answered it, flagrantly enticing his tongue to duel and dance with hers. She set her long legs tangling with his; her hands reached further. She would be no passive spectator; she wanted to feel, to experience, to explore.
Which was more encouragement than Devil could stand.
Abruptly, he pulled back, caught her hands and anchored them over her head. Immediately, he recaptured her lips, desire growing, escalating wildly, barely restrained. Ravenous, he deepened the kiss, searching for appeasement, fighting, simultaneously, to retain control.