When her wits reconnected with reality, Honoria discovered herself fully dressed, leaning against the daybed’s back. Before her, Devil stood before the mirror, tying his cravat. She watched his fingers deftly crease and knot the wide folds, and smiled.
In the mirror, Devil’s eyes met hers. Her smile widened; he raised a brow.
“I just realized,” she said, leaning more heavily against the daybed, “why you don’t have a valet. Being a rake necessarily means you can’t rely on the services of a servant to turn you out in trim.”
Settling the ends of his cravat, Devil cast her a jaundiced glance. “Precisely.” He turned. “And if you’ve returned to the living enough to think that through, we’d better get back to the ballroom.”
He stooped to snatch his coat from the floor; Honoria opened her lips to inform him that she had, indeed, made up her mind, then thought better of it. They’d been away from the ball for too long as it was—this was no longer the time and place. Tomorrow morning would do.
She felt like she was floating, in some strange way sundered from reality. She watched Devil shrug into his coat. As he settled the lapels, something caught her eye. Turning, she peered between the orange trees.
“What is it?” Devil followed her gaze.
“I thought I saw someone, but it must have been a shifting shadow.”
Devil took her hand. “Come—the gossipmongers will have enough to talk about as it is.”
They walked swiftly through the orange grove; a moment later, the latch clicked and all was still. The moon continued to lay its gentle beams in wide swaths across the flagged floor.
A shadow broke the pattern.
The outline of a man was thrown across the grove, distorted to menacing proportions. Then the figure slipped away, around the corner of the orangery, and the shadow was no more.
Moonlight bathed the scene in soft white light, illuminating the orange trees, the wickerwork basket, and the daybed with its rumpled cushions.
Chapter 15
“Thank you, Emmy.” Standing, arms folded, before her sitting-room window, Honoria watched the tweeny tidy her luncheon tray. “Has His Grace returned to the house?”
“I don’t believe so, miss.” Emmy straightened, hefting her burden. “I could ask Webster, if you like?”
“No—thank you, Emmy.” Honoria fabricated a smile. “It was merely an idle question.”
Very idle. Turning back to the window, Honoria wondered how much more idleness she could take. They’d returned from Berkeley Square well after three o’clock; sleep, deep and dreamless, had claimed her. Devil’s pleasure had obviously agreed with her; on waking, she’d determined to waste no time claiming more. Gowned in one of Celestine’s most fetching creations, she’d headed downstairs.
Only to discover the breakfast room empty. Devoid of wolves. Webster informed her that His Grace had broken his fast early and departed for a long drive. After breakfasting in solitary splendor—the Dowager had, the night before, declared her intention of not rising until the afternoon—she’d retreated to her sitting room. To wait. Impatiently.
How dare he demand a declaration from her and then go for a drive? She set her teeth and heard the front door slam. The sound of raised voices reached her. Frowning, she went to the door, opened it, and recognized Webster’s voice raised in exclamation.
Webster shaken from his habitual imperturbability? Honoria headed for the stairs. Surely nothing short of catastrophe—
Her breath caught; eyes widening, she picked up her skirts and ran.
Reaching the gallery, she leaned over the rail. The sight that met her eyes was the opposite of reassuring. In the hall below, footmen milled about a ragged figure, supporting, exclaiming. It was Sligo, pale, shaken, one arm in a makeshift sling, cuts and abrasions all over his face.
Her heart in her mouth, Honoria started down the stairs—and heard Devil’s voice, deep, strong, a forcefully coherent rumble. Relief hit her so strongly she had to lean on the balustrade to let the giddiness pass. Drawing a steadying breath, she continued down.
Devil strode out of the library; Honoria clutched the banister again. His coat was ripped in countless places, in jagged little tears. His buckskin breeches, usually immaculate, were scraped and dusty, as were his boots. Disheveled black locks framed his frowning face; an angry scatch ran along his jaw.
“Get the sawbones in for Sligo—that shoulder needs setting.”
“But what about you, m’lord?” Webster, following on his heels, raised his hands, as if tempted to seize hold of his master.
Devil swung about—and saw Honoria on the stairs. His gaze locked on hers. “There’s nothing wrong with me bar a few scratches.” After a moment, he glanced to his left, frowning at Webster. “Stop fussing—Cynsters are invincible, remember?” With that, he set his boot on the first stair. “Just send up some hot water—that’s all I need.”
“I’ll bring it up directly, Your Grace.” With injured dignity, Webster headed for the kitchens.
Devil climbed the stairs; Honoria waited. There were slivers of wood, some painted, caught in the tears in his coat. Her chest felt so tight it hurt. “What happened?”
Drawing abreast of her, Devil met her gaze. “The axle on my phaeton snapped.”
There were small bloodstains on his shirt; he was moving briskly but without his usual fluid grace. He kept climbing; Honoria turned and followed. “Where?”
“Hampstead Heath.” Without waiting for her next question, he added: “I needed some air, so I went out there and let the horses have their heads. We were flying when the axle went.”
Honoria felt the blood drain from her face. “Went?”
Devil shrugged. “Snapped—there was an almighty crack. We might have hit something, but I don’t think we did.”
Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and strode down the corridor; picturing the scene, and not liking what she saw, Honoria hurried in his wake. “Your horses—the bays?”
“No.” Devil threw her a glance. “I had a pair of young blacks put to—to try out their paces.” His features contorted. “I shot one immediately, but I only carry one pistol. Luckily, Sherringham came along—I borrowed his pistol, then he drove us back here.”
“But—” Honoria frowned. “What actually happened?”
A decidedly testy glance found her. “The axle snapped under the box seat—essentially, the phaeton came apart. By hell’s own luck, both Sligo and I were thrown free. I bounce better than he does.”
“The carriage?”
“Is kindling.”
They’d reached the end of the long corridor; opening the heavy oak door at its end, Devil strode on. He stopped in the middle of the room, in the center of a richly hued carpet. Lifting one shoulder, he started to ease off his coat—and caught his breath on an indrawn hiss.
“Here.” Behind him, Honoria reached over his shoulders and gently tugged, freeing first one shoulder, then the other, then easing the sleeves off. “Great heavens!” Dropping the ruined coat, she stared.
His shirt was badly torn, the fine linen shredded down the side of his back that had taken the brunt of his fall. The abrasions had bled, as had numerous little cuts. Thankfully, his breeches and boots had provided sterner protection; there were no rips below his waist.
Before she could react, Devil pulled the shirt free of his breeches and hauled it over his head. And froze. Then his head snapped around. “What the devil are you doing here?”
It took a moment to shift her gaze from his bleeding back to his face. The look in his eyes didn’t, immediately, make sense, then she looked past him—to the massive, fully canopied four-poster bed that dominated the room. In one swift glance, she took in the sumptuous hangings, all in shades of green, the ornately carved headboard and barley-sugar posts, the silk sheets and thick featherbed and the abundance of soft pillows piled high. Her expression mild, she looked back at him. “Your cuts are bleeding—they need salving.”
Devil swore beneat
h his breath. “You shouldn’t be in here.” He wrestled with his shirt, trying to free his arms.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Honoria caught his hands, now thoroughly tangled; deftly, she unlaced his cuffs. “The circumstances excuse the impropriety.”
Devil stripped the shirt from his wrists and flung it aside. “I am not on my deathbed.”
“You are, however, badly scraped.” Honoria met his gaze calmly. “You can’t see it.”
Devil narrowed his eyes at her—then twisted, trying to look over his shoulder. “It doesn’t feel that bad—I can take care of it myself.”
“For goodness sake!” Honoria planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Stop acting like a six-year-old—I’m only going to bathe the cuts and apply some salve.”
Devil’s head whipped back. “That’s just the point—I’m not a six-year-old—and I’m not dead, either.”
“Naturally.” Honoria nodded. “You’re a Cynster—you’re invincible, remember?”
Devil gritted his teeth. “Honoria, if you want to play ministering angel, you can damn well marry me first.”
Honoria lost her temper—she’d been waiting to make the declaration he wanted and he turned up like this! Stepping forward, she planted her index finger in the center of his bare chest. “If,” she declared, emphasizing the word with a definite jab. “I do decide to marry you.” She tried another jab; when he instinctively stepped back, she closed the distance. “I would want to be assured.” Another jab, another step. “That you will behave reasonably.” Her finger was starting to ache. “In—all—situations!” Three quick jabs, three quick steps; Devil’s legs hit the end of his bed. Honoria pounced. “Like now!” Glaring defiantly up at him, she prodded him one last time. “Sit!”
The face she looked into was uncompromisingly set; his eyes, shadowed green, smoldered darkly. They stood, gazes locked, toe-to-toe, will against will—abruptly, Devil’s gaze shifted to the door.
Honoria grabbed the moment. Placing both palms on the heavy muscles of his chest, she pushed. Hard.
With a muffled expletive, Devil toppled—and sat.
“Your water, Your Grace.” Webster elbowed open the door, which had swung half-shut behind them.
Turning, Honoria held out her hands. “I’ll need some salve, Webster.”
“Indeed, miss.” Without a blink, Webster relinquished the bowl into her care. “I’ll fetch some immediately.”
The instant he’d gone, Honoria turned—straight into a furious glower.
“This is not a good idea.”
She raised a brow, then bent and placed the bowl on the floor. “Stop complaining—you’ll survive.”
Devil watched her gown draw tight over her bottom—abruptly, he shook his head. “Maybe—but will I be sane?”
Wringing out a cloth, Honoria cast him a measuring glance. Rising, she folded the cloth, then stepped up beside him, her legs almost touching his thigh. Placing one hand on his shoulder, she drew it forward, bringing a deep cut into view. Under her fingers, his skin was warm, resilient, very much alive. “Think of something else.” Carefully, she started to bathe the cut.
Closing his eyes, Devil drew a deep breath. Think of something else. Just as well he was sitting, or she’d know for a fact just what his “else” was. His cuts and scrapes barely rated on his scale of afflictions; his major hurt was throbbing steadily, and was only going to get worse. She was so close, leaning over, reaching around his shoulder; her perfume surrounded him, wreathing his senses, leaving him giddy with need.
Small hands touched gently, hesitantly; she started when his muscles shifted, flickering beneath her fingers. Clenching his fists, Devil anchored them to his knees; when Webster returned, salve-pot in hand, he all but sighed with relief. “How’s Sligo?”
It was an effort, but he managed to keep his butler talking until, with every last scratch bathed and salved, Honoria finally stepped back.
“There.” Wiping her hands on the towel Webster held for her, she slanted him a questioning glance.
Devil returned it with a blank stare. He waited while Webster gathered ruined clothes, towels, salve, and basin, then swept magisterially out. Honoria turned to watch him go—silently, Devil rose and moved up behind her. He’d lost the battle with his demons five minutes before.
“Now!” Honoria turned—straight into Devil’s arms. “What—?” Her words died as she looked into his eyes. A feeling of being about to be devoured washed over her. She felt his hand at the base of her throat. It rose, framing her jaw as his head lowered.
He waited for no permission, implied or otherwise, but took her mouth rapaciously. Honoria felt her bones melt; beneath that onslaught, resistance fled. He shifted and moved her; her legs hit the bed end. Lifting her against him, he knelt on the bed, then they were toppling together. She landed on her back—he landed on top of her.
Directly on top of her.
Any thought of struggling vanished; the hunger that roared through him, the sheer muscled weight of him, tense, rigid, and ready to claim her, lit her fires instantly. Honoria wrapped her arms about his neck and feverishly kissed him back.
He pressed his hands into the down covers and slid them beneath her hips, fingers firming, then tilting her against him. More definite, more fascinating than before, she felt the rigid column of his desire ride against her. Instinctively, she writhed beneath that throbbing weight—wanting, needing.
“God Almighty!”
Devil’s weight left her—she was plucked rudely from the bed. Trapped in his arms in a froth of petticoats, blinking wildly, Honoria saw the door approaching; juggling her, Devil swung it wide.
And deposited her on her feet in the corridor.
“What . . . ?” Breasts swelling, Honoria whirled to face him, the rest of her question writ large in her eyes.
Devil pointed a finger at her nose. “Your declaration.” He looked wild, dark hair disheveled, black brows slashing down, lips a thin, hard line. His chest rose and fell dramatically.
Honoria drew in a deep breath.
“Not now!” Devil scowled. “When you’ve thought it over properly.”
With that, he slammed the door.
Honoria’s jaw dropped; she stared at the oak panels. Abruptly snapping her mouth shut, she reached for the doorknob.
And heard the lock fall home.
In utter disbelief, she stared at the door, her mouth open once more. Then she gritted her teeth, screwed her eyes tight and, fists clenched, gave vent to a frustrated scream.
She opened her eyes—the door remained shut.
Jaw setting ominously, Honoria swung on her heel and stalked off.
Devil escaped from his house and sought refuge at Manton’s. It was late afternoon, a time when many of his peers still in town could be counted on to look in, to spend an hour or two culping wafers in convivial company.
Scanning those occupying the shooting stalls, his gaze alighted on one dark head. He strolled forward, waiting until his mark discharged his pistol before drawling: “You haven’t quite corrected for the kick, brother mine.”
Richard turned his head—and raised one brow. “You offering to teach me, big brother?”
Devil’s teeth gleamed. “I gave up teaching you years ago—I was thinking more along the lines of a little friendly competition.”
Richard grinned back. “A tenner each wafer?”
“Why not just make it a monkey the lot?”
“Done.”
In perfect amity, they set to culping wafer after wafer; acquaintances strolled up, making none-too-serious suggestions, to which the brothers replied in like vein. No one, seeing them together, could doubt their relationship. Devil was the taller by an inch or so; although Richard lacked his more developed musculature, much of the difference lay in the four years between them. Their faces, seen separately, were not obviously alike, Devil’s features being leaner, harder, more austere, yet when seen side by side, the same patriarchal planes, the same arrogant nose a
nd brow line, the same aggressive chin, were readily apparent.
Standing back to let Richard take his shot, Devil smiled to himself. Other than Vane, who was as familiar as his shadow, no one was closer to him than Richard. Their similarity went deep, much deeper than the physical. Of all the Bar Cynster, Richard was the one he could predict most easily—because Richard always reacted as he did.
The retort of Richard’s pistol echoed in the stall; Devil looked up, noting the hole an inch to the left of the target’s center. They were using a brace plus one of Manton’s specials, wicked, long-barreled specimens. While well balanced, over the distance they were shooting, the longest permitted in the gallery, there was a definite difference between the guns; using the three in rotation meant they had to constantly readjust their aim.
The assistant waiting on them had reloaded the next pistol; Devil weighed it in his hand. Richard shifted positions; Devil swung into place and raised his arm. His shot holed the wafer between the center and Richard’s shot.
“Tsk, tsk! Always impulsive, Sylvester—taking a fraction more time would yield a better result.”
Richard, who’d been lounging against the stall wall, stiffened, then straightened, his previously relaxed expression leaching to impassivity. He nodded briefly to Charles, then turned to supervise the reloading.
In contrast, Devil’s smile broadened wickedly. “As you know, Charles, wasting time’s not my style.”
Charles’s pale lashes flickered; a frown showed fleetingly in his eyes.
Devil noted it; unfailingly urbane, he picked up a freshly loaded pistol. “Care to show us how?” Swinging the gun about, he laid the barrel across his sleeve and presented the butt to Charles.
Charles reached for it—his hand stopped in midair. Then his jaw firmed; wrapping his fingers about the polished butt, he hefted the pistol. Stepping past Devil, Charles took up his stance. He flexed his shoulders once, then lifted his arm. He sighted, taking, as he’d said, only a moment longer than Devil, before firing.
The wafer’s center disappeared.
With a sincere “Bravo,” Devil clapped Charles on the shoulder. “You’re one of the few who can do that intentionally.” Charles looked up; Devil grinned. “Care to join us?”