Devil's Bride

  The restless shifting of her hips against him was more than he could stand. Breaking their kiss, he scooped her up and deposited her on the silk sheets. She stretched, her eyes on him, her hands questing.

  Quickly he drew back, out of her reach. “If you love me, keep your hands to yourself.” He’d fantasized about tonight for the past week; if he let her enthusiasm get the better of him—as it had on more than one occasion—he would have no chance of converting fantasy to reality.

  Stretching luxuriously, draping her arms above her head, Honoria fixed him with a sultry gaze. “I only want to touch you.” She watched as he stripped off his cravat. “You liked it last night.”

  “Tonight is going to be different.”

  His eyes left her only momentarily as he pulled off his shirt. Honoria smiled, shifting seductively under the heat of his gaze, relishing the sense of power his fascination with her naked form gave her. He’d made it very plain that he liked seeing her naked, totally nude, without any hint of modesty. Being that naked had been difficult at first, but familiarity and his abiding obsession had built her confidence so that now, being wantonly, wickedly naked with him seemed natural—how it should be—at least between them.

  “How?” she inquired, as he sat on the bed to remove his boots.

  He flicked her a glance, his gaze sliding over her breasts, then down over her stomach and thighs. “Tonight it’s going to be my pleasure to lavish pleasure upon you.”

  Honoria eyed him consideringly. He could make her scream—scream and moan and sob with pleasure. She was the novice—he the master. “Just what are you planning?”

  He grinned and stood, unbuttoning his trousers. “You’ll see—or rather,” he amended, his voice deepening, “you’ll feel.”

  The anticipation simmering in her veins abruptly heightened; Honoria’s nerves flickered. That familar tension had hold of her again, a sweet vise locking tight. A second later, as naked as she, he came onto the bed in a prowling crawl. Elementally male, fully aroused, on hands and knees he straddled her, then lowered his body to hers.

  Honoria’s breath fled. Eyes wide, she studied his, glittering in the weak light. Then his lids fell and he lowered his head; his lips found hers.

  His searching kiss reached deep—deep to where her wanton self dwelled. He called her forth and she came, eagerly seeking his pleasure. She opened to him, enticing him in, her body softening beneath his; she murmured his name and shifted beneath him, but he made no move to claim her. His hands locked about hers, one on either side of her head; as the kiss went on, her skin burned for his touch. Driven, she arched beneath him but his weight held her trapped; his legs outside hers, he held her immobile, granting her no relief from the heat building between them.

  Then his lips left hers, trailing hot kisses down the column of her throat. Panting, Honoria pressed her head back into the pillows, eager for much more. He shifted and his lips traced her collarbone, then returned by way of her shoulder and upper breast. He repeated the maneuver, this time following the curve of her arm to her elbow, then on to her wrist, eventually ending with her fingertips.

  Tickled by his lips, by the abrasion of his chest and chin against her smooth skin, Honoria giggled; she saw his brow quirk, but he said nothing, merely lifting her hand and draping her arm over his shoulder. He repeated the entire exercise on her other arm, until it, too, went to join its fellow. Locking her fingers at his nape, she settled back expectantly, and waited to see what came next.

  His lips on her breasts was a familar sensation, sweet and full of promise. When his mouth fastened over one nipple and he suckled, she gasped; the caress continued, hot and wet, pulsing wildfire down her veins. She moaned, hips restlessly lifting, seeking. But he’d shifted lower; she could make no contact with that part of his anatomy most susceptible to persuasion. Premonition bloomed—his “tonight” would be a long-drawn affair.

  He’d told her more than once that she rushed ahead too fast, that, if she let him spin out their time, the sensations would be better—more heightened, more intense. As she could barely cope with what she felt as it was, she wasn’t at all sure “slower” was such a good idea. He was used to it—she was not. She wasn’t even sure the exercise affected him in the same, mind-dazzling, soul-shattering, heart-twisting way in which it affected her.

  His lips left her breasts; panting she waited, then felt him nuzzling beneath their fullness. His lips swept across her sensitive midriff and down to the hollow of her waist.

  She was so caught by the novel sensations, by the heated tingling of her skin, that he’d flipped her onto her stomach before she had a chance to protest. He shifted, rising over her then lowering his body along the length of hers. His lips found her nape—he proceeded to cover her back with kisses, soft and warm across her shoulders, changing to soft nips as he worked his way down. Her fires had died to smouldering embers, but when he reached the full swell of her bottom, anticipation exploded into flame again. She squirmed, her breath coming in soft gasps. One heavy arm across her waist kept her still; when he pushed her knees wide apart and held them so, Honoria dragged in a shuddering breath—and waited. He was lying beside her, his weight no longer upon her. Cool air caressed her heated skin; she longed for him to cover her. Expectation welled; she willed him to shift and come between her thighs.

  Instead, she felt the soft brush of his hair and the light graze of his stubble as he laid a line of warm kisses down the back of one thigh. He paid homage to the sensitive spot at the back of her knee, first one, then the other, then worked his way back up her other thigh. Honoria slowly exhaled, and waited to be allowed to roll over.

  The next instant, her breath hissed in—and in. Her hands clenched on the pillow. In stunned disbelief, she felt tiny tender kisses dot their inexorable way up the inside of one thigh. Her skin shivered and flickered; as the kisses steadily neared the place where she burned, she let out a small shriek, stifled in the pillow.

  She felt, rather than heard his deep chuckle. He swung over her and repeated the exercise on the inside of her other thigh. Honoria gritted her teeth, determined not to repeat her shriek; her whole body quivered with mounting need. When he reached the limit of his trail, pressing one last lingering kiss to skin that had never before felt a man’s lips, she sighed—then shrieked, as his tongue swept tender, pulsing flesh—just once, but it was more than enough.

  He seemed to think so, too; he drew back, rolling her onto her back, his weight pinning her again as his lips returned to hers, his kiss searing, conflagrationary—exactly as she wished it. Wrapping her arms about his neck, Honoria gave him back fire for flame, passion for desire, in a frenzy of escalating need. This time, her thighs were spread and he lay between; she could feel his throbbing staff nudging her thigh.

  Abruptly, he drew back, onto his knees. Dazed, she saw him seize a fat pillow. Lifting her, he wedged it under her hips, then, leaning over her, he found her lips again. When he lifted his head she was panting in earnest, every nerve in her body alive, every vein afire. One hand was on her breast; swiftly, he lowered his head and suckled until she moaned.

  “Please—now.” Honoria reached for him but he shifted back.

  “Soon.”

  He lowered his body to hers again, but too low—his head was at her breasts. He laved each burning peak until she could take no more, then trailed kisses to her navel. He circled the dimple with his tongue, then probed; the slow, repetitive thrusting brought tears of frustration to her eyes. She twisted and arched, her hips lifted high by the pillow.

  “Soon.” He whispered the word across the sensitive skin of her stomach, and followed it with a kiss. And another and another, slowly descending; when the first kiss fell amongst her soft curls, Honoria’s eyes flew wide.

  “Devil?”

  The sensations streaking through her were unlike any she’d yet experienced, sharper, stronger, fiercer. More kisses followed the first and she gasped, hands reaching, fingers locking in his hair.

  ??
?Oh God!” The exclamation was wrung from her as his lips touched her softness. The sudden bolt of sensation was enough to melt her mind. “No.” She shook her head.

  “Soon,” came the answer.

  His lips left her swollen flesh to trail kisses along the inside of her thighs, lifting them as he slid still lower, draping a knee over each shoulder.

  Well-nigh mindless, Honoria felt his breath caress her throbbing flesh. Speech was beyond her; she was going to die. From excitement—from pleasure so intense it was frightening. Gripping the sheets convulsively, she hauled in a huge breath, and shook her head violently.

  Devil took no notice. Deliberately, he set his lips to her soft flesh, hot and swollen, intimately caressing each soft fold; a strangled sound, neither shriek nor scream, was his reward. He found her throbbing nubbin, already swollen and tight; he laved it gently, swirling his tongue, first this way then that, about the sensitive spot. He wasn’t surprised by the subsequent silence; he could hear her ragged breathing, could feel the tension that gripped her. As usual, she was rushing—he set himself to slow her down, bringing her to that plane where she could appreciate his expertise, savor all he could give her, rather than fly headlong to her fate.

  He repeated his caresses, again and again, until she grew familiar with each new sensation. Her breathing slowed, deepened; her body softened beneath his hands. She moaned softly and twisted in his hold, but she no longer fought him; she floated, senses alive to each explicit caress, receptive to the pleasures he wished her to know.

  Only then, deploying every ounce of his considerable expertise, did he open the door and introduce her to all that might be. With lips and tongue, he pressed on her caresses that sent her soaring, anchoring her with an intimacy that could not be denied. Again and again, she rose to the heavens; again and again, he drew her back. Only when she could take no more, when her breathing grew frantic and every muscle in her body quivered, begging for release, did he let her fly free, filling her with his tongue, feeling her hands clench tight in his hair—then relax as ecstasy washed through her. He savored her, taking pleasure in the warm piquancy that was her, letting her essence sink to his bones. When the last of her rippling shudders had died, he slowly rose over her.

  Pressing her thighs wide, he settled between—with one slow, powerful thrust he filled her, feeling her softness, slick and hot, stretch to take him, feeling her body adjust to his invasion, to being his.

  She was fully relaxed, fully open; he moved within her, powerfully plundering, unsurprised when, scant moments later, she stirred and, eyes glinting beneath weighted lids, joined him in the dance. He watched her until he was sure she was with him, then, closing his eyes, letting his head fall back, he lost himself in her.

  The explosion that took them from the mortal plane was stronger than any he’d felt before—just as he had known it would be.

  Hours later, he awoke. Honoria lay soft and warm by his side, her hair a tangled mass on his pillow. Devil allowed himself a smile—a conqueror’s smile—then carefully edged from the bed.

  In her room, the candles were still burning. Warmed by recent memory, he padded, naked, to the tantalus before the window. Watered wine had been left waiting, along with suitable sustenance. He poured a glass of wine and swallowed half, then lifted the lid of the serving dish, grimaced and replaced it. He was hungry, but not for food.

  On the thought, he heard a sound behind him—turning, he watched Honoria emerge, blinking, from his room.

  Wrapped in one of his robes, her hand shading her eyes, she squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

  He held up the glass.

  Lowering her hand, she came forward, holding the robe closed with one hand. “I’ll have some, too.”

  In the garden below all was silent and still. From the distant wilderness, six pairs of startled eyes fastened on the lit window of the duchess’s bedchamber, screened by lacy gauze. Six men saw Devil turn and raise his glass in salute; all six lost their breaths when Honoria joined him. The idea of what was happening in that brilliantly lit chamber exercised all six minds.

  They watched, breath bated, as Honoria, cloaked in a flowing robe, her hair an aureole about her head, took the glass from Devil and sipped. She handed the glass back; Devil drained it. Setting the glass down, he lowered his head as Honoria went into his arms.

  Eyes on stalks, six watched their cousin and his wife share a lengthy, amazingly thorough kiss; five shifted uncomfortably when it ended, then were struck to stillness, paralyzed anew, when Honoria raised her hands and let her robe fall. Her shadow merged again with Devil’s, her arms about his neck, his head bent to hers as they resumed their kiss.

  Silence filled the wilderness—not even an owl hooted. Then Devil’s head rose. His arm about Honoria, their shadows still one, they moved away from the window.

  “God!” Harry’s stunned exclamation said it all.

  Richard’s eyes were alight. “You didn’t seriously imagine Devil married purely to ensure the succession?”

  “By the looks of it,” Gabriel dryly observed, “the succession’s in no danger. If they’ve got that far in five hours, then St. Valentine’s Day’s odds-on for our wager.”

  Vane’s deep chuckle came out of the dark. “I hesitate to mention it, but I don’t believe Devil started from scratch five hours ago.”

  Four heads turned his way.

  “Ah-hah!” Lucifer turned to his brother. “In that case, I’ll sport my blunt on St. Valentine’s Day definitely. If he’s got a head start, then he’ll have more than three months to accomplish the deed—more than enough.”

  “True.” Gabriel fell into step beside Lucifer as the party turned toward the house. Their impromptu stroll had been unexpectedly revealing. “Given Devil’s reputation, it’s fair to assume anyone could guess as much, so we don’t need to be overly concerned about taking bets against St. Valentine’s Day as the limit for conception.”

  “I think,” Richard said, following in Gabriel’s wake, “that we should be rather careful about letting any of the ladies learn about our book—they’re unlikely to appreciate our interest.”

  “Too true,” Harry replied, joining the straggling line back through the bushes. “The female half of the species has a distinctly skewed view of what’s important in life.”

  Vane watched them go, then raised his eyes to the blazing windows in the east wing. After a moment, he shifted his gaze to the unlit windows of the large bedroom at the end of the wing. Silent and still in the dark, he considered the sight, his grin deepening to a smile. Hands in his pockets, he turned—and froze. His eyes, adjusted to the dark, picked out the square figure of a man moving slowly through the wilderness, heading toward the house.

  Then the tension left his shoulders. Hands still in his pockets, he strolled forward. “What ho, Charles? Getting a breath of fresh air?”

  The heavy figure came to a sudden halt, swinging to face him. Then Charles inclined his head. “As you say.”

  It was on the tip of Vane’s tongue to ask whether Charles had caught the ducal exhibition; Charles’s propensity to lecture kept the words from his lips. Falling into step as Charles gained the path back to the house, he asked instead: “You planning to stay for a few days?”

  “No.” Charles walked a few steps before adding: “I’ll be returning to town tomorrow. Do you have any idea when Sylvester plans to return?”

  Vane shook his head. “I haven’t heard it mentioned, but I’d be surprised to see them up before Christmas. It’s to be held here as usual.”

  “Really?” There was genuine surprise in Charles’s voice.

  “So Sylvester intends to take on the role of ‘head of the family’ at all levels?”

  Vane sent him a cool glance.

  “When has he not?”

  Charles nodded vaguely. “True—very true.”

  Chapter 19

  When, years later, Honoria looked back on the first months of her marriage, she wondered what benevolent fate had
ordained they would marry on December 1. The season was perfect, fine-tuned to her needs—December and January, cold and snowy, kept society at bay; the week of Christmas, when the whole family descended, was a happy interlude. Those quiet winter months gave her time to find her feet, to assume the mantle of the duchess of St. Ives, to learn what she needed to go on.

  Taking up the reins of the ducal household was of itself easy enough. The staff was excellent, well trained and well disposed; she faced few difficulties there. However, the decisions it fell to her to make were wide-ranging, from cows to flower beds to preserves to linens. Not just for the Place, but for the three other residences her husband maintained. The organizational logistics were absorbing. Within the family, she was expected to play the matriarch, a demanding yet satisfying role.

  All this and more fell to her lot in that first December and January, yet throughout that time, the aspect of her life that commanded her deepest attention remained her interaction with Devil.

  Quite what she’d expected, she couldn’t have said—she had come to her marriage with no firm view of what she wanted from it beyond the very fact of laying claim to the role, of being the mother of his children. Which left, as she discovered during those long quiet weeks, a great deal to be decided. By them both.

  Time and again, as their wills crossed in daily life, their eyes would meet and she would see in his an expression of arrest, of calculation, consideration—and know the same emotions were visible in her eyes.

  There were adjustments in other spheres, too. Like finding time to be alone, to be easy in each other’s company, to discuss the myriad matters affecting their now-mutual life, all within the framework of who they were and what they were and what they could both accept. Some adjustments came easily, without conscious effort; others required give-and-take on both sides.

  And if their nights remained a constant, an arena where the lines had already been drawn, where they’d already made their decisions, even there, while their physical need of each other continued, a steady, unquenchable flame, with each night that passed, their involvement deepened, became more profound, more heavily invested with meaning.