Physically, she was a particularly engaging proposition—she’d certainly engaged his notoriously fickle interest.
Equally important, she was uncommonly level-headed, not given to flaps or starts. That had been clear from the first, when she’d stood straight and tall, uncowering beneath the weight of the epithets he’d so freely heaped on her head. Then she’d favored him with a look his mother could not have bettered and directed him to the matter at hand.
He’d been impressed by her courage. Instead of indulging in a fit of hysterics—surely prescribed practice for a gentlewoman finding a man bleeding to death in her path?—she’d been resourceful and practical. Her struggle to subdue her fear of the storm hadn’t escaped him. He’d done what he could to distract her; her instantaneous response to his commands—he’d almost seen her hackles rising—had made distracting her easy enough. Taking his shirt off hadn’t hurt, either.
His lips twitched; ruthlessly he straightened them. That, of course, was yet another good reason he should follow fate’s advice.
For the past seventeen years, despite all the distractions the ton’s ladies had lined up to provide, his baser instincts had remained subject to his will, entirely and absolutely. Honoria Prudence, however, seemed to have established a direct link to that part of his mind which, as was the case with any male Cynster, was constantly on the lookout for likely prospects. It was the hunter in him; the activity did not usually distract him from whatever else he had in hand. Only when he was ready to attend to such matters, did he permit that side of his nature to show.
Today, he had stumbled—more than once—over his lustful appetites.
His question over underdrawers was one example, and while taking off his shirt had certainly distracted her, that fact, in turn, had also distracted him. He could feel her gaze—another sensitivity he hadn’t been prey to for a very long time. At thirty-two, he’d thought himself immune, hardened, too experienced to fall victim to his own desires.
Hopefully, once he’d had Honoria Prudence a few times—perhaps a few dozen times—the affliction would pass. The fact that she was Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s granddaughter, rebellious granddaughter at that, would be the icing on his wedding cake. Devil savored the thought.
He hadn’t, of course, told her his name. If he had, she wouldn’t have fallen asleep, restlessly or otherwise. He’d realized almost immediately that she didn’t know who he was. There was no reason she should recognize him. She would, however, recognize his name.
Her peculiar profession would make keeping up with ton gossip imperative; he had not a doubt that, had he favored her with his name, she would have made the connection and reacted accordingly. Which would have been trying for them both.
Convincing her that she had no reason to fret would have taken a great deal of effort, which he did not, at the moment, have to spare. He still had Tolly’s murder to contend with—he needed her calm and composed. He found her directness, her unfussy, almost wifely matter-of-factness, refreshing and strangely supportive.
The fire glowed, gilding her face. Devil studied the delicate curve of her cheek, noted the vulnerable softness of her lips. He would confess his identity in the morning—he wondered what she would say. The possibilities were, he judged, wide-ranging. He was mulling over the most likely when she whimpered and stiffened in her chair.
Devil opened his eyes fully. And simultaneously became aware of the renewed ferocity of the storm. Thunder rolled, rumbling ever nearer. The wind rose on a sudden shriek; a sharp crack echoed through the wood.
Honoria gasped and came to her feet. Eyes closed, hands reaching, she stepped forward.
Devil surged from his chair. Grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her away from the fire.
With a wrenching sob, she turned and flung herself against him. Her arms slipped about him; she clung tightly, pressing her cheek to his chest. Reflexively, Devil closed his arms about her and felt the sobs that racked her. Off-balance, he took a step back; the old chair caught him behind his knee.
He sat down; Honoria did not slacken her hold. She followed him down, drawing up her legs; she ended curled in his lap. Sobbing silently.
Tilting his head, Devil peered at her face. Her eyes were closed but not tightly. Tears coursed down her face. She was, in fact, still asleep.
Trapped in her nightmare, she shuddered. She gulped down a sob, only to have another rise in its place.
Watching her, Devil felt a sharp ache twist through his chest. The tears welled from beneath her lids, gathered, then rolled slowly, steadily, down her cheeks.
His gut clenched. Hard. Gently, he tipped up her face. She didn’t wake; the tears continued to fall.
He couldn’t stand it. Devil bent his head and set his lips to hers.
Engulfed in sorrow so black, so dense, not even lightning could pierce it, Honoria became aware of lips warm and firm pressed against her own. The unexpected sensation distracted her, breaking the hold of her dream. Blackness receded; she pulled back and caught her breath.
Strong fingers curved about her jaw; the distracting lips returned. Warmth seeped into her bones, her skin, driving out death’s chill. The lips held to hers, reassuringly alive, a link from one dream to the next. She made the transition from nightmare to a sense of peace, of rightness, reassured by the strength surrounding her and the steady beat of a heart not her own.
She was no longer alone in misery. Someone was here, keeping her warm, holding the memories at bay. The ice in her veins melted. Her lips softened; tentatively, she returned the kiss.
Devil caught his baser instincts an instant before they bolted. She was still asleep—the last thing he intended was to scare her awake. The battle to resist his demons, clamoring for him to deepen the caress into something far from innocent, was furious, as ferocious as the storm. He won—but the effort left him shaking.
She drew back. Lifting his head, he heard her sigh softly.
Then, lips curving in a distinctly feminine smile, she shifted, settling herself in his lap.
Devil caught his breath; he bit his lip.
Pressing her cheek once more to his chest, she slid into peaceful slumber.
At least he’d stopped her tears. Jaw clenched, Devil reminded himself that that—and only that—had been his aim. Thanks to fate, he’d have time and more to claim recompense for the pain she was causing him, to claim a suitable reward for his remarkable rectitude. His halo, for once, ought to be glowing.
It took half an hour of thinking of something else before he could risk relaxing. By then she was deeply asleep. Shifting carefully, he settled more comfortably, then noticed the fire was dying. Reaching down, he snagged his jacket, then draped it carefully over his wife-to-be.
Lips curving, he rested his head against the chairback and closed his eyes.
He woke with his cheek pillowed on her curls.
Devil blinked. Sunlight slanted through the shutters. Honoria was still asleep, snuggled against him, legs curled across his thighs. Then he heard the clop of hooves approaching. Vane, no doubt, come to seek him out.
Straightening, Devil winced as cramped muscles protested. His wife-to-be did not stir. Gathering her in his arms, he stood; Honoria mumbled, resettling her head against his shoulder. Devil gently deposited her in the wing chair, tucking his jacket about her. A frown fleetingly puckered her brows as her cheek touched the cold chintz, then her features eased and she slid deeper into sleep.
Devil stretched. Then, running his fingers across his chest, he headed for the door. Yawning, he opened it.
His breath hissed in through his teeth. “Hell and the devil!” Taking stock of the arrivals, he cursed beneath his breath. He’d been right about Vane—his cousin, mounted on a black hunter, had just pulled up. Another horseman halted alongside. Devil’s features blanked as he nodded to his only older cousin, Charles—Tolly’s half brother.
That, however, was not the worst. From the other bridle path, a party of four trotted forward—Lord Clayp
ole, Lady Claypole, and two grooms.
“Your Grace! How surprising to come upon you here.” A sharp-featured woman with crimped hair, Lady Claypole barely glanced at Vane and Charles before returning her gaze to Devil, her protruberant blue eyes widening.
“I was stranded by the storm.” Bracing one forearm against the doorframe, Devil blocked the doorway.
“Indeed? Beastly night.” Lord Claypole, a short, rotund gentleman, wrestled his bay to a halt. “Might I inquire, Your Grace, if you’ve seen anything of our governess? Took the gig out to Somersham yesterday—gig came home without her—haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since.”
Devil looked blank. “The storm was quite wild.”
“Quite, quite.” His lordship nodded briskly. “Daresay the horse got loose and bolted home. Testy brute. Sure to find Miss Wetherby safe and sound at the vicarage, what?” His lordship looked at his wife, still absorbed with the view. “Don’t you think so, m’dear?”
Her ladyship shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll be all right. So terribly inconsiderate of her to put us to all this fuss.” Directing a weary smile at Devil, Lady Claypole gestured to the grooms. “We felt we should mount a search, but I daresay you’re right, my lord, and she’ll be sitting snug at the vicarage. Miss Wetherby,” her ladyship informed Devil archly, “comes with the highest recommendations.”
Devil’s brows rose. “Does she indeed?”
“I had it from Mrs. Acheson-Smythe. Of the highest calibre—quite exclusive. Naturally, when she learned of my Melissa, she set aside all other offers and—” Lady Claypole broke off, protruberant eyes starting. Her mouth slowly opened as she stared past Devil’s bare shoulder.
Heaving an inward sigh, Devil lowered his arm, half-turning to watch Honoria’s entrance. She came up beside him, blinking sleepily, one hand pressed to her back; with the other, she brushed errant curls from her face. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her topknot loose, releasing wispy tendrils of gold-shot brown to wreathe auralike about her head. She looked deliciously tumbled, her cheeks lightly flushed, as if they had indeed been entertaining each other in the manner the Claypoles were imagining.
Honoria looked past him—momentarily, she froze. Then she straightened, cool grace dropping like a cloak about her. Not a glimmer of consternation showed in her face. Devil’s lips quirked—in approval, in appreciation.
“Well, miss!”
Lady Claypole’s strident tones overflowed with indignant outrage. Devil fixed her with a clear, very direct glance that any sane person would have read as a warning.
Her ladyship was not so acute. “A fine broiling, indeed! Well, Miss Wetherby—if this is what you get up to when you say you’re visiting the vicar, you need not think to cross the Claypole Hall threshold again!”
“Ahem!” More observant than his lady, Lord Claypole plucked at her sleeve. “My dear—”
“To think that I’ve been so misled! Mrs. Acheson-Smythe will hear about—”
“No! Really, Margery—” One eye on Devil’s face, Lord Claypole fought to restrain his wife from committing social suicide. “No need for any of that.”
“No need?” Lady Claypole stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. Shaking off his hand, she drew herself up and haughtily declaimed: “If you will send word of your direction, we’ll send your boxes on.”
“How kind.” Devil’s purring murmur held sufficient steel to succeed where Lord Claypole had failed. “You may send Miss Anstruther-Wetherby’s boxes to the Place.”
A long silence greeted his edict.
Lady Claypole leaned forward. “Anstruther-Wetherby?”
“The Place?” The soft echo came from Charles Cynster; his horse shifted and stamped.
Abruptly, Lady Claypole switched her gaze to Honoria. “Is this true, miss? Or is it merely a piece of flummery you’ve succeeded in coaxing His Grace to swallow?”
His Grace? For one discrete instant, Honoria’s brain reeled. She glanced sideways at the devil beside her—his eyes, cool green, fleetingly met hers. In that moment, she would have given all she possessed to rid herself of everyone else and take to him as he deserved. Instead, she lifted her chin and calmly regarded Lady Claypole. “As His Grace,” she invested the title with subtle emphasis, “has seen fit to inform you, I am, indeed, one of the Anstruther-Wetherbys. I choose to make little of the connection, to avoid unwarranted, ill-bred interest.”
The comment failed to rout her ladyship. “I really don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my daughters.”
“I suggest, madam,”—his gaze on Lady Claypole’s face, Devil caught Honoria’s hand, squeezing her fingers warningly as he raised them to his lips—“that you inform your daughters that they’ve had the honor of being instructed, albeit for so short a time, by my duchess.”
“Your duchess!” The exclamation burst from three throats—of the gentry, only Vane Cynster remained silent.
Honoria’s brain reeled again; the grip on her fingers tightened. Her expression serene, her lips gently curved, she glanced affectionately at her supposed fiance´’s face; only he could see the fell promise in her eyes.
“Really, Your Grace! You can’t have considered.” Lady Claypole had paled. “This matter hardly warrants such a sacrifice—I’m sure Miss Wetherby will be only too happy to reach some agreement . . .”
Her voice trailed away, finally silenced by the expression on Devil’s face. For one, long minute, he held her paralyzed, then switched his chill gaze to Lord Claypole. “I had expected, my lord, that I could count on you and your lady to welcome my duchess.” The deep flat tones held a definite menace.
Lord Claypole swallowed. “Yes indeed! No doubt of it—none whatever. Er . . .” Gathering his reins, he reached for his wife’s. “Felicitations and all that—daresay we should get on. If you’ll excuse us, Your Grace? Come, m’dear.” With a yank, his lordship turned both his and his wife’s horses; with remarkable speed, his party quit the clearing.
Relieved, Honoria studied the remaining horsemen. One glance was enough to identify the one nearest as a relative of . . . the duke called Devil. Her mind tripped on the thought, but she couldn’t catch the connection. The horseman in question turned his head; hands negligently crossed on the pommel, he was strikingly handsome. His coloring—brown hair, brown brows—was less dramatic than Devil’s, but he seemed of similar height and nearly as large as the man beside her. They shared one, definitive characteristic—the simple act of turning his head had been invested with the same fluid elegance that characterized all Devil’s movements, a masculine grace that titillated the senses.
The horseman’s gaze traveled rapidly over her—one comprehensive glance—then, lips curving in a subtle smile, he looked at Devil. “I take it you don’t need rescuing?”
Voice and manner confirmed their relationship beyond question.
“Not rescuing—there’s been an accident. Come inside.”
The horseman’s gaze sharpened; Honoria could have sworn some unspoken communication passed between him and Devil. Without another word, the horseman swung down from his saddle.
Revealing his companion, still atop his horse. An older man with pale thinning hair, he was heavily built, his face round, his features more fleshy than the aquiline planes of the other two men. He, too, met Devil’s eye, then he hauled in a breath and dismounted. “Who are they?” Honoria whispered, as the first man, having secured his horse, started toward them.
“Two other cousins. The one approaching is Vane. At least, that’s what we call him. The other is Charles. Tolly’s brother.”
“Brother?” Honoria juggled the image of the heavyset man against that of the dead youth.
“Half brother,” Devil amended. Grasping her elbow, he stepped out of the cottage, drawing her with him.
It had been some time since anyone had physically compelled Honoria to do anything—it was certainly the first time any man had dared. His sheer presumption left her speechless; his sheer power rendered noncomplia
nce impossible. Her heart, having finally slowed after the jolt he’d given it by kissing her fingers, started racing again.
Five paces from the door, he halted and, releasing her, faced her. “Wait over there—you can sit on that log. This might take a while.”
For one pregnant instant, Honoria hovered on the brink of open rebellion. There was something implacable behind the crystal green, something that issued commands in the absolute certainty of being obeyed. She ached to challenge it, to challenge him, to take exception to his peremptory dictates. But she knew what he faced in the cottage.
Lips compressed, she inclined her head. “Very well.”
She turned, skirts swirling; Devil watched as she started toward the log, set on stumps to one side of the clearing. Then she paused; without looking back, she inclined her head again. “Your Grace.”
His gaze fixed on her swaying hips, Devil watched as she continued on her way. His interest in her had just dramatically increased; no woman before had so much as thought of throwing his commands—he knew perfectly well they were autocratic—back in his teeth. She’d not only thought of it—she’d nearly done it. If it hadn’t been for Tolly’s body in the cottage, she would have.
She reached the log. Satisfied, Devil turned; Vane was waiting at the cottage door.
“What?”
Devil’s face hardened. “Tolly’s dead. Shot.”
Vane stilled, his eyes fixed on Devil’s. “Who by?”
“That,” Devil said softly, glancing at Charles as he neared, “I don’t yet know. Come inside.”
They stopped in a semicircle at the foot of the rude pallet, looking down on Tolly’s body. Vane had been Devil’s lieutenant at Waterloo; Charles had served as an adjutant. They’d seen death many times; familiarity didn’t soften the blow. In a voice devoid of emotion, Devil recounted all he knew. He related Tolly’s last words; Charles, his expression blank, hung on every syllable. Then came a long silence; in the bright light spilling through the open door, Tolly’s corpse looked even more obscenely wrong than it had the night before.