Devil's Bride (30 page)

“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
.

A
s 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 his 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.

Half-trapped beneath him, Honoria arched, responding to the intimacy, the steadily growing heat. Desire, a palpable entity, welled and swelled; she squirmed, silk sliding sensuously between them, then moaned and tugged against his hold. He broke their kiss only long enough to say: “No.”

Twisting her head, she avoided his lips. “I only want to touch you.”

“Forget it,” he grated. He was dangerously overheated, driven by a desire he'd seriously underestimated; her wandering hands would be the last straw.

“Why?” Honoria tested his grip, then twisted, trying to gain greater purchase; one soft thigh pressed close, then slid downward, provocatively stroking that part of his anatomy he was desperately trying to ignore.