Devil's Bride (33 page)

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 and 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?”

Charles did; despite his initial stiffness, even Richard studied his eldest cousin's style. Shooting was one of the few gentlemanly pursuits Charles shared with the members of the Bar Cynster; pistol shooting was an activity at which he excelled. Charles accepted Devil's easy compliments as his due, but after twenty minutes recalled another engagement and took his leave.

Watching Charles's retreating back, Richard shook his head. “If he wasn't such a prig, he might be bearable.”

Devil studied the score sheets. “What's the tally?”

“I lost count when Charles appeared.” Richard glanced at the sheets, then grimaced. “You probably won—you usually do.”

“Let's declare it a draw.” Devil laid the pistols aside. “For me, it served its purpose.”

“Which was?” Brows rising, Richard followed Devil from the stall.

“Distraction.” With a nod for Manton, who smiled and bowed in return, Devil led the way from the gallery.

Richard ambled in his wake, coming up with him on the pavement. Glancing into Devil's frowning face, Richard raised his brows higher. “Well, you're certainly that.”

Devil blinked and focused. “What?”

“Distracted.”

Devil grimaced. “It's just that . . . I've forgotten something—something about Tolly's murder.”

Instantly, Richard sobered. “Something important?”

“I've an ominous feeling it might be crucial, but everytime I try to catch hold of it, it slips back into the mist.”

“Stop trying so hard.” Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Go talk to Honoria Prudence—distract yourself some more.” He grinned. “Your vital clue will probably come to mind in the most unlikely situation.”

Stifling the impulse to inform his brother that it was Honoria Prudence he needed distracting from, Devil nodded. They parted, Richard heading for his lodgings, Devil striding along the pavements toward Grosvenor Square.

In his present condition, the walk wouldn't hurt.

The wind had risen by the time Devil reached his front door in the small hours of the morning. After leaving Richard, he'd returned home only to dress for the evening. Like most of his recent evenings, the past night had been devoted to what, borrowing Honoria's description, he now mentally dubbed “Lucifer's discreditable rumor.” It was not something he or his cousins could investigate directly—their views were too widely known. No one would talk openly in their presence for fear of repercussions. Which meant he'd had to find a pawn to do their investigating for them—he'd finally settled on one Viscount Bromley. His lordship was bored, dissipated, a hardened gamester, always on the lookout for distraction.

A renowned cardplayer himself, Devil had found no dif-ficulty in dangling the right lure before his lordship's nose. As of tonight, the viscount was well on the way to losing his shirt. After which, his lordship was going to prove exceedingly helpful. And after that, he'd probably never play piquet again.

Grinning grimly, Devil paused, latchkey in hand; eyes narrowing, he scanned the night sky. It was dark, but not so dark he couldn't see the thunderheads rolling in, lowering blackly over the housetops.

He quickly let himself in. He hoped Webster had remembered his instructions.

The storm broke with an almighty crash.

It flung Honoria straight into hell. Only this time, it was a different hell, with a different scene of carnage.

From above, she looked down on the wreck of a carriage, all splintered wood and crushed leather seats. The horses, tangled and torn, were screaming. Beside the carriage lay the figure of a man, sprawled, long limbs flung in impossible angles. Black locks covered his eyes; his face was pale as death.

He lay unmoving, with the absolute stillness of one gone from this world.

The black misery that welled from Honoria's heart was stronger than ever before. It caught her, effortlessly whirled her, then dragged her down into a vortex of desolation, the vale of unending tears.

He was gone—and she couldn't breathe, couldn't find voice to protest, could find no strength to call him back. With a choking sob, hands outstretched, beseeching the gods, she stepped forward.

Her fingers met solid flesh. Warm flesh.

“Hush.”

The nightmare shattered; despair howled, then slid away, slinking back into the darkness, relinquishing its hold. Honoria woke.

She was not in her bed but standing before the window, her feet cold on the boards. Outside, the wind shrieked; she flinched as rain stung the pane. Her cheeks were wet with tears she couldn't recall shedding; her fine lawn nightgown was no match for the room's chill. She shivered.

Warm arms surrounded her, steadied her. Wonderingly, she looked up—for one instant, she wasn't sure which was reality and which the dream—then the heat reaching through his fine shirt registered. With a sob, she flung herself against him.

“It's all right.” Devil closed his arms about her; with one hand, he stroked her hair. She was quivering; her fists, tight balls, clutched his shirt. Slipping his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair, he stroked her nape, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. “It's all right.”

She shook her head furiously. “It's
not
all right.” Her voice was choked, muffled in his chest. Devil felt her tears, hot against his skin. Gripping his shirt, she tried, ineffectually, to shake him. “You were
killed
! Dead.”