Devil's Bride (25 page)

Ever since their interlude on the terrace at the Place, she'd given him no chance to draw her close; his “
mine
” had effectively quashed her pursuit of his “
pleasure
.” Over the last three days, however, her interest in the subject had returned. Even grown.

Webster opened the door; Honoria swept over the threshold. “If you have a moment, Your Grace, there's a matter I wish to discuss.” Head high, she headed straight for the library door. A footman sprang to open it for her; she glided through—into the devil's lair.

Devil watched her go, his expression unreadable. Then he handed his driving gloves to Webster. “I suspect I won't want to be disturbed.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

Waving aside the hovering footman, Devil entered the library and shut the door.

Honoria stood before the desk, tapping her fingers on its edge. She heard the latch click; turning, she watched Devil slowly approach. “I want to discuss the
ton
's likely reaction when it learns I'm not marrying you.” That seemed a suf-ficiently goading topic.

Devil's brows rose. “Is that what this is about?”

“Yes.” Honoria remembered to frown when he did not halt but continued his prowling advance. “It's pointless to close your eyes to the fact that such an outcome will cause a considerable stir.” She turned to stroll, as slowly as he, around the edge of his desk. “You know perfectly well it will affect not just yourself but the family as well.” Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him some steps behind her, following in her wake. She kept walking. “It's simply not sensible to allow the expectation to build.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Rounding the desk, Honoria continued toward the fire place. “You could hint that matters were not settled between us.”

“On what grounds?”

“How should I know?” She flung a glance over her shoulder. “I'm sure you're imaginative enough to invent something.”

From six feet behind, Devil's gaze remained steady. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why should I invent something?”

“Because . . .” Gesturing vaguely, Honoria walked into the corner of the room. She stopped and stared at the volumes level with her nose. “Because it's necessary.” She drew a deep breath, mentally crossed her fingers, and swung around. “Because I don't want anyone held up to ridicule because of my decision.”

As she'd hoped, Devil was no longer six feet away. His eyes held hers, mere inches distant. “
I'm
the only one risking the
ton
's ridicule. And I'm not about to run shy.”

Honoria narrowed her eyes at him, and tried not to notice she was trapped. “You are without doubt the most impossibly arrogant, conceited—” His eyes dropped from hers—Honoria caught her breath.

“Have you finished?”

The question was uttered in a conversational tone. His lids lifted and he met her gaze; Honoria managed a nod.

“Good.” Again his gaze lowered; one hand rose to frame her face, then he bent his head.

Honoria's lids fell; in the instant his lips closed over hers, she gripped the bookshelves behind her tightly, fighting down her triumph. She'd got her wolf to pounce, and he hadn't even realized he'd been baited.

The thrill of success met the thrill of delight his kiss sent racing through her; she parted her lips, eager to learn of his passion, eager to experience again the pleasure she'd found in his arms. He shifted; she thought he groaned. For one instant, his weight pressed against her as his lips forced hers wider, his tongue tasting her voraciously. The sudden surge of desire surprised her; immediately, he shackled it, drawing back to a slow, steady plundering designed to reduce any resistance to dust.

That instant of raw, primitive emotion spurred Honoria on—she wanted to know it, taste it again; she needed to learn more. Her hands left the bookshelves and slid beneath his coat. His waistcoat effectively shielded his chest; the buttons, thankfully, were large. Her fingers busy, she angled her head against the pressure of his kiss. Their lips shifted, then locked; tentatively, then with greater confidence, she kissed him back.

It had been far too long since he'd kissed her.

Devil knew that was true; he was so famished, so caught up in drinking in the heady taste of her, that long minutes passed before he realized she was responding. Not passively allowing him to kiss her, not even merely offering her lips, her soft mouth. She was kissing him back. With untutored skill maybe, but also with the same determined forthrightness that characterized all she did.

The realization mentally halted him. She pressed closer, deepening the kiss of her own volition—shaking off his distraction, he took all she offered and greedily angled for more. Then he felt her hands on his chest. Palms gliding, fingers spread, she traced the heavy muscles, the fine linen of his shirt no real barrier to her touch.

She was setting him alight! Abruptly, Devil straightened, breaking off their kiss. It didn't work—Honoria's hands slid over his shoulders as she stretched upward against him; who initiated the next kiss was moot. With a groan, Devil took all she gave, his arms closing possessively about her. Did she know what she was doing?

Her eagerness, the alacrity with which she pressed herself against him, suggested she'd forgotten every maidenly precept she'd ever learned. It also suggested it was time to draw her deeper. Setting aside restraint, Devil kissed her deeply, hungrily, as ravenously as he wished, deliberately leaving her breathless. Raising his head, he drew her to the large armchair before the hearth; her hand in his, he freed the last two buttons on his waistcoat, then sat. Looking up at her, he raised one brow.

Her senses whirling, her hand clasped in his, Honoria read the question in his eyes. He'd asked it of her once before:
How much of a woman are you?
Her breasts, already heated, swelled as she drew breath. Deliberately, she stepped about his knees and sat, turning to him, sliding her hands over his chest, pushing his waistcoat wide.

Under her hands, his chest expanded; his lips found hers as he lifted her, settling her in his lap. A fleeting thought impinged on Honoria's mind—that she'd been here, like this, before. She dismissed it as nonsense—she could never have forgotten the sensation of being surrounded by him, his thighs hard beneath her, his arms a cage about her, his chest a fascinating wall of hard, shifting muscle bands over even harder bone. She pressed her hands against it, then slid them around, reaching as far as she could. His hands at her back urged her closer; her breasts brushed his chest. Then he changed the angle of their kiss and shifted her, laying her back against one arm.

Immediately, the tenor of their kiss changed; his tongue glided sensuously over hers, then alongside—she sensed his invitation. Responding, she was drawn deep into an intimate game, of thrust and parry, of artlessly evocative caresses, of steadily escalating desire. When his hand closed over her breast, she arched; his long fingers found her nipple, tantalizingly circling it before closing in a firm caress, which only left her aching for more.

Instead, his hand left her; her lips trapped beneath his, Honoria was considering pulling away to protest, when she felt her bodice give. An instant later, his hand slid beneath the twill, cupping her breast fully.

Heat seared her; as his fingers closed, then stroked, her breast grew heavy. Honoria tried to break their kiss to catch her breath; he refused to let her go, deepening the kiss instead as she felt his fingers tangle with the silk ribbons of her chemise. Giddy, her senses reeling, she felt the ribbons give, felt the silk shift and slide—then his hand, his fingers, stroked her bare skin, intimately, unhurriedly.

Sweet fever rose and spread through her; her senses sang. Every particle of awareness she possessed was fixed on where he caressed her. With each questing sweep of his fingers, he knew her more.

Devil broke their heady kiss so that he could move her back slightly and shift his attentions to her other breast. She dragged in a shuddering breath, but kept her eyes shut and didn't protest; lips curving, he gave her what she wanted. Her skin was smooth as satin, rich to the touch; his fingertips tingled as he stroked her, his palm burned when he cupped the soft weight. Her height belied her curvaceousness; each breast filled his palm, a satisfyingly sensual sensation. His only complaint was that he couldn't see what his fingers traced; her carriage dress was too stiff, the style too well cut, to brush her bodice aside.

He returned to the first breast; his fingers tightened. Honoria's eyes glinted from beneath her lashes. He caught her gaze. “I want you, sweet Honoria.” Gravelly with leashed desire, his voice was very deep. “I want to watch you, naked, writhing in my arms. I want to see you, naked, spread beneath me.”

Honoria couldn't stop the shiver that raced through her. Eyes trapped in his, she struggled to draw breath, struggled to steady her giddy head. The planes of his face were hard-edged; desire glowed in his eyes. His fingers shifted; a shaft of pure delight streaked through her. She shivered again.

“There's much more that I can teach you. Marry me, and I'll show you all the pleasure I can give you—and all that you can give me.”

If she'd needed any warning of how dangerous he was, how intent he was, it was there in that last phrase; Honoria heard his possessiveness ring. Any pleasure he gave her she would pay for—but would possessing her truly be such pleasure to him? And, given all she now knew, was being possessed, by him, any longer a destiny to be feared? Breathing shallowly, she raised her hand and sent it skating over his chest. Muscles shifted, then locked. Other than a hardening of his features, his face showed no reaction.

Honoria smiled knowingly; raising her hand, she boldly traced his jaw, traced the sensual line of his lips.

“No—I will go upstairs, I think.”

They both froze, eyes locked on the other's. The Dowager's voice carried clearly from the hall as she issued instructions to Webster, then heels clicked as she swept past the library door.

Eyes wide, excruciatingly aware that his hand lay firm about her naked breast, Honoria swallowed. “I think I'd better go up.” How long had they been here, scandalously dallying?

Devil's smile turned devilish. “In a minute.”

It wasn't one, but ten. When she finally climbed the stairs, Honoria felt like she was floating. Reaching the gallery, she frowned. Devil's pleasure, she suspected, could be seriously addictive; of his possessiveness she had not a doubt. But passion?—that should be intense, uncontrollable, explosively powerful; Devil had been in control throughout. Her frown deepening, she shook her head and headed for the morning room.

“I
don't
believe
it!” Seated before her escritoire, Honoria stared at the single sheet of parchment in her hand. For the third time, she read the simple message, then, her jaw setting ominously, she rose and, letter in hand, headed for the library.

She didn't knock. She flung the door wide and marched in. Devil, seated in his accustomed place, raised his brows.

“I take it there's a problem.”

“Indeed.” Honoria's eyes glittered. “
This!
” With a flourish, she deposited her letter on the desk. “Explain
that
, if you would, Your Grace.”

Devil picked up the letter and scanned it, lips firming as he realized its content. Dropping it on the blotter, he leaned back, studying Honoria still standing before the desk, arms crossed, eyes flashing—the very image of an intemperate virago. “I didn't actually think you'd ask.”

“
Didn't think I'd ask?
” The look she bent on him over-flowed with incredulous scorn. “When I spend a small fortune at a modiste's, I expect to receive a bill. Of
course
I asked!”

Devil glanced at the letter. “It appears you received an answer.”

“Not an answer I wished to receive.” Turning to pace, skirts swishing, Honoria paused long enough to inform him through clenched teeth: “It is, as you very well know, totally unacceptable for you to pay for my wardrobe.”

“Why?”

Dumbfounded, she stopped and stared. “
Why?
” Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “You've been dealing with ladybirds too long, Your Grace. While it may be
de rigueur
to lavish Celestine's best on such women, it is not accepted practice for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for ladies of character.”

“While I naturally hesitate to contradict you, Honoria Prudence, you're wrong on both counts.” With unruffleable sangfroid, Devil picked up his pen, and his next letter. “It's perfectly acceptable for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for their wives. Ask any of
Maman's
acquaintances—I'm sure they'll verify that fact.” Honoria opened her mouth—he continued before she could speak: “And as for the other, I haven't.”