Devil's Bride (32 page)

Honoria blinked. The moonlight found her skin and set it shimmering; behind her, Devil appeared a dense shadow, his hands dark against her body. Honoria licked her lips. “What are you going to do?”

He bent his head and traced one earlobe with his tongue.

“Satisfy you. Release you.” His eyes met hers in the mirror.

“Pleasure you.”

The deep purring murmur sent a sharp thrill racing through her; his hands slid around to cup both breasts—his fingers tightened and she shuddered. “All you have to do is do exactly as I say.” Again he met her gaze. “Keep your eyes open and watch my hands—and concentrate on what you feel, on the sensations . . .”

His words were low, hypnotic; Honoria couldn't drag her eyes from his hands, rhythmically kneading her breasts. She watched his long fingers reach for her nipples; they swirled, then squeezed—sharp shivers lanced through her. She sucked in a short breath and leaned back—and felt his bare chest behind her, crisp hair rasping against her bare shoulders.

His hands left her breasts—she refocused on the mirror. One dark hand splayed across her midriff, holding her against him; the other gripped her gown, gathered in folds about her hips. She realized his intention and stiffened—protest welled, but never made it past her lips. He drew both gown and chemise down, over her hips, baring her, then let them slither to the floor. The costly fabrics pooled about their feet—Honoria ignored them, shocked, entranced, mesmerized by the sight of dark hands freely roaming her body.

She heard a low moan, and knew it was hers. Her head fell back against his shoulder; her spine arched. Her senses, fully alive, registered every touch, every knowing caress; from under weighted lids, she watched every erotic move. Then he shifted, his arms coming around her, surrounding her, his left hand cupping her right breast, his right hand splaying over her stomach. From behind, his knee pressed hers apart; head bent, his lips grazed the soft skin beneath her ear. “Keep watching.”

Honoria did—she watched as his hand slid lower, long fingers tangling in her curls, then sliding further, pressing inward. He touched her softness, found her molten heat and stroked. Breathless, aching, she felt the muscles in his arm shift as he reached further, felt the pressure of his hand between her thighs, felt the slow inexorable invasion as one long finger entered her.

Sensation upon sensation crashed through her; the hand at her breast fondled, fingers finding, then tightening about her budded nipple. Of their own volition, her hands found his, fastening over his broad wrists. The crisp hair of his forearms rasped the soft skin of her inner arms; beneath her fingers, hard muscle and steely sinew played.

Between her thighs, his hand shifted; as one finger slid deep, his thumb pressed, caressed.

Lightning, wildfire—pure streaks of elemental sensation lanced through her; her body tightened, arched; Honoria gasped. His caresses continued, increasingly forceful; within her, sensations swirled, then rose—a vortex of feeling.

“Keep watching.”

Naked, on fire, she dragged her lids open—and saw his hand push deep between her thighs.

A starburst took her—exploded within her. Sensation crystallized, soared, then fractured, a million silver shards raining down, shooting through her, flying down overstretched nerves to melt, tingling, beneath her skin.

Release.

It swept her, washing away her tension, replacing it with a pleasure so deep she thought she'd died. She felt his lips at her temple, felt his hands soften in soothing, intimate caresses. Sweet oblivion claimed her.

When her wits reconnected with reality, Honoria discovered herself fully dressed, leaning against the daybed's back. Before her, Devil stood before the mirror, tying his cravat. She watched his fingers deftly crease and knot the wide folds, and smiled.

In the mirror, Devil's eyes met hers. Her smile widened; he raised a brow.

“I just realized,” she said, leaning more heavily against the daybed, “why you don't have a valet. Being a rake necessarily means you can't rely on the services of a servant to turn you out in trim.”

Settling the ends of his cravat, Devil cast her a jaundiced glance. “Precisely.” He turned. “And if you've returned to the living enough to think that through, we'd better get back to the ballroom.”

He stooped to snatch his coat from the floor; Honoria opened her lips to inform him that she had, indeed, made up her mind, then thought better of it. They'd been away from the ball for too long as it was—this was no longer the time and place. Tomorrow morning would do.

She felt like she was floating, in some strange way sundered from reality. She watched Devil shrug into his coat. As he settled the lapels, something caught her eye. Turning, she peered between the orange trees.

“What is it?” Devil followed her gaze.

“I thought I saw someone, but it must have been a shifting shadow.”

Devil took her hand. “Come—the gossipmongers will have enough to talk about as it is.”

They walked swiftly through the orange grove; a moment later, the latch clicked and all was still. The moon continued to lay its gentle beams in wide swaths across the flagged floor.

A shadow broke the pattern.

The outline of a man was thrown across the grove, distorted to menacing proportions. Then the figure slipped away, around the corner of the orangery, and the shadow was no more.

Moonlight bathed the scene in soft white light, illuminating the orange trees, the wickerwork basket, and the daybed with its rumpled cushions.

“T
hank you, Emmy.” Standing, arms folded, before her sitting-room window, Honoria watched the tweeny tidy her luncheon tray. “Has His Grace returned to the house?”

“I don't believe so, miss.” Emmy straightened, hefting her burden. “I could ask Webster, if you like?”

“No—thank you, Emmy.” Honoria fabricated a smile. “It was merely an idle question.”

Very idle. Turning back to the window, Honoria wondered how much more idleness she could take. They'd returned from Berkeley Square well after three o'clock; sleep, deep and dreamless, had claimed her. Devil's pleasure had obviously agreed with her; on waking, she'd determined to waste no time claiming more. Gowned in one of Celestine's most fetching creations, she'd headed downstairs.

Only to discover the breakfast room empty. Devoid of wolves. Webster informed her that His Grace had broken his fast early and departed for a long drive. After breakfasting in solitary splendor—the Dowager had, the night before, declared her intention of not rising until the afternoon—she'd retreated to her sitting room. To wait. Impatiently.

How dare he demand a declaration from her and then go for a drive? She set her teeth and heard the front door slam. The sound of raised voices reached her. Frowning, she went to the door, opened it, and recognized Webster's voice raised in exclamation.

Webster shaken from his habitual imperturbability? Honoria headed for the stairs. Surely nothing short of catastrophe—

Her breath caught; eyes widening, she picked up her skirts and ran.

Reaching the gallery, she leaned over the rail. The sight that met her eyes was the opposite of reassuring. In the hall below, footmen milled about a ragged figure, supporting, exclaiming. It was Sligo, pale, shaken, one arm in a makeshift sling, cuts and abrasions all over his face.

Her heart in her mouth, Honoria started down the stairs—and heard Devil's voice, deep, strong, a forcefully coherent rumble. Relief hit her so strongly she had to lean on the balustrade to let the giddiness pass. Drawing a steadying breath, she continued down.

Devil strode out of the library; Honoria clutched the banister again. His coat was ripped in countless places, in jagged little tears. His buckskin breeches, usually immaculate, were scraped and dusty, as were his boots. Disheveled black locks framed his frowning face; an angry scatch ran along his jaw.

“Get the sawbones in for Sligo—that shoulder needs setting.”

“But what about
you
, m'lord?” Webster, following on his heels, raised his hands, as if tempted to seize hold of his master.

Devil swung about—and saw Honoria on the stairs. His gaze locked on hers. “There's nothing wrong with me bar a few scratches.” After a moment, he glanced to his left, frowning at Webster. “Stop fussing—Cynsters are invincible, remember?” With that, he set his boot on the first stair. “Just send up some hot water—that's all I need.”

“I'll bring it up directly, Your Grace.” With injured dignity, Webster headed for the kitchens.

Devil climbed the stairs; Honoria waited. There were slivers of wood, some painted, caught in the tears in his coat. Her chest felt so tight it hurt. “What happened?”

Drawing abreast of her, Devil met her gaze. “The axle on my phaeton snapped.”

There were small bloodstains on his shirt; he was moving briskly but without his usual fluid grace. He kept climbing; Honoria turned and followed. “Where?”

“Hampstead Heath.” Without waiting for her next question, he added: “I needed some air, so I went out there and let the horses have their heads. We were flying when the axle went.”

Honoria felt the blood drain from her face. “Went?”

Devil shrugged. “Snapped—there was an almighty crack. We might have hit something, but I don't think we did.”

Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and strode down the corridor; picturing the scene, and not liking what she saw, Honoria hurried in his wake. “Your horses—the bays?”

“No.” Devil threw her a glance. “I had a pair of young blacks put to—to try out their paces.” His features contorted. “I shot one immediately, but I only carry one pistol. Luckily, Sherringham came along—I borrowed his pistol, then he drove us back here.”

“But—” Honoria frowned. “What actually happened?”

A decidedly testy glance found her. “The axle snapped under the box seat—essentially, the phaeton came apart. By hell's own luck, both Sligo and I were thrown free. I bounce better than he does.”

“The carriage?”

“Is kindling.”

They'd reached the end of the long corridor; opening the heavy oak door at its end, Devil strode on. He stopped in the middle of the room, in the center of a richly hued carpet. Lifting one shoulder, he started to ease off his coat—and caught his breath on an indrawn hiss.

“Here.” Behind him, Honoria reached over his shoulders and gently tugged, freeing first one shoulder, then the other, then easing the sleeves off. “Great heavens!” Dropping the ruined coat, she stared.

His shirt was badly torn, the fine linen shredded down the side of his back that had taken the brunt of his fall. The abrasions had bled, as had numerous little cuts. Thankfully, his breeches and boots had provided sterner protection; there were no rips below his waist.

Before she could react, Devil pulled the shirt free of his breeches and hauled it over his head. And froze. Then his head snapped around. “What the devil are you doing here?”

It took a moment to shift her gaze from his bleeding back to his face. The look in his eyes didn't, immediately, make sense, then she looked past him—to the massive, fully canopied four-poster bed that dominated the room. In one swift glance, she took in the sumptuous hangings, all in shades of green, the ornately carved headboard and barley-sugar posts, the silk sheets and thick featherbed and the abundance of soft pillows piled high. Her expression mild, she looked back at him. “Your cuts are bleeding—they need salving.”

Devil swore beneath his breath. “You shouldn't be in here.” He wrestled with his shirt, trying to free his arms.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Honoria caught his hands, now thoroughly tangled; deftly, she unlaced his cuffs. “The circumstances excuse the impropriety.”

Devil stripped the shirt from his wrists and flung it aside. “I am not on my deathbed.”

“You are, however, badly scraped.” Honoria met his gaze calmly. “You can't see it.”

Devil narrowed his eyes at her—then twisted, trying to look over his shoulder. “It doesn't feel that bad—I can take care of it myself.”

“For goodness sake!” Honoria planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Stop acting like a six-year-old—I'm only going to bathe the cuts and apply some salve.”

Devil's head whipped back. “That's just the point—I'm
not
a six-year-old—and I'm not dead, either.”

“Naturally.” Honoria nodded. “You're a Cynster—you're invincible, remember?”

Devil gritted his teeth. “Honoria, if you want to play ministering angel, you can damn well marry me first.”

Honoria lost her temper—she'd been waiting to make the declaration he wanted and he turned up like this! Stepping forward, she planted her index finger in the center of his bare chest. “
If
,” she declared, emphasizing the word with a definite jab. “I
do
decide to marry you.” She tried another jab; when he instinctively stepped back, she closed the distance. “I would want to be
assured
.” Another jab, another step. “That you will behave
reasonably
.” Her finger was starting to ache. “
In
—
all
—
situations
!” Three quick jabs, three quick steps; Devil's legs hit the end of his bed. Honoria pounced. “Like now!” Glaring defiantly up at him, she prodded him one last time. “
Sit!
”