Devil's Bride (6 page)

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 noncompliance 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.

“My
God. Tolly
!” Charles's words were broken. His features crumpled. Covering his face with one hand, he sank to the edge of the pallet.

Devil clenched his jaw, his fists. Death no longer possessed the power to shock him. Grief remained, but that he would handle privately. He was the head of his family—his first duty was to lead. They'd expect it of him—he expected it of himself. And he had Honoria Prudence to protect.

The thought anchored him, helping him pull free of the vortex of grief that dragged at his mind. He hauled in a deep breath, then quietly stepped back, retreating to the clear space before the hearth.

A few minutes later, Vane joined him; he glanced through the open door. “She found him?”

Devil nodded. “Thankfully, she's not the hysterical sort.” They spoke quietly, their tones subdued. Glancing at the bed, Devil frowned. “What's Charles doing here?”

“He was at the Place when I arrived. Says he chased Tolly up here over some business matter. He called at Tolly's rooms—Old Mick told him Tolly had left for here.”

Devil grimaced. “I suppose it's as well that he's here.”

Vane was studying his bare chest. “Where's your shirt?”

“It's the bandage.” After a moment, Devil sighed and straightened. “I'll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to the Place and send a cart.”

“And I'll stay and watch over the body.” A fleeting smile touched Vane's lips.

“You always get the best roles.”

Devil's answering smile was equally brief. “This one comes with a ball and chain.”

Vane's eyes locked on his. “You're serious?”

“Never more so.” Devil glanced at the pallet. “Keep an eye on Charles.”

Vane nodded.

The sunshine outside nearly blinded him. Devil blinked and squinted at the log. It was empty. He cursed and looked again—a terrible thought occurred. What if she'd tried to take Sulieman?

His reaction was instantaneous—the rush of blood, the sudden pounding of his heart. His muscles had already tensed to send him racing to the stable when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

She hadn't gone to the stable. Eyes adjusting to the glare, Devil watched her pace back and forth, a few steps to the side of the log. Her dun-colored gown had blended with the boles of the trees, momentarily camouflaging her. His panic subsiding, he focused his gaze.

Honoria felt it—she looked up and saw him, bare-chested still, the very image of a buccaneer, watching her, unmoving, irritation in every line. Their gazes locked—a second later, she broke the contact. Nose in the air, she stepped gracefully to her right—and sat primly on the log.

He waited, sharp green gaze steady, then, apparently sat-isfied that she'd remain where she'd been put, he headed for the stable.

Honoria ground her teeth, and told herself that he didn't matter. He was an expert in manipulation—and in intimidation—but why should that bother her? She would go to this Place of his, wait for her boxes, and then be on her way. She could spend the time meeting the Dowager Duchess.

At least she'd solved one part of the mystery plaguing her—she'd met her elusive duke. The image she'd carried for the past three days—the image Lady Claypole had painted—of a mild, unassuming, reclusive peer, rose in her mind. The image didn't fit the reality—the duke called Devil was not mild or unassuming. He was a first-class tyrant. And as for Lady Claypole's claim that he was caught in her coils, her ladyship was dreaming.

But at least she'd met her duke, even if she had yet to learn his name. She was, however, having increasing difficulty believing that the notion of introducing himself had not, at some point in the past fifteen hours, passed through his mind. Which was a thought to ponder.

Honoria wriggled, ruing the loss of her petticoat. The log was rough and wrinkly; it was making painful indentations in her flesh. She could see the stable entrance; from the shifting shadows, she surmised Devil was saddling his demon horse. Presumably he would ride to the Place and send conveyances for her and his cousin's body.

With the end of her unexpected adventure in sight, she allowed herself a moment's reflection. Somewhat to her surprise, it was filled with thoughts of Devil. He was overbearing, arrogant, domineering—the list went on. And on. But he was also strikingly handsome, could be charming when he wished and, she suspected, possessed a suitably devilish sense of humor. She'd seen enough of the duke to accord him her respect and enough of the man to feel an empathetic tug. Nevertheless, she had no desire to spend overmuch time in the company of a tyrant called Devil. Gentlemen such as he were all very well—as long as they weren't related to you and kept a respectful distance.