Devil's Bride (9 page)

He followed. “This is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, Webster.” He looked her way; Honoria glimpsed triumph in his eyes. “She'll be staying—her boxes should arrive this morning.”

Webster bowed low. “I'll have your things taken to your room, miss.”

Stiffly, Honoria inclined her head—her heart was still fluttering in her throat; her skin felt hot and cold in the strangest places. She couldn't fault the butler's demeanor; he seemed unsurprised by his master's lack of attire. Was she the only one who found his bare chest at all remarkable? Stifling an urge to sniff disbelievingly, she elevated her nose another inch and looked about the hall.

The impression created by the exterior extended within doors. A sense of graciousness pervaded the high-ceilinged hall, lit by sunlight pouring through the fanlight and the windows flanking the front doors. The walls were papered—blue fleur-de-lis on an ivory ground; the paneling, all light oak, glowed softly. Together with the blue-and-white tiles, the decor imparted an airy, uncluttered atmosphere. Stairs of polished oak, their baluster ornately carved, led upward in a long, straight sweep, then divided into two, both arms leading to the gallery above.

Webster had been informing his master of the presence of his cousins. Devil nodded curtly. “Where's the Dowager?”

“In the morning room, Your Grace.”

“I'll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to her. Wait for me.”

Webster bowed.

The devil glanced down at her. With a languid grace that set her nerves on end, he gestured for her to accompany him. She was still quivering inside—she told herself it was due to indignation. Head high, she swept down the hall.

His instruction to his butler to wait had recalled what their sparring had driven from her mind. As they neared the morning-room door, it occurred to Honoria that she might have been arguing for no real reason. Devil reached for the doorknob, his fingers closing about hers—she tugged. He looked up, incipient impatience in his eyes.

She smiled understandingly. “I'm sorry—I'd forgotten. You must be quite distracted by your cousin's death.” She spoke softly, soothingly. “We can discuss all this later, but there's really no reason for us to wed. I daresay, once the trauma has passed, you'll see things as I do.”

He held her gaze, his eyes as blank as his expression. Then his features hardened. “Don't count on it.” With that, he set the door wide and handed her through. He followed, closing the door behind him.

A petite woman, black hair streaked with grey, was seated in a chair before the hearth, a hoop filled with embroidery on her lap. She looked up, then smiled—the most gloriously welcoming smile Honoria had ever seen—and held out her hand. “There you are, Sylvester. I'd wondered where you'd got to. And who is this?”

His mother's French background rang clearly in her accent; it also showed in her coloring, in the hair that had once been as black as her son's combined with an alabaster complexion, in the quick, graceful movements of her hands, her animated features and the candid, appraising glance that swept Honoria.

Inwardly ruing her hideously creased skirts, Honoria kept her head high as she was towed across the room. The Dowager hadn't so much as blinked at her son's bare chest.

“
Maman
.” To her surprise, her devilish captor bent and kissed his mother's cheek. She accepted the tribute as her due; as he straightened, she fixed him with a questioning glance every bit as imperious as he was arrogant. He met it blandly. “You told me to bring you your successor the instant I found her. Allow me to present Miss Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby.” Briefly, he glanced at Honoria. “The Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.” Turning back to his mother, he added: “Miss Anstruther-Wetherby was residing with the Claypoles—her boxes will arrive shortly. I'll leave you to get acquainted.”

With the briefest of nods, he proceeded to do just that, closing the door firmly behind him. Stunned, Honoria glanced at the Dowager, and was pleased to see she wasn't the only one left staring.

Then the Dowager looked up and smiled—warmly, wel-comingly, much as she had smiled at her son. Honoria felt the glow touch her heart. The Dowager's expression was understanding, encouraging. “Come, my dear. Sit down.” The Dowager waved to the
chaise
beside her chair. “If you have been dealing with Sylvester, you will need the rest. He is often very trying.”

Resisting the temptation to agree emphatically, Honoria sank onto the chintz.

“You must excuse my son. He is somewhat . . .” The Dowager paused, clearly searching for the right word. She grimaced. “
Detresse´
.”

“I believe he has a number of matters on his mind.”

The Dowager's fine brows rose. “His mind?” Then she smiled, eyes twinkling as they rested once more on Honoria's face. “But now, my dear, as my so-
detresse´
son has decreed, we will get acquainted. And as you are to be my daughter-in-law, I will call you Honoria.” Again, her brows rose. “Is that not right?”

Her name became “ 'Onoria”—the Dowager couldn't manage the “H.” Honoria returned her smile, and sidestepped the leading question. “If you wish it, ma'am.”

The Dowager's smile grew radiant. “My dear, I wish it with all my heart.”

A
fter an hour of subtle interrogation, Honoria escaped the Dowager, pleased that, while she'd parted with her life history, she'd successfully avoided all mention of Tolly's death. Shown to an elegant suite, she washed and changed; her self-confidence renewed, she descended—into mayhem.

The magistrate had arrived; while Devil dealt with him, Vane had broken the news to the Dowager. When Honoria entered the drawing room, the Dowager was in full histrionic spate. While grief was certainly present, it had been overtaken by indignant fury.

Instantly, the Dowager appealed to her for details. “You need not apologize for not telling me before. I know just how it was—that oh-so-male son of mine sought to keep the matter from me, Cynster that he is.” Waved to a chair, Honoria dutifully complied. She'd barely finished her tale when the scrunch of wheels on gravel heralded Devil's reappearance.

“What's the verdict?” Vane asked.

Devil met his gaze levelly. “Death through shooting by some person unknown. Possibly a highwayman.”

“A highwayman?” Honoria stared at him.

Devil shrugged. “Either that or a poacher.” He turned to the Dowager. “I've sent for Arthur and Louise.”

Lord Arthur Cynster and his wife Louise proved to be Tolly's parents.

There followed a detailed discussion of who to notify, the appropriate arrangements, and how to accommodate the expected crowd, which encompassed a goodly proportion of the
ton
. While Devil undertook the first two aspects, organizing rooms and sustenance fell to the Dowager.

Despite her firm intention to remain aloof from Devil's family, Honoria simply could not stand by and allow such a weight to descend on the Dowager's fragile shoulders. Especially not when she was more than well qualified to lighten the load. As, however reluctantly, an Anstruther-Wetherby who had been present when Tolly had died, she would be expected to attend the funeral; she would need to remain at the Place at least until after that. That being so, there was no reason not to offer her aid. Besides which, to sit idly in her room while about her the household ran frantic, would be entirely beyond her.

Within minutes, she was immersed in lists—initial lists, then derived lists and eventually lists for cross-checking. The afternoon and evening passed in intense activity; Webster and the housekeeper, a matronly woman known as Mrs. Hull, coordinated the execution of the Dowager's directives. An army of maids and footmen labored to open up rooms. Helpers from the nearby farms tramped in to assist in the kitchens and stables. Yet all the bustle was subdued, somber; not a laugh was heard nor a smile seen.

Night fell, restless, disturbed; Honoria awoke to a dull day. A funereal pall had settled over the Place—it deepened with the arrival of the first carriage.

The Dowager met it, taking her grieving sister-in-law under her wing. Honoria slipped away, intending to seek refuge in the summerhouse by the side of the front lawn. She was halfway across the lawn when she caught sight of Devil, heading her way through the trees. He had gone with the chaplain, Mr. Merryweather, and a party of men to mark out the grave. Devil had seen her; Honoria halted.

He came striding out of the shade, long legs encased in buckskin breeches and shiny top boots. His fine white shirt with billowing sleeves, opened at the throat, was topped by a leather waistcoat. Despite his less-than-conventional attire, with his dramatic coloring, he still looked impressive—and every inch a pirate.

His gaze traveled swiftly over her, taking in her gown of soft lavender-grey, a color suitable for half-mourning. His expression was set, impassive, yet she sensed his approval.

“Your aunt and uncle have arrived.” She made the statement while he was still some yards away.

One black brow quirked; Devil didn't pause. “Good morning, Honoria Prudence.” Smoothly collecting her hand, he placed it on his arm and deftly turned her back toward the house. “I trust you slept well?”

“Perfectly, thank you.” With no choice offering, Honoria strolled briskly beside him. She suppressed an urge to glare. “I haven't made you free of my name.” Devil looked toward the drive. “An oversight on your part, but I'm not one to stand on ceremony. I take it
Maman
has my aunt in hand?” Her eyes on his, Honoria nodded.

“In that case,” Devil said, looking ahead, “I'll need your help.” Another crepe-draped carriage came into view, rolling slowly toward the steps. “That will be Tolly's younger brother and sisters.”

He glanced at Honoria; she exhaled and inclined her head. Lengthening their strides, they reached the drive as the carriage rocked to a halt.

The door burst open; a boy jumped down. Eyes wide, he looked dazedly toward the house. Then he heard their footsteps and swung their way. Slender, quivering with tension, he faced them, his face leached of all color, his lips pinched. Recognition flared in his tortured eyes. Honoria saw him tense to fly to Devil, but he conquered the impulse and straightened, swallowing manfully.

Devil strode to the boy, dropping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. “Good lad.”

He looked into the carriage, then beckoned to the occupants. “Come.”

He lifted first one silently sobbing girl, then another, down. Both possessed a wealth of chestnut ringlets and delicate complexions, presently blotchy. Four huge blue eyes swam in pools of tears; their slender figures shook with their sobs. They were, Honoria judged, about sixteen—and twins. Without any show of consciousness or fear, they clung to Devil, arms locking about his waist.

One arm about each, Devil turned them to face her. “This is Honoria Prudence—Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to you. She'll look after you both.” He met Honoria's gaze. “She knows how it feels to lose someone you love.”

Both girls and the boy were too distressed to render the prescribed greeting. Honoria didn't wait for it but smoothly took her cue. Devil deftly detached himself from the girls' clinging arms; gliding forward, she took his place. Slipping a comforting arm around each girl, she turned them toward the house. “Come—I'll show you to your room. Your parents are already inside.”

They allowed her to shepherd them up the steps. Honoria was aware of their curious glances.

On the porch, both girls paused, gulping back their tears. Honoria cast a swift glance behind and saw Devil, his back to them, one arm draped across the boy's slight shoulders, head bent as he spoke to the lad. Turning back, she gathered her now shivering charges and urged them on.

Both balked.

“Will we have to . . . I mean—” One glanced up at her.

“Will we have to look at him?” the other forced out. “Is his face badly damaged?”

Honoria's heart lurched; sympathy—long-buried empathy—welled. “You won't have to see him if you don't want to.” She spoke softly, reassuringly. “But he looks wonderfully peaceful—just like I imagine he always did. Handsome and quietly happy.”

Both girls stared at her, hope in their eyes.

“I was there when he died,” Honoria felt compelled to add.

“You were?” There was surprise and a touch of youthful skepticism in their tones.

“Your cousin was there as well.”

“Oh.” They glanced back at Devil, then both nodded.

“And now we'd better get you settled.” Honoria glanced back; a maid had hopped down from the carriage; footmen had materialized and were unstrapping boxes from the boot and the roof. “You'll want to wash your faces and change before the rest of the family arrives.”

With sniffs and watery smiles for Webster, encountered in the hall, they allowed her to usher them upstairs.