Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

It took half an hour of thinking of something else before he could risk relaxing. By then she was deeply asleep. Shifting carefully, he settled more comfortably, then noticed the fire was dying. Reaching down, he snagged his jacket, then draped it carefully over his wife-to-be.

Lips curving, he rested his head against the chairback and closed his eyes.

He woke with his cheek pillowed on her curls.

Devil blinked. Sunlight slanted through the shutters. Honoria was still asleep, snuggled against him, legs curled across his thighs. Then he heard the clop of hooves approaching. Vane, no doubt, come to seek him out.

Straightening, Devil winced as cramped muscles protested. His wife-to-be did not stir. Gathering her in his arms, he stood; Honoria mumbled, resettling her head against his shoulder. Devil gently deposited her in the wing chair, tucking his jacket about her. A frown fleetingly puckered her brows as her cheek touched the cold chintz, then her features eased and she slid deeper into sleep.

Devil stretched. Then, running his fingers across his chest, he headed for the door. Yawning, he opened it.

His breath hissed in through his teeth. "Hell and the devil!" Taking stock of the arrivals, he cursed beneath his breath. He'd been right about Vane-his cousin, mounted on a black hunter, had just pulled up. Another horseman halted alongside. Devil's features blanked as he nodded to his only older cousin, Charles-Tolly's half brother.

That, however, was not the worst. From the other bridle path, a party of four trotted forward-Lord Claypole, Lady Claypole, and two grooms.

"Your Grace! How surprising to come upon you here." A sharp-featured woman with crimped hair, Lady Claypole barely glanced at Vane and Charles before returning her gaze to Devil, her protruberant blue eyes widening.

"I was stranded by the storm." Bracing one forearm against the doorframe, Devil blocked the doorway.

"Indeed? Beastly night." Lord Claypole, a short, rotund gentleman, wrestled his bay to a halt. "Might I inquire, Your Grace, if you've seen anything of our governess? Took the gig out to

Somersham yesterday-gig came home without her-haven't seen hide nor hair of her since."

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.