Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

"There you are, my dears!"

To Honoria's relief, the Dowager appeared beside them. "If you'll just stand behind the cake. There's a knife there waiting." She shooed them around the table; family and guests crowded around. Their wedding cake stood in pride of place, seven tiers of heavy fruitcake covered with marzipan and decorated with intricate lace. On the top stood a stag, pirouetting on the Cynster shield.

"Good God!" Devil blinked at the creation.

"It's Mrs. Hull's work," Honoria whispered. "Remember to mention it later."

"Make way! Make way!"

The unexpected commotion had all turning. Honoria saw a long thin package waved aloft. Those at the edge of the crowd laughed; comments flew. A corridor opened, allowing the messenger through. It was Lucifer, his mission to deliver the package to Vane, standing before the table opposite Devil. With exaggerated ceremony, Vane accepted the package-a sword in its scabbard-reversing it and presenting it to Devil. "Your weapon, Your Grace."

The ballroom erupted with laughter.

His smile beyond devilish, Devil reached for the hilt. The blade-his cavalry saber-came singing from its sheath. To cheers and all manner of wild suggestions, he brandished it aloft-a piratical bucanneer in the heart of the elegant ton.

Then his eyes met Honoria's. One swift step and he stood behind her, his arms reaching around her. "Wrap your hands about the hilt."

Bemused, Honoria did so, gripping the thick-ridged rod of the hilt with both hands. Devil wrapped his hands about hers-Honoria suddenly felt faint.

A deep, soft chuckle sounded in her right ear. "Just like last night."

Last night-when he'd spent the final night of his bachelorhood with his cousins. Sighting Webster carrying a cask of brandy to the library, Honoria had resigned herself to spending her last night as a spinster alone. She'd retired to her bed and tried to fall asleep, only to discover that she'd become too used to having a large, warm, very hard body in the bed beside her. That same large, warm, very hard body had slipped quietly into her room in the small hours of the morning-and slid beneath the covers. She'd pretended to be asleep, then decided cutting off her nose to spite her face was no fun. She'd made her wishes known.

Only to be informed in a deep, sleepy chuckle, that he was too inebriated to mount her. Fiend that he was, he'd suggested she mount him-and had proceeded to teach her how. One lesson she would never forget.

Only when, utterly exhausted, sated to her toes, she'd collapsed on t

op of him, only to have him take control, pushing her on, possessing her so completely she had all but lost her mind, had she realized that, in keeping with the rest of their bodies, Cynster males also had hard heads. Not thick, not dense-just hard.

The memories poured through her, leaving her weak. Turning her head slightly, she met Devil's eyes-and was immensely glad she hadn't seen his smugly triumphant smile last night; she was seeing enough of it now. It took immense effort to stiffen her spine and close her hands, beneath his, about the saber's hilt, without recalling what it reminded her of. Drawing a deep breath, she poured every ounce of warning she could into her eyes, then looked at the cake. With his help, she raised the saber high.

The blade came singing down; guiding the swing, Devil drew her back, ensuring the saber cut a neat slice in each of the seven layers. Cheers and clapping erupted on all sides; ribald comments flew.

Her knees weak, Honoria fervently prayed everyone present thought those comments were the cause of her flaming cheeks. She prayed even harder that none bar the reprobate she'd married had noticed just where the rounded knob at the end of the sabre's hilt had finally come to rest. Hemmed in by the crowd behind them, they hadn't been able to move far enough back; the knobbed end of the hilt had slipped into the hollow between her thighs.

And for once, she couldn't blame him-the stillness that gripped him, the quick indrawn breath that hissed past her ear, exonerated him; he was as shaken as she. Their eyes met-were hers as nakedly wanting as his? Carefully, he drew the sword from her slackened grasp and handed it to Vane-then swiftly bent his head and brushed her lips with his. "Later."

The whispered word was a promise; Honoria shivered and felt an answering ripple pass through him. Again their eyes met-they both blinked, both drew breath-and turned aside, putting distance between their overcharged bodies.

In a daze, Honoria did the rounds of her Anstruther-Wetherby relations-the uncles and aunts she'd never known, the cousins who now regarded her with something akin to awe. It was a relief to return to the Cynster circle, to the warm smiles, openly affectionate, to the reassuring nods and the unflagging support. She stopped beside Louise; Arthur stood beside her.

Arthur took Honoria's hand. "You make a fine duchess, my dear." Despite the lines grief had etched in his face, as he raised her hand to his lips, Honoria glimpsed the debonair, devil-may-care gentleman he must once have been. "Sylvester's a lucky man."

"I'm sure your nephew appreciates Honoria as he ought," Louise put in from between them.

Arthur smiled-a typical, slow Cynster smile. "Never heard him described as a slow-top." He looked past Honoria. "Ah-here's Charles."

Honoria turned, regally acknowledging Charles as he joined them.

"And there's Lady Perry!" Louise put her hand on Arthur's arm. "Honoria-please excuse us. We must talk to her ladyship before she leaves."

With a smile for Honoria and a cool "Charles" to his son, Arthur yielded to his wife's directions and steered her into the crowd.

Bowing correctly, Charles watched them go, then turned to Honoria. "I'm glad to have a moment to speak with you, Miss-" His features hardened. "Your Grace."

Honoria didn't trust his smile. Their subsequent meetings had not allayed her first instinctive dislike. He was the only Cynster who affected her so-all the rest she instinctively liked. "I had hoped to have the pleasure of a dance with you, sir, but I believe all the dances are done."

He raised a brow, haughty arrogance one of the few Cynster traits he possessed. "I'm afraid you forget, Your Grace-I'm still in mourning." He smoothed his black armband. "The others, of course, have forgotten Tolly, but his loss still greatly affects me."