Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Biting her tongue, Honoria inclined her head. Of all the Cynsters present, only Charles and his father still wore black armbands.

"But I believe congratulations are de rigueur."

Charles's odd phrasing had her regarding him in surprise. He nodded superciliously. "I'm sure you recall the substance of our earlier conversation-in light of the reservations I expressed to you then, I most sincerely hope you do not live to regret your new state." Honoria stiffened.

Scanning the crowd, Charles didn't notice. "But however that may be, I do wish you well-if knowing Sylvester all his life makes me hesitant as to his constancy, I ask you to believe that that circumstance in no way lessens the sincerity of my hopes for your happiness."

"Yet, if I understand you correctly, you don't believe such happiness likely." Honoria watched as her words sank in-slowly, Charles brought his gaze back to her face. His eyes were pale, cold, oddly expressionless.

"Your actions have been most unwise. You should not have married Sylvester."

Quite what she would have replied to such an outrageous assertion Honoria never discovered-Amelia and Amanda, both still in alt, came rushing up in a froth of muslin skirts.

"Aunt Helena says you should move to the door-some of the guests are starting to leave."

Honoria nodded. From the corner of her eye, she saw Charles draw back.

"By your leave, Your Grace." With a half-bow to her and a curt nod for his half sisters, he turned on his heel and walked off.

Amanda pulled a face at his back, then linked her arm in Honoria's. "He's such a stuffy old shirt-he never enjoys anything."

"Sententious," Amelia pronounced, taking Honoria's other arm. "Now-where should you stand, do you think?" The short December day drew swiftly to a close; when the clock on the stairs chimed five, it was full dark outside. Standing on the porch by Devil's side, waving the last of the carriages away, Honoria inwardly sighed. Meeting Devil's eyes, she smiled and turned back to the hall. He fell in beside her, capturing her hand, long fingers twining. Most of the family would remain until the next day; they'd retreated to the drawing room, leaving them to do the honors alone. Immediately before the door, Devil halted. Honoria perforce halted, too, and looked up. A slow smile greeted her. Raising her hand, Devil brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Well, my dear duchess?" With his other hand, he tipped her chin up-and up; automatically she rose on her toes.

He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, then more deeply. When he lifted his head, they were both heated once more.

Honoria blinked at him. "There's dinner yet."

His smile deepened. "They're not expecting us to show." He drew her across the threshold. "This is where we slip away."

Honoria's lips formed a silent "Oh"; the hall, empty but for Webster, busy closing the door, suggested that her husband, as usual, had the procedure right. When he raised a brow, she acquiesced with a nod; calmly serene, she climbed the stairs by his side. They'd retired together often enough in the past weeks for her to feel no qualms.

A state of affairs that lasted all the way to the top of the stairs. That was when she turned right, toward the corridor that led to her rooms.

Devil's hold on her hand brought her up short. She turned in surprise-only to see him lift one brow, his gaze very green. He shook his head. "Not anymore."

Realization hit. Honoria nodded. Head high, outwardly assured, she allowed him to lead her through the gallery, into the corridor leading to the ducal apartments. Inwardly, her nerves had come alive, fluttering in ever-decreasing spirals until they tensed into knots.

It was ridiculous, she told herself, and struggled to ignore the sensation.

She'd been to the duchess's apartments only once, to approve the new color scheme-all rich creams, soft topaz, and old gold, complementing the warm patina of polished oak. Opening her door, Devil ushered her in; Honoria blinked at the blaze that greeted her.

Lighted candelabra graced the dressing table, the mantelshelf, a chest of drawers, an escritoire against one wall, and a tantalus set before one window. In their glare, the room appeared much as she'd last seen it, with the huge, canopied bed in pride of place between the long windows. The only new items were the urn of flowers, all yellow and white, that sat upon one chest, her brushes, gleaming silver on the polished dressing table,

and her nightgown of ivory silk with its matching peignoir, laid out upon the bed.

Cassie must have put it there; Honoria certainly hadn't thought of it. She wondered if the candelabra were Cassie's idea, too-then noticed Devil seemed unsurprised. Strolling into the room, drawing her with him, he stopped before the fireplace, and drew her smoothly into his arms.

Any doubt of his intent fled before his kiss, full of barely restrained hunger and an ardor to set her alight. She sank against him, his instantaneous response driving her to take the pleasure he offered and return it fullfold. Her head was swimming, her limbs turned to water, when he raised his head. "Come. Our children can be born in your bed-we'll beget them in mine."

He swung her into his arms; Honoria twined her arms about his neck. With impatient stride, he carried her to a paneled door, left ajar, shouldering it open, revealing the short corridor that led to his room. "What was that all about?" she asked. "The candelabra?"

Devil glanced down at her; the corridor was dim, but she saw his teeth gleam. "Diversionary tactics."

She would have asked for clarification, but all thoughts of candles went winging from her head as he carried her into his room.

His room in London was large-this room was immense. The bed that stood against the near wall was the biggest she'd ever seen. Long windows marched along both sides and filled the wall opposite the bed; this room was at the end of the wing-with the curtains open, it was flooded with moonlight, turning the pale greens of the furnishings to muted silver.

Devil carried her around the bed, setting her on her feet where the moon cast a shimmering swath across the floor. Her wedding gown, layer upon layer of wide Mechlin lace, sparkled and shivered. He straightened, his gaze drawn to where the lace rose and fell; he cupped one soft mound and felt it firm. His fingers searched, finding the tightening peak and caressing it to pebbled hardness.