Closing the door, he looked down at her. "You shouldn't be alone with me. Especially not in a bedroom."
She held his gaze; he struggled to keep his eyes on hers rather than focus on her swelling breasts, rising as she drew in a long, rigidly controlled breath. Lips compressed, she held it in, along with her temper.
Not at all innocently, he raised a brow at her.
Her eyes spat sparks. So fleeting was the sight, he could almost think he'd imagined it; his body's reaction confirmed he hadn't. In the next instant, her eyes once more dark pools of calm composure, her expression, as it so often was, deceptively serene, she inclined her head and turned down the corridor.
"Thank you for the warning." Her words drifted back to him. "You may tell Papa your name directly. If you'll follow me?" Head high, she moved toward the stairs.
Lucifer watched her hips sway, unconsciously seductive, the delectable hemispheres of her derriere and the graceful lines of her legs occasionally outlined by her gown. Lips lifting, he stepped out in her wake, very ready to oblige.
The room she led him to gave onto the back lawn and onto the terrace along the side of the house. The long windows were open, letting the balmy breeze bring the summer day inside. A family group was gathered about the tea trolley, stationed in front of a chaise. A middle-aged lady with a hard expression wielded the teapot; beside her, a dandy, her son by his features, lounged petulantly. On her other side, a younger gentleman slouched-another son, this one sulky. No wonder the lady looked so worn down.
Two other gentlemen stood beside the chaise. The younger, an insouciant male version of Phyllida, grinned engagingly. The older man, large and dressed in country tweeds, studied Lucifer from under shaggy brows.
Preceding Lucifer into the room, Phyllida waved to this gentleman. "Papa?"
Lucifer
joined her as she halted before her father. She slanted him a glance. "Allow me to present…"
He smiled, then turned to her father and held out his hand. "Alasdair Cynster, sir. But most call me Lucifer."
"Lucifer, heh?" Sir Jasper shook hands without any evidence of disquiet. "What names you youngsters do take. Now! How're you feeling?"
"Much better, thanks to your daughter's care."
Sir Jasper smiled on Phyllida, who had turned to the tea trolley. "Aye, well, that was a nasty blow, no doubt of that. Now let me make you known to m'sister-in-law; then we'll take our tea and you can tell me all you know about this distressing business."
His sister-in-law, Lady Huddlesford, summoned a smile and held out her hand. "I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Cynster."
Lucifer politely shook hands. Sir Jasper gestured to the dandy. "M'nephew, Percy Tallent."
Percy, it transpired, was her ladyship's son by her first marriage to Sir Jasper's late brother. One minute of affected conversation and Lucifer had Percy pegged-he was on a repairing lease. Nothing else could account for his presence in rural Devon. His sullen half brother, Frederick Huddlesford, openly stared at Lucifer's well-cut coat, hard pressed, it seemed, to marshal the words for even a simple greeting.
With a nod, Lucifer turned to the young man so like Phyllida, who promptly grinned and stuck out his hand. "Jonas. Phyllida's little brother."
Clasping the proffered hand, Lucifer smiled and raised his brows. Loose-limbed, with the same careless grace that characterized his sister, Jonas stood a good six inches taller than she. Lucifer glanced at her as she straightened from the tea trolley. For all his transparent, good-natured insousiance, Jonas didn't appear younger than she.
Phyllida caught his glance; her chin rose. "We're twins, but I'm the elder."
"Ah. I see. Always the leader."
Her brows rose haughtily. Jonas chuckled.
So did Sir Jasper. "Quite, quite. Phyllida keeps us all in line-don't know what we'd do without her. Now"-he waved to a grouping of chairs at the end of the room-"let's move down there and you can tell me what you can about this terrible business."
As he turned, Lucifer felt Phyllida's gaze on his face.
"Indeed, Papa. I do think Mr. Cynster should sit down. I'll bring you your cups."
Sir Jasper nodded. Lucifer followed him down the room. They settled in wing chairs angled to each other, a small table between. The length of the room assured them of privacy; the others watched them go, their curiosity palpable, then reluctantly returned to their own company.
As he gingerly rested his head back on the chair's cushion, Lucifer considered Sir Jasper. His host was a type he knew well. Men like him were the backbone of county England. Bluffly good-natured, genial if unimaginative, they were, nevertheless, no one's fools. They could be counted on to hold the line, to do whatever needed to be done to keep their community stable, yet they had no taste for power; it was appreciation of their comfort plus trenchant common sense that drove them.
Lucifer glanced at Phyllida, busy at the tea trolley. Like father, like daughter? He suspected so, at least in part.
"So"-Sir Jasper stretched out his legs-"are you familiar with Devon?"