Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Abruptly, Lady Claypole switched her gaze to Honoria. "Is this true, miss? Or is it merely a piece of flummery you've succeeded in coaxing His Grace to swallow?"

His Grace? For one discrete instant, Honoria's brain reeled. She glanced sideways at the devil beside her-his eyes, cool green, fleetingly met hers. In that moment, she would have given all she possessed to rid herself of everyone else and take to him as he deserved. Instead, she lifted her chin and calmly regarded Lady Claypole. "As His Grace," she invested the title with subtle emphasis, "has seen fit to inform you, I am, indeed, one of the Anstruther-Wetherbys. I choose to make little of the connection, to avoid unwarranted, ill-bred interest."

The comment failed to rout her ladyship. "I really don't know how I'm going to explain this to my daughters."

"I suggest, madam,"-his gaze on Lady Claypole's face, Devil caught Honoria's hand, squeezing her fingers warningly as he raised them to his lips-"that you inform your daughters that they've had the honor of being instructed, albeit for so short a time, by my duchess."

"Your duchess!" The exclamation burst from three throats-of the gentry, only Vane Cynster remained silent.

Honoria's brain reeled again; the grip on her fingers tightened. Her expression serene, her lips gently curved, she glanced affectionately at her supposed fiance's face; only he could see the fell promise in her eyes.

"Really, Your Grace! You can't have considered." Lady Claypole had paled. "This matter hardly warrants such a sacrifice-I'm sure Miss Wetherby will be only too happy to reach some agreement…"

Her voice trailed away, finally silenced by the expression on Devil's face. For one, long minute, he held her paralyzed, then switched his chill gaze to Lord Claypole. "I had expected, my lord, that I could count on you and your lady to welcome my duchess." The deep flat tones held a definite menace.

Lord Claypole swallowed. "Yes indeed! No doubt of it-none whatever. Er…" Gathering his reins, he reached for his wife's. "Felicitations and all that-daresay we should get on. If you'll excuse us, Your Grace? Come, m'dear." With a yank, his lordship turned both his and his wife's horses; with remarkable speed, his party quit the clearing.

Relieved, Honoria studied the remaining horsemen. One glance was enough to identify the one nearest as a relative of… the duke called Devil. Her mind tripped on the thought, but she couldn't catch the connection. The horseman in question turned his head; hands negligently crossed on the pommel, he was strikingly handsome. His coloring-brown hair, brown brows-was less dramatic than Devil's, but he seemed of similar height and nearly as large as the man beside her. They shared one, definitive characteristic-the simple act of turning his head had been invested with the same fluid elegance that characterized all Devil's movements, a masculine grace that titillated the senses.

The horseman's gaze traveled rapidly over her-one comprehensive glance-then, lips curving in a subtle smile, he looked at Devil. "I take it you don't need rescuing?"

Voice and manner confirmed their relationship beyond question.

"Not rescuing-there's been an accident. Come inside."

The horseman's gaze sharpened; Honoria could have sworn some unspoken communication passed between him and Devil. Without another word, the horseman swung down from his saddle.

Revealing his companion, still atop his horse. An older man with pale thinning hair, he was heavily built, his face round, his features more fleshy than the aquiline planes of the other two men. He, too, met Devil's eye, then he hauled in a breath and dismounted. "Who are they?" Honoria whispered, as the first man, having secured his horse, started toward them.

"Two other cousins. The one approaching is Vane. At least, that's what we call him. The other is Charles. Tolly's brother."

"Brother?" Honoria juggled the image of the heavyset man against that of the dead youth.

"Half brother," Devil amended. Grasping her elbow, he stepped out of the cottage, drawing her with him.

It had been some time since anyone had physically compelled Honoria to do anything-it was certainly the first time any man had dared. His sheer presumption left her speechless; his sheer power rendered noncompliance impossible. Her heart, having finally slowed after the jolt he'd given it by kissing her fingers, started racing again.

Five paces from the door, he halted and, releasing her, faced her. "Wait over there-you can sit on that log. This might take a while."

For one pregnant instant, Honoria hovered on the brink of open rebellion. There was something implacable behind the crystal green, something that issued commands in the absolute certainty of being obeyed. She ached to challenge it, to challenge him, to take exception to his peremptory dictates. But she knew what he faced in the cottage.

Lips compressed, she inclined her head. "Very well."

She turned, skirts swirling; Devil watched as she started toward the log, set on stumps to one side of the clearing. Then she paused; without looking back, she inclined her head again. "Your Grace

."

His gaze fixed on her swaying hips, Devil watched as she continued on her way. His interest in her had just dramatically increased; no woman before had so much as thought of throwing his commands-he knew perfectly well they were autocratic-back in his teeth. She'd not only thought of it-she'd nearly done it. If it hadn't been for Tolly's body in the cottage, she would have.

She reached the log. Satisfied, Devil turned; Vane was waiting at the cottage door.

"What?"

Devil's face hardened. "Tolly's dead. Shot."

Vane stilled, his eyes fixed on Devil's. "Who by?"

"That," Devil said softly, glancing at Charles as he neared, "I don't yet know. Come inside."