Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

His eyes, cold and flat, left her, scanning the room, holding not challenge but a promise, an intent every man could feel. Vane stood at his shoulder; just the two of them made the tavern seem uncomfortably overcrowded.

As Devil's gaze fastened on the wide-eyed barman, Honoria conjured a smile and swept into the breach. "There you are, my lord. I fear the men you seek are not here-they sailed this morning."

Devil didn't blink. His gaze fastened on her face-flames replaced the chill in his eyes but they remained oddly flat. One brow rose fractionally. "Indeed?"

The single word, uttered in his deep voice, gave no hint of his thoughts. For one definable instant, me entire tavern held its breath. Then he nodded at the barman. "In that case, you must excuse us."

On the words, Devil turned, catching Honoria's arm, propelling her over the threshold, lifting her through the carriage door Sligo raced to open and into the safety beyond.

Vane swung out of the inn behind them; he loomed at Devil's shoulder as he paused, one boot on the carriage steps. "I'll take the hackney." Vane nodded to where the small carriage waited.

His expression beyond grim, Devil nodded-he followed Honoria into the carriage. Sligo slammed the door; John Coachman flicked the reins.

It took three tense, silent minutes before the coach maneuvered its way free of the narrow street. And a further, equally silent half-hour before it drew up in Grosvenor Square. Devil alighted. He waited until Sligo let down the steps, then held out his hand. Honoria placed hers in it; he helped her down and led her up the steps.

Webster opened the door, his relief so intense it showed in his face. Then he saw his master's face-immediately his expression leached to impassivity. Gliding into the hall, her fingers on an arm more like rock than human flesh, Honoria held her head high.

Devil halted in the hall. "If you'll excuse me, my dear, I must speak with Sligo." His tone was glacial, bleak, and not quite steady, the icy surface rippling with barely suppressed rage. "I'll join you shortly. Upstairs."

For the first time that evening, Honoria saw his face clearly, lit by the chandelier high above. It was paler than usual, each harsh plane starkly edged, the whole no more animated than a death mask in which his eyes burned oddly dark. She met that black gaze directly. "Sligo was acting on my orders."

Devil raised a brow, his expression cold. "Indeed?"

Honoria studied his eyes, then inclined her head. And turned for the stairs. In the mood he was in, saying anything further might be counterproductive.

Rigid, Devil watched her ascend. When she passed from sight, he switched his gaze to Sligo. "In the library."

Sligo scurried in; Devil followed more slowly. Crossing the threshold, he paused; a footman closed the door. Sligo stood at attention to one side of the desk. Devil let silence stretch before slowly closing the distance.

Normally, he would have sat at his desk; tonight, the rage consuming him would not let him rest. He halted before the long windows giving onto the dark courtyard.

Words filled his head, jostled for prominence on his tongue, a ranting rave of fury clamoring to spill free. Jaw clenched, he fought to hold it back. Never before could he recall such rage-so fraught he was chilled to the marrow, so powerful he could barely contain it.

He glanced at Sligo. "I was informed by a footman who chanced upon me in St. James that Her Grace was on her way to the Anchor's Arms. Before I could summon a hackney, three others of my household appeared, bearing like tidings. It appears that fully half my staff were scouring the streets for me, instead of obeying my orders and looking after my wife! How the devil did she even hear about the Anchor's Arms?"

Sligo flinched. "She asked-I told her."

"What in all the saints' names did you mean by taking her there?"

The door opened at the height of that roar. Devil glared balefully at Webster. "I do not wish to be disturbed."

"Indeed, Your Grace." Webster stepped around the door, held it open for Mrs. Hull, then closed it. "Mrs. Hull and I wished to make sure you were not laboring under any misapprehension."

"It is exceedingly difficult to misapprehend discovering my wife in a dockside tavern."

The words had an edge like cut glass; Webster paled but persevered. "I believe you wish to learn how that came about, my lord. Sligo did not act on his own. We were all, myself, Mrs. Hull, and Sligo, aware of Her Grace's intent. We all attempted to dissuade her, but, having heard her reasons, we couldn't legitimately stand in her way."

His fists clenched so tight they hurt, his jaw all but locked, Devil spoke through his teeth. "What reasons?"

Webster outlined Honoria's plan; Mrs. Hull elucidated her reasons. "Perfectly understandable, to my mind." She sniffed defensively. "She was worried-as were we. It seemed a perfectly sensible thing to do."

Devil swallowed the tirade that leapt to his tongue. His temper seething, roiling behind the flimsy facade of civilized behavior, he eyed them narrowly. "Out! All of you."

They went, carefully shutting the door. Swinging around, Devil stared into the night. Sligo didn't approve of tonnish women, Webster was as starchily devoted as they came, and Mrs. Hull was an arch-conservative-yet all had been suborned by his wife. And her reasons.

Ever since marrying Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, he'd been knee-deep in reasons-her reasons. He had reasons, too-good, sound, solid reasons. But it wasn't his staff he need to share them with. Having reached that conclusion, Devil swung on his heel and stalked out of the library.

Striding toward the ducal apartments, he reflected that Honoria had succeeded in shielding her three co-conspirators from his anger, without even being present. Of course, if he'd been able to lose some of the red-hot fury swirling inside him by venting it on them, she wouldn't be about to face it all herself. As it was…