Honoria raised a brow; simultaneously, she felt a stir at her side.
Chillingworth looked up, and nodded. "St. Ives."
"Chillingworth." Devil's deep drawl held a subtle menace. "What cast of the dice landed you here?"
The earl smiled. "Pure chance-I stopped to pay my respects to Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." His smile deepened. "But speaking of gaming, I haven't seen you at the tables recently. Other matters keeping you busy?"
"As you say." Devil's tone was noncommittal. "But I'm surprised you haven't gone north for the hunting. Lord Ormeskirk and his lady have already left, I hear."
"Indeed-but one shouldn't cram one's fences, as I'm sure you appreciate."
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Devil raised a brow. "Assuming one still has fences to overcome."
Honoria resisted an urge to raise her eyes to the heavens. The following five minutes were a revelation; Devil and Chillingworth traded quips as sharp-edged as sabers, their rivalry self-evident. Then, as if they'd satisfied some prescribed routine, the conversation swung to horseflesh and thus into a more amicable vein. When that subject failed, Chillingworth turned the talk to politics, drawing her into the conversation. Honoria wondered why.
A squeaky screech was her first warning of impending difficulty. Everyone looked toward the dais at the end of the room. A whine followed by a handful of plucked notes confirmed the general supposition; a hum rose along with a bustling rush as partners were claimed for the first waltz.
Looking back at Chillingworth, Honoria saw him smile.
"Can I tempt you to the dance floor, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?"
With that simple question, he put her on the spot. Fairly and squarely, with no room for maneuver. As she studied Chillingworth's quizzical hazel eyes, Honoria's mind raced, but she didn't need to think to know Devil's opinion. The arm under her fingers was rigid; while he appeared as languidly bored as ever, his every muscle had tensed.
She wanted to dance, had intended to dance-had looked forward to her first waltz in the capital. And she'd known that Devil, still wearing a black armband, would not take the floor. Until Celia's "at-home," she'd fully intended to waltz with others, thus making a clear statement that she would live her own life, make her own decisions, that she was her own mistress, not his. This waltz was to have been her declaration-and what better partner with which to underscore her point than Chillingworth?
He was waiting, outwardly charming but watching her like a hawk; the musicians were still tuning their strings. Devil was also watching her-he might be hedonistic, he might be unpredictable, but here, in the duchess of Richmond's ballroom, he was helpless to prevent her doing as she wished. So what did she wish?
Calmly, Honoria held out her hand. "Thank you, my lord." Satisfaction flared in Chillingworth's eyes; Honoria lifted a brow. "But I do not dance this evening."
To give him his due, the light in his eyes didn't fade although his triumphant expression certainly did. For an instant, he held Honoria's gaze, then glanced at the other ladies in their group. Looking back at Honoria, he raised a resigned brow. "How exceedingly cruel of you, my dear."
His words were too soft for anyone beyond Honoria or Devil to hear. Chillingworth raised his brows fleetingly at Devil, then, with a last nod to Honoria, he turned and, with faultless grace, solicited Miss Mott's hand.
Devil waited until the end of the dance to catch his mother's eye. She grimaced at him but when he persisted, reluctantly conceded. Setting his hand over Honoria's fingers, still resting on his sleeve, he turned her toward the chaise. Puzzled, she glanced up at him.
"Maman wishes to leave."
Collecting the Dowager, they took leave of their hostess. Taking Honoria's cloak from a footman, Devil draped it about her shoulders, fighting the urge to rest his hands, however briefly, on the smoothly rounded contours. His mother commandeered the Richmonds' butler, leaving him to lead Honoria down the steps and hand her into the carriage.
The door shut upon them, cloaking him in safe darkness; harness jingled, and they were on their way home. And he was still sane. Just.
Settled in his corner, Devil tried to relax. He'd been tense on the way to Richmond House, he'd been tense while there. He was still tense now-he didn't entirely know why.
But if Honoria had accepted Chillingworth, all hell would have broken loose. The possibility that she had refused the invitation purely to spare his feelings was almost as unacceptable as his relief that she had.
Protectiveness he understood, possessiveness he understood-both were an entrenched part of his makeup. But what the hell was this he was experiencing now-this compulsion she made him feel? He didn't know what it was but he knew he didn't like it. Vulnerability was a part of it, and no Cynster could accept that. Which begged one question-what was the alternative?
The carriage rumbled on. Devil sat in his corner, his shadowed gaze fixed on Honoria's face, and pondered the imponderable.
He'd reached no conclusion when the carriage rocked to a halt before his door. Footmen ran down the steps; his mother exited first, Honoria followed. Climbing the steps in her wake, Devil entered his hall on her heels.
"I am going straight up-I will see you tomorrow, my dears." With a regal wave, the Dowager headed up the stairs.
Cassie came running to relieve Honoria of her heavy cloak; Webster appeared at Devil's side. Devil shrugged off his evening cape.
"Master Alasdair is waiting in the library, Your Grace."