"Not well." Devil hesitated, then added, "It doesn't rule it out, but it makes it unlikely. If Tolly had gone-" He broke off, then continued: "If what we thought had happened, then it most likely happened at some earlier date, which doesn't explain why Tolly only got agitated after he left Mount Street."
Studying his face, more revealing now that he didn't guard his expression in her presence, Honoria inwardly frowned. He remained disturbed by the discreditable rumor, even though it might now be unlinked to Tolly's death. "What is it?"
Devil looked up, then grimaced. "It's merely that, as the head of the family, I don't appreciate the idea of some skeleton not safely locked in a cupboard."
Honoria's lips softened; she looked away.
They sat silent for some minutes, Honoria puzzling over the questions Mick's recollections had raised, Devil outwardly relaxed, his gaze, gently pensive, resting on her face. Then Honoria looked at Devil. "Have you told the others?"
"They were on the doorstep with Demon. While I wrestle with our discreditable rumor, they're trying to shake information from any tree they can find. Richard and Demon have gone after the local jarveys; Gabriel, believe it or not, is hobnobbing with street sweepers. Vane and Lucifer are combing the likeliest taverns in the hope they might stumble upon some drunk who saw where Tolly went."
"That seems a very long bow to draw."
Devil sighed and leaned his head back against the chaise.
"It is." After a moment of staring at the ceiling, he added: "I find it hard to credit but they seem as frustrated as I am." Slowly, he turned his head and looked at Honoria.
She met his gaze levelly. "Matters won't always fall into line just because you decree it."
His eyes on hers, Devil raised his brows. "So I apprehend." There was an undercurrent of subtle self-deprecation in his voice; it was followed almost immediately by a tangible ripple in the atmosphere about them. They stilled, then Devil smoothly reached out and lifted the topmost sheet from the piled lists. "I presume," he said, ostensibly scanning the list, "that every last one of the grande dames will be present?"
"Naturally." Equally smoothly, Honoria followed his lead, ruthlessly ignoring the breathlessness that had afflicted her. They spent the next five minutes trading inconsequential quips, while the restless hunger simmering between them subsided.
No matter how easy in each other's company they became, that flame still smoldered, ready to flare at the slightest touch, the least unwary comment. Honoria was sorely tempted to confess that she'd reached her decision, finally and firmly, incontrovertibly. She'd thought long and hard; she could see all the difficulties. She could also see the benefits, and the possibilities; she'd decided to accept the challenge.
And what better way than to start as she meant to go on? She'd determined to use Horatia's ball as the stage for her acceptance. Her speech was well rehearsed…
She blinked and returned to reality-and realized her voice had died in mid-sentence. Devil's gaze was on her face, too perceptive, too knowing. Heat rose in her cheeks.
He smiled-wolfishly-and fluidly rose. "I'd better see Hobden-he's come up from St. Ives with the tillage tallies." He met Honoria's eyes, then bowed elegantly. "I'll wish you a good afternoon, my dear."
"And I you, Your Grace." Honoria graciously inclined her head. As Devil strolled to the door, the black armband he still wore caught her eye. Honoria frowned. The six weeks the family had decreed as full mourning ended that night; presumably, tomorrow, he'd leave off his black armband.
Her frown deepened. He had better leave it off tomorrow night.
For Honoria, the next evening started auspiciously. Nerves wound tight, she descended the stairs, gowned for conquest. As usual, Webster materialized in the hall before she reached the last step; he crossed to the drawing-room door and placed a hand on the knob before glancing her way.
His jaw dropped-only momentarily, but the sight did wonders for Honoria's confidence. "Good evening, Webster. Is His Grace down?"
"Indeed, ma'am-I mean, miss." Webster drew in a quick breath and relocated his usual mask. "His Grace is waiting." With a deep bow, he set the door wide.
Smoothly, serenely, inwardly so tight she felt she might break, Honoria glided forward.
Standing before the fireplace, Devil swung around as she entered. As always, his gaze skimmed her, top to toe. Tonight, when he reached her silver sandals, peeking from beneath her hem, he stopped, then, excruciatingly slowly, traced his way back up her length, over the sweep of eau de Nil silk clinging sleekly to her long limbs. His eyes dwelled successively on each flatteringly draped curve, then rose higher, to caress her shoulders, concealed only where the simple, toga-style gown was anchored by a gold clasp on her left shoulder. The spangled silk shawl she carried over her elbows was flimsy; no real distraction. She wore no jewelry other than the gold comb in her hair, itself piled high, curl upon gleaming curl. Honoria felt the sudden intensity in his gaze.
Her breath caught.
With long, prowling stride, he crossed the room, his gaze steady on hers. As he neared, he held out one hand; without hesitation, she laid her fingers across his. Slowly, he turned her; dutifully, she twirled. She could feel the heat of his gaze as, at close quarters, it roamed her body, shielded only by gossamer silk. As she completed her revolution and faced him again, she saw his lips curve. His eyes met hers. "Celestine has my gratitude."
His voice reverberated through her; Honoria arched one brow. "Celestine?" She let her gaze linger on his. "And what, pray tell, do I receive?"
"My attention." On the words, Devil drew her closer. His gaze lifted to her curls, then dropped to her eyes, then fell to her lips. "Unreserved."
Obedient to the pressure of his hand at her back, Honoria arched closer, lifting her lips to his. He met her halfway, yet she was sure she was floating as his lips settled, warm and firm, on hers.
It was the first kiss they'd shared since their confrontation in the morning room; beyond the fact their lips touched, this caress bore no relation to that previous embrace. This was all pleasure and warmth, delight spiced with enthralling fascination as lips melded and held, then firmed again.
Honoria's restless hands came to rest on Devil's lapels; his free hand curved possessively over one silk-clad hip. Beneath his palms, her skin burned, two layers of fine silk no real barrier to his touch. Willingly, she sank into his arms, yielding to the persuasion of his lips and her own flaring desire.