Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Devil met her gaze; when he spoke, his tone was flat. "You're upset-distraught. And you haven't made your decision yet."

Honoria sat up and twisted to face him. "I'm not upset now. And I have made up my mind."

Devil winced. Teeth gritted, he lifted her and set her bottom back on his thigh. "I'm not taking you to bed-to wife-purely because you're afraid of lightning!"

Honoria narrowed her eyes at him-his expression was not encouraging. "This is ridiculous." She felt soft, warm and empty inside.

"Forget it." Devil ground the words out. "Just-sit-still."

Honoria stared at him, then uttered a strangled, disgusted sound and slumped back against his chest.

"Go to sleep."

She bit her tongue. In the orangery, she'd surprised him; after the accident, her tending him had simply been too much. He wouldn't again make the mistake of letting her touch him-without that, she stood no chance of getting his body to change his mind.

The warmth surrounding her had unlocked her muscles. Safe, certain-determined to prevail-she slid into untroubled slumber.

She woke the next morning neatly tucked in her bed. Blinking her eyes wide, she was almost at the point of dismissing her memories of the night as dreams when her gaze alighted on the odd blanket draped across the bed's corner. She narrowed her eyes at the inoffensive plaid; her recollections became much clearer.

With a disgusted humph, she sat up and threw back the covers. It was clearly time she had a long talk with his Obstinate Grace of St. Ives.

Gowned appropriately, she swept into the breakfast parlor primed to declare herself won-only to discover he'd left the house early, ostensibly on business. He was not expected to return until shortly before dinner, after which he would escort her to the Theater Royal.

She amended her plans-he invited some country neighbors passing through town to join them in their box. The Draycotts were charming, and utterly unshakable. At Devil's invitation, Lord Draycott accompanied them back to Grosvenor Square, the better to discuss repairs to the Five-Mile fence.

There was no storm that night.

The next morning, Honoria rose early, determined to catch her worm. He didn't even appear, taking breakfast in his library, in the protective presence of his steward.

By evening, she'd reached the end of her tether. Why he was avoiding her she had no idea, but his actions left her no choice. There was one approach guaranteed to gain his complete and undivided attention-as far as she was concerned, there was no reason she couldn't employ it.

Chapter 16

Donnnnnnng.

Devil spared not a glance for the long-case clock as he passed it on the stairs. Crossing the gallery, he lifted his candle in insouciant salute to his father's portrait, then strode on, into the long corridor that led to his rooms.

His sire, he was sure, would applaud his night's work.

In his pocket lay three notes inscribed with Viscount Bromley's square script. Bromley was already deep in debt, although by how much he was probably unaware. Of course, the last hand had seen the luck change. Devil smiled. He'd have Bromley tied tight in less than a week.

Despite his success, as he drew nearer his door, he tensed; the frustration he continually held at bay exerted its power. An ache settled in his gut; muscle after muscle turned heavy, as if he was fighting himself. Grimacing, he reached for the doorknob. As long as he limited his time with Honoria to public, social venues, he could cope.

He'd told her the truth-he was more than capable of manipulating, coercing, or seducing her into marriage. Indeed, his very nature compelled him to do so, which was why he felt like a wild beast caged. He was a born conqueror-taking what he wanted came naturally. Subtleties, sensitivities, were usually of little consequence.

His expression hardening, he entered his room. Shutting the door, he crossed to the tallboy; setting the candlestick by the mirror on its top, he untied his armband, unbuttoned his waistcoat, then eased the diamond pin from his cravat.

Reaching out to lay the pin in its box, his gaze slid past his reflection-white glimmered in the shadows behind him.

His head snapped around. Then, his tread utterly silent, he crossed to the chair by the fire.

Even before he touched the silk, he knew to whom it belonged. The fire, a mere glow of coals, was still warm enough to send her scent rising, wafting upward to ensorcel him. He only just stopped himself from lifting the soft silk to his face, from inhaling the beguiling fragrance. Stifling a curse, he dropped the peignoir as if it was as hot as the fire's coals. Slowly, he turned to the bed.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Even from this distance, he could see her hair, a rippling chesnut wave breaking across his pillows. She lay on her side, facing the center of the bed. The sight drew him like a lodestone. He was beside the bed, looking down on her, before he knew he'd moved.

No woman had ever slept in his bed-at least not during his tenure. His father had been of the stated opinion that a duke's bed was reserved for his duchess; he had agreed-no other woman had lain between his silken sheets. To return late at night to discover those sheets warmed by the one woman he wanted to find asleep there, breathing gently, soft, sleek limbs sunk deep into the down, left him reeling.

He couldn't think.