Devils Bride

'Excellent.' Honoria exchanged a relieved glance with Webster. 'Don't let anyone distract you-we need you to play for at least forty minutes. Start at the beginning of your list and start repeating once you've finished. You can stop when the tea trolley arrives.'

The girls nodded, and commenced a liturgical excerpt.

'Shall I open the doors, miss?' Webster whispered.

'Yes-the ones to the terrace as well.' Both the music room and the drawing room gave onto the long terrace. Webster set the two doors flanking the fireplace wide, joining the two rooms. Heads turned as the haunting chords flowed over the conversations.

Gradually, tempted by the music, both ladies and gentlemen strolled in. The twins, used to performing before their elders, did not falter. There were chairs aplenty; gentlemen obligingly set them out, the ladies subsiding in groups, the gentlemen standing beside them.

From her position by the open terrace door, Honoria watched her distraction take hold. Suddenly, she felt a familiar presence behind her.

'This was inspired.'

Glancing back, she met Devil's green eyes; they scanned her face.

'What was wrong?'

Honoria wondered if there was anyone in the entire assembly who had missed her assumption of the Dowager's authority. She'd been prepared to swear Devil had been deep in conversation at the far side of the room at the time. 'Your devil-horse ate the tea cakes. Mrs. Hull is not impressed. I believe she has visions of turning your steed into cat's meat.'

He was close, his shoulder propped against the doorframe behind her; she felt his chest quake with suppressed laughter. 'Hully wouldn't do that.'

'Just mention your horse and watch her reach for her cleaver.'

He was silent, looking out over the room. 'Don't tell me you don't play?'

Honoria caught herself just in time-and reframed her answer. 'I play the harpsichord, but I'm not Tolly's sister. Incidentally,' she continued, in the same mild tone, 'I give you fair warning that regardless of whatever imbroglio you and your mother concoct, I will not be marrying you.'

She felt his gaze on her face; when he spoke, the words feathered her spine. 'Would you care to wager on that?'

Honoria lifted her chin. 'With a reprobate like you?' She waved dismissively. 'You're a gamester.'

'One who rarely loses.'

The deep words reverberated through her; Honoria abandoned speech and opted for a haughty shrug.

Devil didn't move. His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing more.

To Honoria's relief, her strategem worked. The tea, when it arrived, was perfect, the scones fresh from the oven, the jam sweet. The twins retired to subdued but sincere applause; one glance at their faces showed just how much their contribution had meant to them.

'We'll get them to play again tomorrow,' Devil murmured in her ear.

'Tomorrow?' Honoria fought to quell an unhelpful shiver.

'At the wake.' Devil met her eyes. 'They'll feel better to be doing something useful again.'

He left her musing-and returned with a cup of tea for her. She took it, only then realizing how much in need of refreshment she was. Other than understanding her too well, Devil behaved himself, smoothly introducing her to family friends. Honoria didn't need to exercise her imagination over how the company viewed her-their deference was marked.

The events of the afternoon, orchestrated by Devil and the Dowager, aided and abetted by Devil's demon horse, had conveyed a clear message-that she was to be Devil's bride.

The evening passed swiftly; dinner, attended by everyone, was a somber meal. No one was inclined to entertainment; most retired early. A brooding, melancholy silence descended over the house, as if it mourned, too.

In her chamber, cocooned in down, Honoria thumped her pillow and ordered herself to fall asleep. Five minutes of restless rustling later, she turned onto her back, and glared at the canopy.

It was all Devil's fault, his and his mother's. She'd tried to avoid acting as his duchess-to-be, unfortunately unsuccessfully. Worse, as Devil had stated, on a superficial level, she was perfect for the position, a fact apparently obvious to any who considered the matter. She was starting to feel like she was fighting fate.

Honoria shuffled onto her side. She, Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, was not going to be pressured into anything. It was patently obvious both Devil and the Dowager would do everything possible to tempt her, to convince her to accept his proposal-the proposal he hadn't made. That last was not a fact she was likely to forget-he'd simply taken it for granted that she would marry him.

She'd known from the first he was impossible, even when she'd thought him a mere country squire; as a duke, he was doubly-triply-so. Aside from anything else-his chest, for example-he was a first-class tyrant. Sane women did not marry tyrants.

She clung to that eminently sound declaration, drawing strength from its unarguable logic. Keeping Devil's image in mind helped enormously-one glance at his face, at the rest of him, was all it took to reinforce her conclusion.

Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus. No matter how she tried, she couldn't escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted strength of character, for all his apparent family feeling, even despite his Cousin Clara's belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn't interfere with his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.

She didn't want to believe it, but she'd heard him herself. He'd stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone believed him, the magistrate included. He was the head of the family, one step removed from a despot; to them and the ton, what Devil Cynster, duke of St. Ives, stated, was.

The only one inclined to question him was herself. Tolly hadn't been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.

Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man? Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver; Tolly had carried a heavy purse-she'd felt it in his pocket. Had Tolly been armed and, with the impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She'd seen no gun; it seemed unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A highwayman did not seem at all likely.

As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use pistols.

Tolly had been murdered.

She wasn't sure when she had reached that conclusion; it was now as inescapable as the dawn.

Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it-why did she feel so involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her-upon her soul-to see justice done.

But that wasn't the cause of her sleeplessness.

She'd heard Tolly's voice in the cottage, heard the relief he'd felt when he'd realized he'd reached Devil. He'd thought he'd reached safety-someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would have sworn Devil cared-cared deeply. But his behavior in ignoring the evidence of Tolly's murder said otherwise.

If he truly cared, wouldn't he be searching for the murderer, doing all he could to catch him? Or was his 'caring' merely an attitude, only skin-deep? Beneath that facade of strength, was he truly weak and shallow?

She couldn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it.

Honoria closed her eyes. And tried to sleep.

Chapter 6