Devils Bride

it?'

The ice in the lanes and the general bad weather had vetoed riding for the past few weeks. But today the sun was shining-and if he was the one suggesting it, riding had to be safe once more. 'I'll need to change.' Forsaking her accounts without a second thought, Honoria rose.

Devil grinned. 'I'll bring the horses to the side door.'

They were away ten minutes later. In perfect amity, they rode across his fields, taking a roundabout route to a nearby rise. They returned by way of the village, stopping to chat with Mr. Postlethwaite, as ever in the vicarage garden. From there, their route home was via the track through the wood.

Gaining the straight at the top of the rise, they fell silent, slowing from a canter to a walk. They passed the spot where Tolly had fallen; reaching the track to the cottage, Devil drew rein.

He glanced at Honoria-halting beside him, she held his gaze. He searched her eyes, then, without a word, turned Sulieman down the narrow track.

In winter, both cottage and clearing appeared very different. The undergrowth was still dense, impenetrable, but the trees had lost their leaves. A dense carpet of mottled brown blanketed the earth, muffling hoofbeats. The cottage was neater, tidier, the stone before the door scrubbed; a wisp of smoke curled from the chimney.

'Keenan's in residence.' Devil dismounted and tied his reins to a tree, then came to Honoria's side.

As he lifted her down, she recalled how distracted she'd felt when he'd first closed his hands about her waist. Now his touch was reassuring, a warmly familiar contact. 'Will he be inside?'

'Unlikely. In winter, he spends his days in the village.'

He secured her reins, and together they walked to the cottage. 'Is it all right to go in?'

Devil nodded. 'Keenan has no real home-he simply lives in the cottages I provide and keeps my woods in trim.'

Opening the door, he led the way in; Honoria followed. She watched as he crossed the small room, his ranging stride slowing as he neared the raised pallet on which Tolly had died. He came to a halt at its foot, looking down on the simple grey blanket, his face a stony mask.

It had been a long time since she'd seen his face that way-these days, he rarely hid his feelings from her. She hesitated, then walked forward, stopping by his side. That was where she belonged-sometimes he needed reminding. With that aim in mind, she slid her fingers across his palm. His hand remained slack, then closed, strongly, firmly.

When he continued to stare at the uninformative bed,

Honoria leaned against him. That did the trick-he glanced at her, hesitated, then lifted his arm and drew her against him. And looked frowningly back at the pallet. 'It's been six months, and we've not got him yet.'

Honoria rested her head against his shoulder. 'I don't imagine the Bar Cynster are the sort to accept defeat.'

'Never.'

'Well, then.' She glanced up and saw his frown deepen.

He met her gaze, the tortured frown darkening his eyes. 'That something I've forgotten-it was something about how Tolly died. Something I noticed-something I should remember.' He looked back at the pallet. 'I keep hoping it'll come back to me.'

The intensity in his eyes, his words, precluded any light reassurance. A minute later, Honoria felt his chest swell, felt his arm tighten briefly about her, then he released her and gestured to the door. 'Come-let's go home.'

They rode slowly back through the gathering dusk. Devil did not mention Tolly's killer again; they parted in the hall, he heading for the library, Honoria climbing the stairs, considering a bath before dinner.

Attuned as she now was to his moods, she knew immediately when he returned to the subject. They were in the library, he in a well-stuffed armchair, she on the chaise, her embroidery on her lap. The fire burned brightly, warming the room; the curtains were drawn against the night. Webster had supplied Devil with a glass of brandy, then retreated; the Dowager had gone up.

From beneath her lashes, Honoria saw Devil take a long sip of brandy, then he looked at her. 'I should return to London.'

She looked up, studied his face, then calmly asked: 'What information do you have regarding Tolly's death that necessitates our going back now?'

His gaze locked on hers. She held it steadily, calmly, without challenge, even when the green eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. Then he grimaced and leaned back against the chair, his gaze shifting to the ceiling. Setting aside her needlework, Honoria waited.

Devil thought long and hard, then thought again, yet she was his duchess-and too intelligent and too stubborn to swallow any glib tale. He lowered his gaze to her face. 'Viscount Bromley is currently working for me.'

Honoria frowned. 'Do I know him?'

'He's not the sort of gentleman you need to know.'

'Ah-that sort of gentleman.'

'Precisely. The Viscount is currently endeavoring to discover the truth of 'Lucifer's discreditable rumor.' He's due to report next week.'

'I see.' Frowning, Honoria looked at the fire, then, absentmindedly, gathered her silks. 'We have no engagements here-I'll speak to Mrs. Hull and Webster immediately.' She rose, then glanced back. 'I assume we'll be leaving tomorrow?'

Devil held her wide gaze for a pregnant moment, then, sighed and inclined his head. 'Tomorrow. After lunch.'

With a nod, Honoria turned away; Devil watched her hips sway as she walked to the door. When it closed behind her, he drained his glass-and wondered, not for the first time, just what had come over him.

'How far beyond his limit did Bromley go?'

Vane asked the question as he eased into the chair before Devil's desk. Viscount Bromley had left a bare minute before, looking decidedly green.

Locking the viscount's notes of hand back in his desk drawer, Devil named a sum; eyes widening, Vane whistled. 'You really did him up in style.'

Devil shrugged. 'I like to be thorough.'

The door opened; glancing up, Devil deduced from the distracted expression in Honoria's eyes that she'd overheard his last remark. His smile when he met her gaze was unambiguously rakish. 'Good morning, my dear.'

Honoria blinked, then inclined her head regally.

He watched while she exchanged greetings with Vane; she was dressed to go out in a golden merino pelisse, a velvet bonnet with a niched rim dangling by its ribbons from her hand. The same hand, gloved in ivory kid, carried a muff of golden velvet lined with swansdown; the inner face of her pelisse's upstanding collar was trimmed with the same expensive stuff. Her hair was swept up in a sleek knot-no longer the wild tangle it had been that morning when he'd left her in their bed. The memory raised a warm glow, which he knowingly allowed to infuse his smile.

Tucking the key to the desk drawer into his waistcoat pocket, he strolled, smugly satisfied, to her side. She turned as he approached-and raised her brows. 'Did the viscount have the information you expected?'

Devil halted, his eyes steady on hers. He didn't need to look to be aware of Vane's surprise. 'As it happens, no. Bromley needs more time.'

'And you gave it to him?'

After a fractional hesitation, Devil nodded.

Honoria raised her brows. 'If his lordship's so tardy, isn't there someone else you could employ in his place?'

'It's not that simple.' Forestalling the question he could see in her eyes, Devil went on: 'Bromley has certain attributes that make him ideal for the job.'

Honoria looked even more surprised. 'I only caught a brief glimpse, but he didn't strike me as the sort to inspire any great confidence.' She paused, frowning slightly, looking up at Devil's uninformative face. 'Now we're