Devils Bride

Chapter 12

"I don't believe it!" Seated before her escritoire, Honoria stared at the single sheet of parchment in her hand. For the third time, she read the simple message, then, her jaw setting ominously, she rose and, letter in hand, headed for the library.

She didn't knock. She flung the door wide and marched in. Devil, seated in his accustomed place, raised his brows.

"I take it there's a problem."

"Indeed." Honoria's eyes glittered. "This!" With a flourish, she deposited her letter on the desk. "Explain that, if you would, Your Grace."

Devil picked up the letter and scanned it, lips firming as he realized its content. Dropping it on the blotter, he leaned back, studying Honoria still standing before the desk, arms crossed, eyes flashing-the very image of an intemperate virago. "I didn't actually think you'd ask."

"Didn't think I'd ask?" The look she bent on him overflowed with incredulous scorn. "When I spend a small fortune at a modiste's, I expect to receive a bill. Of course I asked!"

Devil glanced at the letter. "It appears you received an answer."

"Not an answer I wished to receive." Turning to pace, skirts swishing, Honoria paused long enough to inform him through clenched teeth: "It is, as you very well know, totally unacceptable for you to pay for my wardrobe."

"Why?"

Dumbfounded, she stopped and stared. "Why?" Then she narrowed her eyes at him. "You've been dealing with ladybirds too long, Your Grace. While it may be de rigueur to lavish Celestine's best on such women, it is not accepted practice for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for ladies of character."

"While I naturally hesitate to contradict you, Honoria Prudence, you're wrong on both counts." With unruffleable sangfroid, Devil picked up his pen, and his next letter. "It's perfectly acceptable for gentlemen to provide wardrobes for their wives. Ask any of Maman's acquaintances-I'm sure they'll verify that fact." Honoria opened her mouth-he continued before she could speak: "And as for the other, I haven't."

Honoria frowned. "Haven't what?"

Devil looked up and met her eye. "Haven't lavished Celestine's best on any of my ladybirds." Honoria's expression blanked; he lifted one brow. "That's what you meant, wasn't it?"

Honoria drew herself up. "That's irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that I'm not your wife."

Devil looked down. "A minor inconsistency time will no doubt correct." With a series of bold strokes, he signed his letter.

Drawing a deep breath, Honoria clasped her hands before her and addressed the air above his head. "I am afraid, Your Grace, that I cannot acquiesce to the present situation. It is entirely inappropriate." Glancing down her nose, she watched as he reached for another letter. "Any reasonable being would instantly see, and acknowledge, that fact." With unimpaired calm, Devil picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkstand. Honoria set her teeth. "I must request that you inform me of the total of Celestine's bill and allow me to recompense you for the sum."

Devil signed his name, blotted it, set the pen back in its rack-and looked up. "No."

Honoria searched his eyes-his green gaze was jewel-clear, hard, and uncompromising. Her breasts swelled as she drew a portentous breath; she pressed her lips tightly together, then nodded. "Very well. I'll send everything back."

She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

Devil swallowed an oath and came out of his chair. He was around the desk and striding in Honoria's wake long before she reached the middle of the room. She was reaching for the doorknob when he picked her up.

"What-!" Honoria batted at his hands, fastened about her waist. "Put me down, you arrogant oaf!"

Devil complied, but only long enough to swing her about so that she faced him. He kept his hands locked about her waist, holding her at a distance. For her own safety. The effect she had on him when in haughty mood was bad enough; haughty and angry together wound his spring far too tight. One unwary touch and he might unwind-which would certainly surprise her.

"Stop wriggling. Calm down." That advice was greeted with a furious glare. Devil sighed. "You know you can't send Celestine's things back-as I've already paid for them, she'll simply send them back here again. All you'll achieve is to inform Celestine, her staff, and my staff that you're throwing some incomprehensible tantrum."

"I am not throwing a tantrum," Honoria, declared. "I am behaving with exemplary reticence. If I gave vent to my feelings, I'd be screaming!"

Devil tightened his hold. "You are."

Honoria's glare turned baleful. "No I'm not. I can scream much louder than that."

Devil winced-and locked the muscles in his arms. He was definitely going to put that claim to the test. Later. He trapped her irate gaze in his. "Honoria, I am not going to divulge to you a figure you do not need to know, and you are not going to attempt to return Celestine's gowns."

Honoria's grey gaze turned steely. "You, my lord, are the most arrogant, overbearing, high-handed, tyrannical, dictatorial despot it has ever been my misfortune to meet."

Devil raised a brow. "You forgot autocratic."

She stared at him; he could feel the frustration mounting within her, swelling like a barely capped volcano.

"You are impossible!" The word came out in a hiss-like steam escaping. "I bought those gowns-I have a right and a duty to pay for them."

"Wrong-as your husband, that right and duty is mine."

"Only if I request your assistance! Which I haven't! And even if I did need help, I couldn't ask you because" Honoria drew a deep breath and carefully enunciated, "we're… not… married!"

"Yet."

Capping that terse syllable should have been impossible; Honoria resorted to a seething glare of operatic proportions and carried on regardless. "If you have some vague notion that I'm unable to pay such an amount, you're wrong. I'm perfectly willing to introduce you to Robert Child, of Child's Bank, who handles my estate. I'm sure he'll be happy to inform you that I'm no pauper!" She pushed again at Devil's arms; frowning, he let her go.

"I didn't pay because I thought you couldn't."

Honoria glanced at him; his eyes declared he was telling the truth. "Well," she said, somewhat mollified, "if that wasn't the reason, what was?"

Devil's jaw hardened. "I told you."

Honoria had to think back, then, her own features hardening, she shook her head. "No, no, no! Even if we were married, you have no right to pay bills that are mine, not unless I ask you to. In fact, I can't think why Celestine sent the bill to you at all." She tripped on the last words, and looked up, directly into his eyes. Abruptly, she narrowed hers. "It was you, wasn't it? Who sent that note to Celestine?"

Exasperated, Devil frowned at her. "It was just an introduction."

"As what? Your wife?" When he didn't answer, Honoria ground her teeth. "What on earth am I to do with you?"

Devil's features hardened. "Marry me." His voice was a frustrated growl. "The rest will follow naturally."

Honoria tilted her chin. "You are being deliberately obtuse. May I please have my account from Celestine?"

His frown deepening, darkening his eyes, Devil looked down at her. "No." The single syllable was backed by centuries of undisputed power.

Honoria held his gaze steadily-and felt her temper swell, felt indignation soar. Gazes locked, she could feel their wills, tangible entities, directly opposed, neither giving an inch. Slowly, she narrowed her eyes. "How," she inquired, her voice steely calm,"do you imagine I feel knowing that every stitch I have on was paid for by you?"

Instantly, she saw her mistake-saw it in his eyes, in the subtle shift that lightened the green, in the consideration that flashed through their depths.

He shifted closer. "I don't know." His voice had dropped to a gravelly purr; his gaze grew mesmerically intent. "Tell me."

Inwardly railing, Honoria saw any chance of getting Celestine's bill evaporate. "I do not believe we have anything further to discuss, Your Grace. If you'll excuse me?"

She heard her own words, cool and distant. His gaze hardened; his expression was as controlled as her own. He searched her eyes, then, rigidly formal, inclined his head, and stepped aside, clearing her path to the door.

Honoria's breath caught as she tried to draw it in. She bobbed a curtsy, then, regally erect, glided to the door, conscious of his gaze, shimmering heat on her back, until the door swung closed between them.

She shut the door with a definite click.

The weather, mimicking the atmosphere within St. Ives House, turned decidedly chilly. Three nights later, ensconced in one corner of the St. Ives town carriage, Honoria looked out on a dark and dreary landscape whipped by wind and incessant rain. They were on their way to Richmond, to the duchess of Richmond's ball; all the haut ton would be present, the Cynsters included. None of the family would dance, but appearance was mandatory.

It was not, however, the prospect of her first real ball that had knotted her nerves. The tension that held her was entirely attributable to the impressive figure, clothed in black, lounging directly opposite, his inner tension, a match for hers, radiating through the darkness. The Lord of Hell could not have had more complete command of her awareness.

Honoria's jaw tensed; her stubbornness swelled. Her gaze glued to the misery beyond the window, she conjured up an image of the Great Sphinx. Her destiny. She had started to waver, to wonder whether, perhaps… until his demonstration that a tyrant never changed his spots. It was, she acknowledged, deep disappointment that had left the odd emptiness inside her, as if a treat had been offered and then withdrawn.

Richmond House, ablaze with lights, shone through the darkness. Their carriage joined the long queue leading to the portico. Innumerable stop-start jerks later, the carriage door was opened; Devil uncoiled his long length and stepped down. He assisted the Dowager up the porch steps, then returned. Avoiding his eye, Honoria placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her down, then escort her in the Dowager's wake.

Negotiating the stairs proved an unexpected trial; the unyielding press of bodies forced them close. So close she could feel the heat of him reach for her, feel his strength envelop her. The flimsiness of her lavender-silk gown only heightened her susceptibility; as they reached the head of the stairs, she flicked open her fan.

The duchess of Richmond was delighted to receive them. "Horatia's near the conservatory." The duchess touched a scented cheek to the Dowager's, then held out a hand to Honoria. "Hmm-yes." Surveying her critically as she rose from her curtsy, the duchess broke into a beaming smile. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear." Releasing Honoria, she glanced archly at Devil. "And you, St. Ives? How are you finding life as an almost-affianced gentleman?"

"Trying." His expression bland. Devil shook her hand.

The duchess grinned. "I wonder why?" Slanting a laughing glance at Honoria, the duchess waved them on. "I'll rely on you, St. Ives, to ensure Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is suitably entertained."

With stultifying correctness, Devil offered his arm; in precisely the same vein, Honoria rested her fingertips upon it and allowed him to steer her in the Dowager's wake. She kept her head high, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.

Many were too familiar. She wished she could take her hand from Devil's sleeve, take just one step away, enough to put some distance between them. But the ton had grown so used to the idea she was his duchess-in-waiting, that she was his, that any hint of a rift would immediately focus every eye on them, which would be even worse.

Her serene mask firmly in place, she had to leave her nerves to suffer his nearness.

Devil led her to a position just beyond the chaise where the Dowager and Horatia Cynster sat, surrounded by a coterie of older ladies. Within minutes, they were surrounded themselves, by friends, acquaintances, and the inevitable Cynsters.

The group about them swelled and ebbed, then swelled and ebbed again. Then a suavely elegant gentleman materialized from the crowd to bow gracefully before her. "Chillingworth, my dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." Straightening, he smiled charmingly. "We've not been introduced, but I'm acquainted with your brother."

"Michael?" Honoria gave him her hand. She'd heard of the earl of Chillingworth; by reputation, he was Devil Cynster's match. "Have you seen him recently?"

"Ah-no." Chillingworth turned to greet Lady Waltham and Miss Mott. Lord Hill and Mr. Pringle joined the group, distracting the other two ladies; Chillingworth turned back to Honoria. "Michael and I share the same club."

And very little else, Honoria suspected. "Indeed? And have you seen the play at the Theatre Royal?" Lady Waltham had waxed lyrical about the production but couldn't remember its title.

The earl's brows rose. "Quite a tour de force." He glanced at Devil, absorbed with Lord Malmsbury. "If St. Ives is unable to escort you, perhaps I could get up a party, one you might consent to join?"

Classically handsome, well set, tall enough to look down into her eyes, Chillingworth was a damsel's dream-and a prudent mama's nightmare. Honoria opened her eyes wide. "But you've already seen the play, my lord."

"Watching the play would not be my aim, my dear."

Honoria smiled. "But it would be my aim, my lord, which might disappoint you."

An appreciative gleam lit Chillingworth's eyes. "I suspect, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, that I wouldn't find you disappointing at all."

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."

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."

Webster delivered his message sotto voce but as he turned to look at his butler, Devil caught a glimpse of Honoria's face-and her arrested expression.

"Thank you, Webster." Resettling his sleeves, Devil turned to Honoria. "I bid you a good night, Honoria Prudence."

She hesitated, her eyes touching his briefly, then stiffly inclined her head. "And I bid you a good night, Your Grace."

With cool hauteur, she turned and climbed the stairs. Devil watched her ascend, hips swaying gently; when she passed from view, he hauled in a deep breath, slowly let it out-then headed for the library.

Wringing blood from a stone would doubtless be easier, but Honoria was not about to allow Devil to deny her the latest news. She wasn't going to marry him-she'd warned him repeatedly she would not-but she was still committed to unmasking Tolly's killer. She'd shared the information she had found; it was his turn to reciprocate.

She heard the latch of the morning-room door click; swinging to face it, she straightened. Devil entered and shut the door. His gaze swept her, then returned to her face; with his customary languid prowl, he approached.

"I've been told you wished to see me." His tone, and the elevation of one dark brow, suggested mild boredom.

Regally, Honoria inclined her head and kept her eyes on his. All the rest of him-his distant expression, his movements so smoothly controlled, all the elements of his physical presence-were calculated to underscore his authority. Others might find the combination intimidating; she simply found it distracting. "Indeed." He halted before her. Lifting her chin she fixed him with a gaze as incisive as his was bland. "I wish to know the latest news in the search for Tolly's murderer. What did Lucifer learn?"

Devil's brows rose higher. "Nothing of any importance."

Honoria's eyes narrowed. "He waited until one in the morning to see you to report 'nothing of any importance'?"

Devil nodded. Honoria searched his eyes; her own eyes widened. "You're lying!"

Inwardly, Devil cursed. What was it that gave him away? "There was nothing Lucifer discovered that might lead us to Tolly's murderer."

Honoria stared at him. "That's not true either."

Closing his eyes, Devil swore beneath his breath. "Honoria-"

"I can't believe it! I helped you-it was I who discovered Tolly was untroubled when he left his parents' house."

Opening his eyes, Devil saw her chin tilt, her gaze shift. Before she could begin her usual peregrinations, he locked both hands on the mantelpiece, one on either side of her. Caging her. Incensed, she glared at him.

"Believe me," he said, trapping her heated gaze, "I'm grateful for your help. The others are concentrating on discovering where Tolly went after he left Mount Street. What Lucifer came to report was something else entirely." He paused, choosing his words with care. "It may be nothing, but it's not anything you can help investigate."

Honoria considered the evidence of his eyes-they remained crystal-clear. Whenever he lied, they fogged. She nodded. "Very well. I shall continue with my own investigations, in my own way."

Devil's hands clenched on the mantelpiece. "Honoria, we're discussing tracking a murderer-a cold-blooded killer-not discovering who stole the Queen of Hearts's tarts."

"I had assimilated that fact, Your Grace." Honoria tilted her chin higher. "Indeed, before I leave for Africa, I intended seeing the villain taken in charge."

Devil's jaw set. "You are not going to Africa, and you'll stay well clear of this villain."

Her eyes flashed; she lifted her chin one last notch. "You're very good at giving orders, Your Grace, but you've forgotten one pertinent point. I am not subject to your authority. And never shall be."

Those last four words were Devil's undoing; lightning-fast, he straightened, hauled her into his arms, and set his lips to hers. In his present state, it was sheer madness to try to coerce her, to attempt to enforce his will in that way.

Sheer unmitigated madness.

It snatched Honoria up, buffeting her senses, ripping her from reality. Only her fury and an intuitive grasp of his aim allowed her to resist. His lips were hard, demanding, searching-for a response she longed to-ached to-give. She locked her lips against him.

His arms locked about her; unyielding steel, they tightened, impressing her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Sensation streaked through her; her skin tingled. Still she held firm, holding to her anger, using it as a shield.

He tilted his head, his lips moved on hers, a powerful, elemental call to her senses. Inwardly reeling, Honoria clung to lucidity, sure of only one thing. He was kissing her into submission. And succeeding.

Fragment by fragment, she lost her grip on her fury; familiar heat flooded her. She felt herself soften, felt her lips lose their resolution, felt all resistance melt. Desperation gripped her. Surrender was too galling to contemplate.

Which left attack her only option. Her hands were trapped against his chest; sliding them up, she found the hard planes of his face. He stilled at her touch; before he could react, she framed his jaw-and kissed him.

His lips were parted-she slid her tongue between to tangle challengingly with his. He tasted powerful-wonderfully, elementally male-a mind-whirling sensation gripped her. He hadn't moved-instinctively she deepened the caress, angling her lips against his.

Passion.

It burst upon her, upon her senses, in a hot flood tide. It rose from within him, from between them, pouring through her, cascade upon cascade of exquisite sensation, of deep, swirling emotion, of soul-stealing compulsion.

On one heartbeat, she was the leader, on the next, he resumed command, his lips hard, his body a steel cage surrounding her. A cage she no longer wished to escape. She surrendered, gladly yielding; ravenous, he stole her very breath. Breasts aching, heart thundering, Honoria stole it back.

Between them, desire smoldered, flared, then exploded, flames licking greedily, devouring all reticence. Honoria gave herself up to them, to the beckoning pleasure, to the thrill of desire, to the urge of molten need.

She pressed herself against him, flagrantly enticing, hips shifting in unconscious entreaty. Fingers sliding into his thick hair, she reveled in the raw hunger that rose, naked, elemental, between them.

Their lips parted briefly, for less than a heartbeat; who pressed the next kiss was moot. They were lost together, trapped in the vortex, neither in control, both beyond reason. Hunger welled, swelled; urgency mounted, inexorable, compelling.

An almighty crash shook them to their senses.

Devil lifted his head, arms tightening protectively as he looked toward the door. Gasping, literally reeling, Honoria clung to him; dazed, she followed his gaze.

From beyond the door came sounds of calamity-wails and recriminations exchanged between two maids-then Webster's sonorous tones cut across the commotion, bringing the plaints to an end. The sound of tinkling glass and the scrape of a whisk on the polished boards followed.

Honoria could barely make out the sounds over the thundering in her ears. Her heart thudded heavily; she had yet to catch her breath. Eyes wide, she looked into Devil's face-and saw the same driving desire, the same inchoate longing gripping her, reflected in his silvered eyes. Flames lit the crystal cores; sparks flew.

His breathing was as ragged as hers. Every muscle in his body was taut, coiled. Like a spring about to break.

"Don't-move."

He bit the words out; his eyes blazed. Light-headed, barely able to drag in her next breath, Honoria didn't even think of disobeying. The planes of his face had never looked so hard, so graven. His eyes held hers steadily; she dared not blink as, rigid, he battled the force that threatened to consume them-the passion she had unleashed.

Degree by painful degree, the tension holding them decreased. His lids lowered, long lashes veiling the subsiding tempest. Gradually, his locked muscles eased; Honoria breathed again.

"The next time you do that, you'll end on your back."

There was no threat in his words; they were a statement of fact.

Hedonistic, unpredictable-she'd forgotten about the wild. A peculiar thrill shot through Honoria, immediately swamped beneath a tide of guilt. She had seen the effort her naive tactic had cost him; remnants of their passion still shimmered about them, licking at her nerves, shivering over her skin. His lids slowly rose; she met his gaze unflinchingly.

And put up a hand to touch his cheek. "I didn't know-"

Turbulence engulfed them as he brusquely drew back.

"Don't-" His features hardened; his gaze transfixed her. "Go. Now."

Honoria looked into his eyes-and obeyed. She stepped out of his arms; they fell from her but not readily. With one last, hesitant glance, she turned away; head high, shaken to her toes, she left him.

The three days that followed were the hardest Honoria had ever faced. Distracted, her nerves permanently on edge, her stomach a hard knot of reaction, she struggled to find some way out of the impasse that faced her. Hiding her state from the Dowager left her drained, yet being alone was not a desirable alternative; once free, her mind dwelled incessantly on what she had seen, what she had felt, what she had learned in the morning room.

Which only added to her distraction.

Her only consolation was that Devil seemed as distracted as she. By mutual consent, they met each other's eyes but briefly; each touch-when he took her hand or she placed it on his arm-rocked them both.

He'd told her from the first that he wanted her; she hadn't understood what he meant. Now she knew-instead of frightening her or shocking her, the physical depth of his need thrilled her. She gloried in it; at some fundamental level, her heart positively sang.

Which left her feeling exceedingly wary.

She was standing before her sitting-room window, mulling over her state, when a knock fell on the door.

Her heart skipped a beat. She straightened. "Come."

The door swung inward; Devil stood on the threshold. He raised a brow at her.

Honoria raised a brow back.

Lips thinning, he entered the room, shutting the door behind him. His expression was unreadable-not impassive so much as deliberately uninformative.

"I'm here to apologize."

Honoria met his gaze steadily, certain the word "apologize" rarely passed his lips. Her feelings took flight, only to plummet a second later. Her stomach hollow, her heart in her throat, she asked: "For what?

His quick frown was genuinely puzzled, then it evaporated; his gaze grew hard. "For appropriating Celestine's bill." His tone made it clear that if she wished for an apology for what had transpired in the morning room, she'd be waiting until hell froze.

Honoria's unruly heart sang. She fought to keep a silly-totally unnecessary-smile from her lips. "So you'll give me the bill?"

He studied her eyes, then his lips compressed. "No."

Honoria stared. "Why apologize if you won't give me the bill?"

For a long moment, he looked at her, frustration seeping into his expression. "I'm not apologizing for paying Celestine's account-I am apologizing for stepping on your independent toes-that was not my intention. But as you so rightly pointed out, the only reason such a bill would cross my desk was if you, as my wife, had referred it to me." His lips twisted. "I couldn't resist."

Honoria's jaw nearly dropped; rescuing it in time, she swallowed a gurgle of laughter. "You signed it… pretending to be my husband?" She had to struggle to keep a straight face.

The aggravation in Devil's eyes helped. "Practicing to be your husband."

Abruptly, Honoria sobered. "You needn't practice that particular activity on my account. I'll pay my bills, whether I marry you or not."

Her crisp "or not" hung between them; Devil straightened and inclined his head. "As you wish." His gaze wandered to the landscape above the fireplace.

Honoria narrowed her eyes at his profile. "We have yet to come to terms over this bill you inadvertently paid, Your Grace."

Both description and honorific pricked Devil on the raw. Bracing one arm along the mantelpiece, he trapped Honoria's gaze. "You can't seriously imagine I'll accept recompense-monetary recompense-from you. That, as you well know, is asking too much."

Honoria raised her brows. "I can't see why. If you'd paid a trifling sum for one of your friends, you'd allow them to repay you without fuss."

"The sum is not trifling, you are not 'one of my friends,' and in case it's escaped your notice, I'm not the sort of man to whom a woman can confess to being conscious of owing every stitch she has on, to him, and then expect to be allowed to pay him back."

Honoria's silk chemise suddenly grew hot; tightening her arms over her breasts, she tilted her chin. His conqueror's mask, all hard planes and ironclad determination, warned her she would win no concessions on that front. Searching his eyes, she felt her skin prickle. She scowled. "You… devil!"

His lips twitched.

Honoria took two paces into the room, then whirled and paced back. "The situation is beyond improper-it's outrageous!"

Pushing away from the mantelpiece, Devil raised an arrogant brow. "Ladies who dice with me do find situations tend to end that way."

"I," Honoria declared, swinging to face him and meeting his eyes, "am far too wise to play games with you. We need some agreement over this bill."

Devil eyed her set face, and inwardly cursed. Every time he glimpsed a quick escape from the dilemma his uncharacteristically fanciful self-indulgence had landed him in, she blocked it. And demanded he negotiate. Didn't she realize she was the besieged and he the besieger? Evidently not.

From the moment he'd declared his intention to wed her, she'd flung unexpected hurdles in his path. He'd overcome each one and chased her into her castle, to which he'd immediately laid siege. He'd succeeded in harrying her to the point where she was weakening, considering opening her gates and welcoming him in-when she'd stumbled on his moment of weakness and turned it into a blunt weapon. Which she was presently wielding with Anstruther-Wetherby stubbornness. His lips thinned. "Can't you overlook it? No one knows about it other than you and me."

"And Celestine."

"She's not going to alienate a valuable customer."

"Be that as it may-"

"Might I suggest," Devil tersely interpolated, "that, considering the situation between us, you could justifiably set the matter of this bill aside, to be decided after your three months have elapsed? Once you're my duchess, you can justifiably forget it."

"I haven't yet agreed to marry you."

"You will."

Honoria heard the absolute decree in his words. She eyed his stony face, then raised one brow. "I can hardly accept a proposal I haven't heard."

Conquerors didn't make polite requests; his instinct was to seize what he wanted-the more he wanted, the more forceful the seizure. Devil looked into her eyes, calmly watching, calmly waiting; he read the subtle challenge in her face, the underlying stubbornness in the tilt of her chin. How much did he want this prize?

He drew a deep breath, then stepped closer and reached for her hand; his eyes on hers, he brushed his lips across her fingertips. "My dear Honoria Prudence, will you do me the honor of being my wife, my duchess-" He paused, then deliberately added: "The mother of my children?"

Her gaze flickered; she looked away. Placing one fingertip under her chin, Devil turned her face back.

After a fractional hesitation, Honoria lifted her lids and met his eyes. "I haven't yet made up my mind." He might not be able to lie-she could. But he was too potent a force to surrender to without being absolutely certain. A few more days would give her time to check her decision.

He held her gaze; between them, passion lingered, shivering in the air.

"Don't take too long."

The words, uttered softly, could have been a warning or a plea. Retrieving her fingers from his clasp, Honoria lifted her chin free of his touch. "If I married you, I would want to be assured no incident similar to the present contretemps would occur again."

"I've told you I'm not daft." Devil's eyes glinted. "And I'm certainly no advocate of self-torture."

Ruthlessly, Honoria suppressed her smile.

The planes of Devil's face shifted; he caught her hand. "Come for a drive."

"One more point…" Honoria held firm. She met the aggravation in his eyes, and tried not to feel the warmth, the seductive strength in the fingers and palm clasping hers. "Tolly's murder."

Devil's jaw firmed. "I will not let you involve yourself in the search for his killer."

Honoria met his gaze directly; again, she sensed their wills locking, this time without heat. "I wouldn't need to actively search for clues if you told me what you and your cousins discover as soon as you discover it." She'd exhausted all avenues open to her; she needed his cooperation to go on.

He frowned, then looked away; she'd started to wonder what he was thinking before he looked back. "I'll agree on one condition."

Honoria raised her brows.

"That you promise that under no circumstances whatever will you personally go searching for Tolly's killer."

Honoria promptly nodded. Her ability to come up with any male felon was severely limited by the social code; her contribution to the investigation would have to be primarily deductive. "So what did Lucifer learn?"

Devil's lips thinned. "I can't tell you."

Honoria stiffened.

"No!" He squeezed her hand. "Don't rip up at me-I said 'can't,' not 'won't.'"

Honoria narrowed her eyes. "Why 'can't'?"

Devil searched her face, then looked down at their linked hands. "Because what Lucifer learned casts a far from flattering light on one of the family, probably Tolly. Unfortunately, Lucifer's information was rumor-we've yet to establish the facts." He studied her slim digits entwined with his, then tightened his grip and looked up. "However, if Tolly was involved, then it suggests a possible scenario whereby someone-someone capable of the act or of procuring the same-might have wanted him dead."

Honoria noted the fastidiousness that had crept into his expression. "It's something disreputable, isn't it?" She thought of Louise Cynster.

Slowly, Devil nodded. "Exceedingly disreputable."

Honoria drew in a long breath-then gasped as a tug set her on course for the door.

"You need some air," Devil decreed. He shot her a glance, then admitted through clenched teeth: "So do I."

Towed in his wake, Honoria grinned. Her gown was too thin, but she could don her pelisse at the front door. She had won a host of concessions; she could afford to be magnanimous. The day was fine; her heart was light. And her wolf had reached the end of his tether.