The day was behind her. The unsettling uncertainty which had seized her the minute she'd regained her room after scurrying like a wanton maid through the corridors in the half light of dawn, had disappeared, eradicated by the night's fire. Her lips curved; she could still feel the inner glow. On the thought, she glanced up-Devil was watching her.
His hesitation was palpable, then he shifted, raising a hand to lift a lock of hair from her forehead. "Why weren't you in my bed?"
Honoria held his gaze, even though his eyes were too shadowed for her to see. "I didn't know whether you wanted me there."
Fleetingly, his frown deepened, then eased. But his lips did not curve as, with one finger, he lightly brushed her cheek. "I want you-and I want you there."
The deep words all but shimmered in the moonlight; Honoria smiled. "Tomorrow." She heard him sigh and saw his quick grimace.
"Unfortunately not." He lay back, his eyes still on hers. "While I'd much rather have you in my bed, until we marry, I'll have to suffer the restrictions of yours." He lifted one foot, demonstrating that even high on the pillows as he was, his feet reached the footboard.
Honoria frowned. "Why can't we sleep in your bed?"
"Propriety."
She opened her eyes wide. "This is propriety?" Her sweeping gesture encompassed his naked presence, which took up quite half of her bed.
"You can't be seen wandering the corridors in your peignoir every morning-the servants wouldn't approve. If they see me wandering about in my robe, they'll accept the sight with unimpaired aplomb-this is, after all, my house."
Honoria humphed. Wriggling about, she settled on her side, facing away from him. "I suppose you know all the correct procedures."
She felt him shift; a second later, warm limbs surrounded her. The light stubble of his jaw grazed her bare shoulder; his lips touched her ear.
"Believe it." He settled behind her. "And speaking of correct procedures, I should send a notice to The Gazette, stating our wedding day."
Honoria studied the shadows. "When should it be?"
He kissed her nape. "That's for you to say-but I'd hoped for December first."
Four weeks away. Honoria frowned. "I'll need a gown."
"You can command any modiste-they'll scramble for the honor."
"Celestine will do." Honoria saw no reason not to avail herself of Celestine's flair just because he'd commanded the modiste's attention.
"All the other arrangements you can leave to Maman and my aunts."
"I know," Honoria replied with feeling. "I spent a wretchedly awkward morning-your mother decided to visit the old housekeeper who ran the Place when your parents married. The entire conversation concerned the hows and wheres of arranging a wedding at Somersham."
Devil chuckled. "How did she know?"
"I don't know," Honoria lied. It was, she was sure, her odd, utterly inexplicable blushes that had given her away. "I'll need to write to Michael."
"I'll be writing to him tomorrow-give me your letter and I'll enclose it with mine." Devil studied the back of her head. "Incidentally, I spoke to old Magnus this morning."
Honoria swung about. "Grandfather?" Incredulous, she stared. "Why?"
Devil raised his brows. "He is the head of your family."
"You don't need his permission to marry me."
"No." His lips quirked. "However, the Anstruther-Wetherbys and Cynsters go back a long way. We've been scoring points off each other since the Ark beached."
Honoria studied his face. "How did he take the news?"
Devil grinned. "Philosophically, in the end. He knew you were living within my household, so it wasn't a total shock."
Honoria narrowed her eyes, then humphed and turned her back on him.
Devil's grin dissolved into a smile. Leaning forward, he planted a kiss behind her ear. "Go to sleep-you'll need your strength."
His words held a definite promise. Smiling, Honoria settled her cheek into her pillow, snuggled her back against his chest-and did as she was bid.
The next day, their letters to Michael were duly dispatched. The day after, a notice announcing the marriage of Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, eldest daughter of Geoffrey Anstruther-Wetherby and his wife Heather, of Nottings Grange, Hampshire, to Sylvester Sebastian Cynster, duke of St. Ives, appeared in The Gazette. The marriage would take place on December 1 at Somersham Place.
Despite the haut ton's preoccupation with departing London, the news spread like wildfire. Honoria gave thanks that the only social events remaining were small, select afternoon teas and "at-homes"-farewells to friends before society adjourned to the shires for the shooting and subsequently to their estates for Christmas. The dustcovers had been placed over the chandeliers-the ton was in retreat from London and would not return until February.
As she and Devil had foreseen, his mother and the other Cynster ladies threw themselves into organizing the wedding with undisguised relish. The Dowager warned Honoria that it was family tradition that the bride, while making all the final decisions, was not allowed to do anything-her sole role, according to all precepts, was to appear to advantage and keep her husband in line. Honoria quickly decided there was much to be said for tradition.
Devil watched from a distance, reassured by her readiness to take on the position of his wife. She'd already impressed his aunts; with their encouragement, she took up the matriarchal reins-his mother was ecstatic.
By the end of five whirlwind days, they were ready to leave London; Devil's final chore was to reel in Viscount Bromley.
When the enormity of his losses, the perilous nature of his finances, was fully explained, Bromley, a hardened case, philosophically shrugged and agreed to Devil's terms. He was in a position to ascertain the truth of "Lucifer's discreditable rumor," to identify the Cynster involved and learn all the facts. All this he agreed to do-by the first of February.
Satisfied, on every count, Devil laid aside his black armband and, with his wife-to-be on his arm, retired to Somersham Place.
Chapter 18
The ballroom at Somersham Place was filled to overflowing. Afternoon sunlight poured through the long windows, striking glints from the curls and coifs of damsels and dowagers, rakes and rogues, gentlemen and haughty matrons. Gowns of every hue vied with bright jewels and equally bright eyes. The full flower of the ton was present-to see, to witness, to appreciate.
"She's the last marriageable Anstruther-Wetherby female and as rich as bedamned-isn't it just like Devil to have such a pearl fall into his lap."
"Such a handsome couple-Celestine designed her gown expressly."
Surrounded by such comments, by felicitations and congratulations, Honoria circulated through the throng, smiling, graciously inclining her head, exchanging the required words with all those who'd come to see her wed.
She was now the duchess of St. Ives. The past months of consideration, the last weeks of frenetic activity, had culminated in a simple service in the chapel in the grounds. The church had been packed, the overflow surrounding it like a jeweled sea. Mr. Merryweather had pronounced them man and wife, then Devil had claimed his kiss-a kiss she'd remember all her life. The sun had broken through as the crowd surged forth, forming a long aisle. Bathed in sunshine, they'd run a gauntlet of well-wishers all the way to the ballroom.
The wedding banquet had commenced at noon; it was now close to three o'clock. The musicians were resting-only six waltzes had been scheduled, but she'd already danced more. The first had been with Devil, an affecting experience. She'd been starved of breath by its end, only to be claimed by Vane, then Richard, followed by Harry, Gabriel, and Lucifer in quick succession. Her head had been spinning when the music finally ceased.