Silence filled the wilderness-not even an owl hooted. Then Devil's head rose. His arm about Honoria, their shadows still one, they moved away from the window.
"God!" Harry's stunned exclamation said it all.
Richard's eyes were alight. "You didn't seriously imagine Devil married purely to ensure the succession?"
"By the looks of it," Gabriel dryly observed, "the succession's in no danger. If they've got that far in five hours, then St. Valentine's Day's odds-on for our wager."
Vane's deep chuckle came out of the dark. "I hesitate to mention it, but I don't believe Devil started from scratch five hours ago."
Four heads turned his way.
"Ah-hah!" Lucifer turned to his brother. "In that case, I'll sport my blunt on St. Valentine's Day definitely. If he's got a head start, then he'll have more than three months to accomplish the deed-more than enough."
"True." Gabriel fell into step beside Lucifer as the party turned toward the house. Their impromptu stroll had been unexpectedly revealing. "Given Devil's reputation, it's fair to assume anyone could guess as much, so we don't need to be overly concerned about taking bets against St. Valentine's Day as the limit for conception."
"I think," Richard said, following in Gabriel's wake, "that we should be rather careful about letting any of the ladies learn about our book-they're unlikely to appreciate our interest."
"Too true," Harry replied, joining the straggling line back through the bushes. "The female half of the species has a distinctly skewed view of what's important in life."
Vane watched them go, then raised his eyes to the blazing windows in the east wing. After a moment, he shifted his gaze to the unlit windows of the large bedroom at the end of the wing. Silent and still in the dark, he considered the sight, his grin deepening to a smile. Hands in his pockets, he turned-and froze. His eyes, adjusted to the dark, picked out the square figure of a man moving slowly through the wilderness, heading toward the house.
Then the tension left his shoulders. Hands still in his pockets, he strolled forward. "What ho, Charles? Getting a breath of fresh air?"
The heavy figure came to a sudden halt, swinging to face him. Then Charles inclined his head. "As you say."
It was on the tip of Vane's tongue to ask whether Charles had caught the ducal exhibition; Charles's propensity to lecture kept the words from his lips. Falling into step as Charles gained the path back to the house, he asked instead; "You planning to stay for a few days?"
"No." Charles walked a few steps before adding: "I'll be returning to town tomorrow. Do you have any idea when Sylvester plans to return?"
Vane shook his head. "I haven't heard it mentioned, but I'd be surprised to see them up before Christmas. It's to be held here as usual."
"Really?" There was genuine surprise in Charles's voice.
"So Sylvester intends to take on the role of 'head of the family' at all levels?"
Vane sent him a cool glance. "When has he not?"
Charles nodded vaguely. "True-very true."
Chapter 19
When, years later, Honoria looked back on the first months of her marriage, she wondered what benevolent fate had ordained they would marry on December 1. The season was perfect, fine-tuned to her needs-December and January, cold and snowy, kept society at bay; the week of Christmas, when the whole family descended, was a happy interlude. Those quiet winter months gave her time to find her feet, to assume the mantle of the duchess of St. Ives, to learn what she needed to go on.
Taking up the reins of the ducal household was of itself easy enough. The staff was excellent, well trained and well disposed; she faced few difficulties there. However, the decisions it fell to her to make were wide-ranging, from cows to flower beds to preserves to linens. Not just for the Place, but for the three other residences her husband maintained. The organizational logistics were absorbing. Within the family, she was expected to play the matriarch, a demanding yet satisfying role.
All this and more fell to her lot in that first December and January, yet throughout that time, the aspect of her life that commanded her deepest attention remained her interaction with Devil.
Quite what she'd expected, she couldn't have said-she had come to her marriage with no firm view of what she wanted from it beyond the very fact of laying claim to the role, of being the mother of his children. Which left, as she discovered during those long quiet weeks, a great deal to be decided. By them both.
Time and again, as their wills crossed in daily life, their eyes would meet and she would see in his an expression of arrest, of calculation, consideration-and know the same emotions were visible in her eyes.
There were adjustments in other spheres, too. Like finding time to be alone, to be easy in each other's company, to discuss the myriad matters affecting their now-mutual life, all within the framework of who they were and what they were and what they could both accept. Some adjustments came easily, without conscious effort; others required give-and-take on both sides.
And if their nights remained a constant, an arena where the lines had already been drawn, where they'd already made their decisions, even there, while their physical need of each other continued, a steady, unquenchable flame, with each night that passed, their involvement deepened, became more profound, more heavily invested with meaning.
By the time January waned and the thaws set in, they were both conscious of, not only change, but the creation of something new, some palpable entity, some subtle web within which they both now lived. They never discussed it, nor in any way alluded to it. Yet she was conscious of it every minute of the day-and knew he felt it, too.
"I'm for a ride."
Seated at a table by one window, a pile of chandler's accounts before her, Honoria looked up to see Devil strolling across the back parlor.
His gaze swept her, then returned to her face. "The going will be heavy-very slow. Do you care to chance 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?"