Free Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens

century before, it sprawled elegantly before
her, a mature and gracious residence overlooking a wide lawn. She was dimly
aware of the lake at the bottom of the lawn, of the oaks flanking the curving
drive, of the stone wall over which a white rose cascaded, dew sparkling on the
perfumed blooms. The clack of ducks drifted up from the lake; the air was fresh
with the tang of clipped grass. But it was the house that held her. Durable,
inviting, there was grandeur in every line, yet the sharp edges were muted,
softened by the years. Sunbeams glinted on row upon row of lead-paned windows;
huge double oak doors were framed by a portico of classic design. Like a lovely
woman mellowed by experience, his home beckoned, enticed.
    He was proposing to make her mistress of all this.
    The thought flitted through her mind; even though she
knew he was watching, she allowed herself a moment to imagine, to dwell on what
might be. For this had she been born, reared, trained. What should have been
her destiny lay before her. But becoming his duchess would mean risking…
    No
! She'd promised
herself—never again.
    Mentally shutting her eyes to the house, the temptation,
she drew a steadying breath, and saw the crest blazoned in stone on the
portico's facade, a shield sporting a stag rampant on a ground of fleur-de-lis.
Beneath the shield ran a wide stone ribbon bearing a carved inscription. The
words were Latin—it took her a moment to translate. "To have… and to
hold?"
    Hard fingers closed about hers. "The Cynster
family motto."
    Honoria raised her eyes heavenward. An irresistible
force, he drew her toward the steps. "Where are you taking me?" A
vision of silk cushions and gauze curtains—a pirate's private lair—flashed into
her mind.
    "To my mother. Incidentally, she prefers to be
addressed as the Dowager."
    Honoria frowned. "But you're not married."
    "Yet. It's her subtle way of reminding me of my
duty."
    Subtle. Honoria wondered what the Dowager—his mother,
after all—would do if she wished to make a point forcefully. Whatever, it was
time and past to make a stand. It would be unwise to cross his threshold—beyond
which, she had not the slightest doubt, he ruled like a king—without coming to
some agreement as to their future relationship, or lack thereof.
    They reached the porch; he halted before the doors and
released her. Facing him, Honoria straightened. "Your Grace, we
must—"
    The doors swung inward, held majestically wide by a
butler, one of the more imposing of the species. Cheated of her moment, Honoria
only just managed not to glare.
    The butler's eyes had gone to his master; his smile
was genuinely fond. "Good morning, Your Grace."
    His master nodded. "Webster."
    Honoria stood her ground. She was not going to cross
his threshold until he acknowledged her right to ignore—as he did whenever it
suited him—society's dictates.
    He shifted to stand beside her, gesturing for her to
precede him. Simultaneously, Honoria felt his hand at the back of her waist.
Without her petticoat, only a single layer of fabric separated her skin from
his hard palm. He didn't exert any great pressure; instead, seductively
questing, his hand traveled slowly, very slowly, down. When it reached the curve
of her bottom, Honoria sucked in a quick breath—and stepped quickly over the
threshold.
    He followed. "This is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby,
Webster." He looked her way; Honoria glimpsed triumph in his eyes.
"She'll be staying—her boxes should arrive this morning."
    Webster bowed low. "I'll have your things taken
to your room, miss."
    Stiffly, Honoria inclined her head—her heart was still
fluttering in her throat; her skin felt hot and cold in the strangest places.
She couldn't fault the butler's demeanor; he seemed unsurprised by his master's
lack of attire. Was she the only one who found his bare chest at all
remarkable? Stifling an urge to sniff disbelievingly, she elevated her nose
another inch and looked about the hall.
    The impression