Free Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page A

created by the exterior extended within
doors. A sense of graciousness pervaded the high-ceilinged hall, lit by
sunlight pouring through the fanlight and the windows flanking the front doors.
The walls were papered—blue fleur-de-lis on an ivory ground; the paneling, all
light oak, glowed softly. Together with the blue-and-white tiles, the decor
imparted an airy, uncluttered atmosphere. Stairs of polished oak, their
baluster ornately carved, led upward in a long, straight sweep, then divided
into two, both arms leading to the gallery above.
    Webster had been informing his master of the presence
of his cousins. Devil nodded curtly. "Where's the Dowager?"
    "In the morning room, Your Grace."
    "I'll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to her. Wait
for me."
    Webster bowed.
    The devil glanced down at her. With a languid grace
that set her nerves on end, he gestured for her to accompany him. She was still
quivering inside—she told herself it was due to indignation. Head high, she
swept down the hall.
    His instruction to his butler to wait had recalled
what their sparring had driven from her mind. As they neared the morning-room
door, it occurred to Honoria that she might have been arguing for no real
reason. Devil reached for the doorknob, his fingers closing about hers—she
tugged. He looked up, incipient impatience in his eyes.
    She smiled understandingly. "I'm sorry—I'd
forgotten. You must be quite distracted by your cousin's death." She spoke
softly, soothingly. "We can discuss all this later, but there's really no
reason for us to wed. I daresay, once the trauma has passed, you'll see things
as I do."
    He held her gaze, his eyes as blank as his expression.
Then his features hardened. "Don't count on it." With that, he set
the door wide and handed her through. He followed, closing the door behind him.
    A petite woman, black hair streaked with grey, was
seated in a chair before the hearth, a hoop filled with embroidery on her lap.
She looked up, then smiled—the most gloriously welcoming smile Honoria had ever
seen—and held out her hand. "There you are, Sylvester. I'd wondered where
you'd got to. And who is this?"
    His mother's French background rang clearly in her
accent; it also showed in her coloring, in the hair that had once been as black
as her son's combined with an alabaster complexion, in the quick, graceful
movements of her hands, her animated features and the candid, appraising glance
that swept Honoria.
    Inwardly ruing her hideously creased skirts, Honoria
kept her head high as she was towed across the room. The Dowager hadn't so much
as blinked at her son's bare chest.
    "
Maman
." To her surprise, her
devilish captor bent and kissed his mother's cheek. She accepted the tribute as
her due; as he straightened, she fixed him with a questioning glance every bit
as imperious as he was arrogant. He met it blandly. "You told me to bring
you your successor the instant I found her. Allow me to present Miss Honoria
Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby." Briefly, he glanced at Honoria. "The
Dowager Duchess of St. Ives." Turning back to his mother, he added:
"Miss Anstruther-Wetherby was residing with the Claypoles—her boxes will
arrive shortly. I'll leave you to get acquainted."
    With the briefest of nods, he proceeded to do just
that, closing the door firmly behind him. Stunned, Honoria glanced at the
Dowager, and was pleased to see she wasn't the only one left staring.
    Then the Dowager looked up and smiled—warmly,
welcomingly, much as she had smiled at her son. Honoria felt the glow touch her
heart. The Dowager's expression was understanding, encouraging. "Come, my
dear. Sit down." The Dowager waved to the
chaise
beside her
chair. "If you have been dealing with Sylvester, you will need the rest.
He is often very trying."
    Resisting the temptation to agree emphatically,
Honoria sank onto the chintz.
    "You must excuse my son. He is somewhat…"
The Dowager paused, clearly searching for the right word. She grimaced.