Free Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page B

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.
    â€œTo my mother. Incidentally, she prefers to be addressed as the Dowager.”
    Honoria frowned. “But you’re not married.”
    â€œYet. 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 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?”
    â€œIn the morning room, Your Grace.”
    â€œI’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