Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page B

abetted by Devil’s demon horse, had conveyed a clear message—that she was to be Devil’s bride.
    The evening passed swiftly; dinner, attended by everyone, was a somber meal. No one was inclined to entertainment; most retired early. A brooding, melancholy silence descended over the house, as if it mourned, too.
    In her chamber, cocooned in down, Honoria thumped her pillow and ordered herself to fall asleep. Five minutes of restless rustling later, she turned onto her back, and glared at the canopy.
    It was all Devil’s fault, his and his mother’s. She’d tried to avoid acting as his duchess-to-be, unfortunately unsuccessfully. Worse, as Devil had stated, on a superficial level, she was perfect for the position, a fact apparently obvious to any who considered the matter. She was starting to feel like she was fighting fate.
    Honoria shuffled onto her side. She, Honoria Prudence Anstruther -Wetherby, was not going to be pressured into anything. It was patently obvious both Devil and the Dowager would do everything possible to tempt her, to convince her to accept his proposal—the proposal he hadn’t made. That last was not a fact she was likely to forget—he’d simply taken it for granted that she would marry him.
    She’d known from the first he was impossible, even when she’d thought him a mere country squire; as a duke, he was doubly—triply—so. Aside from anything else—his chest, for example—he was a first-class tyrant. Sane women did not marry tyrants.
    She clung to that eminently sound declaration, drawing strength from its unarguable logic. Keeping Devil’s image in mind helped enormously—one glance at his face, at the rest of him, was all it took to reinforce her conclusion.
    Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted strength of character, for all his apparent family feeling, even despite his Cousin Clara’s belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn’t interfere with his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.
    She didn’t want to believe it, but she’d heard him herself. He’d stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone believed him, the magistrate included. He was the head of the family, one step removed from a despot; to them and the ton , what Devil Cynster, duke of St. Ives, stated, was.
    The only one inclined to question him was herself. Tolly hadn’t been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.
    Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man? Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver; Tolly had carried a heavy purse—she’d felt it in his pocket. Had Tolly been armed and, with the impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She’d seen no gun; it seemed unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A highwayman did not seem at all likely.
    As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use pistols.
    Tolly had been murdered.
    She wasn’t sure when she had reached that conclusion; it was now as inescapable as the dawn.
    Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it—why did she feel so involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her—upon her soul—to see justice done.
    But that wasn’t the cause of her sleeplessness.
    She’d heard Tolly’s voice in the cottage, heard the relief he’d felt when he’d realized he’d reached Devil. He’d thought he’d reached safety—someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would have sworn Devil cared—cared deeply. But his behavior in