Honoria tilted her chin. "You are being deliberately obtuse. May I please have my account from Celestine?"
His frown deepening, darkening his eyes, Devil looked down at her. "No." The single syllable was backed by centuries of undisputed power.
Honoria held his gaze steadily-and felt her temper swell, felt indignation soar. Gazes locked, she could feel their wills, tangible entities, directly opposed, neither giving an inch. Slowly, she narrowed her eyes. "How," she inquired, her voice steely calm,"do you imagine I feel knowing that every stitch I have on was paid for by you?"
Instantly, she saw her mistake-saw it in his eyes, in the subtle shift that lightened the green, in the consideration that flashed through their depths.
He shifted closer. "I don't know." His voice had dropped to a gravelly purr; his gaze grew mesmerically intent. "Tell me."
Inwardly railing, Honoria saw any chance of getting Celestine's bill evaporate. "I do not believe we have anything further to discuss, Your Grace. If you'll excuse me?"
She heard her own words, cool and distant. His gaze hardened; his expression was as controlled as her own. He searched her eyes, then, rigidly formal, inclined his head, and stepped aside, clearing her path to the door.
Honoria's breath caught as she tried to draw it in. She bobbed a curtsy, then, regally erect, glided to the door, conscious of his gaze, shimmering heat on her back, until the door swung closed between them.
She shut the door with a definite click.
The weather, mimicking the atmosphere within St. Ives House, turned decidedly chilly. Three nights later, ensconced in one corner of the St. Ives town carriage, Honoria looked out on a dark and dreary landscape whipped by wind and incessant rain. They were on their way to Richmond, to the duchess of Richmond's ball; all the haut ton would be present, the Cynsters included. None of the family would dance, but appearance was mandatory.
It was not, however, the prospect of her first real ball that had knotted her nerves. The tension that held her was entirely attributable to the impressive figure, clothed in black, lounging directly opposite, his inner tension, a match for hers, radiating through the darkness. The Lord of Hell could not have had more complete command of her awareness.
Honoria's jaw tensed; her stubbornness swelled. Her gaze glued to the misery beyond the window, she conjured up an image of the Great Sphinx. Her destiny. She had started to waver, to wonder whether, perhaps… until his demonstration that a tyrant never changed his spots. It was, she acknowledged, deep disappointment that had left the odd emptiness inside her, as if a treat had been offered and then withdrawn.
Richmond House, ablaze with lights, shone through the darkness. Their carriage joined the long queue leading to the portico. Innumerable stop-start jerks later, the carriage door was opened; Devil uncoiled his long length and stepped down. He assisted the Dowager up the porch steps, then returned. Avoiding his eye, Honoria placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her down, then escort her in the Dowager's wake.
Negotiating the stairs proved an unexpected trial; the unyielding press of bodies forced them close. So close she could feel the heat of him reach for her, feel his strength envelop her. The flimsiness of her lavender-silk gown only heightened her susceptibility; as they reached the head of the stairs, she flicked open her fan.
The duchess of Richmond was delighted to receive them. "Horatia's near the conservatory." The duchess touched a scented cheek to the Dowager's, then held out a hand to Honoria. "Hmm-yes." Surveying her critically as she rose from her curtsy, the duchess broke into a beaming smile. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear." Releasing Honoria, she glanced archly at Devil. "And you, St. Ives? How are you finding life as an almost-affianced gentleman?"
"Trying." His expression bland. Devil shook her hand.
The duchess grinned. "I wonder why?" Slanting a laughing glance at Honoria, the duchess waved them on. "I'll rely on you, St. Ives, to ensure Miss Anstruther-Wetherby is suitably entertained."
With stultifying correctness, Devil offered his arm; in precisely the same vein, Honoria rested her fingertips upon it and allowed him to steer her in the Dowager's wake. She kept her head high, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
Many were too familiar. She wished she could take her hand from Devil's sleeve, take just one step away, enough to put some distance between them. But the ton had grown so used to the idea she was his duchess-in-waiting, that she was his, that any hint of a rift would immediately focus every eye on them, which would be even worse.
Her serene mask firmly in place, she had to leave her nerves to suffer his nearness.
Devil led her to a position just beyond the chaise where the Dowager and Horatia Cynster sat, surrounded by a coterie of older ladies. Within minutes, they were surrounded themselves, by friends, acquaintances, and the inevitable Cynsters.
The group about them swelled and ebbed, then swelled and ebbed again. Then a suavely elegant gentleman materialized from the crowd to bow gracefully before her. "Chillingworth, my dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." Straightening, he smiled charmingly. "We've not been introduced, but I'm acquainted with your brother."
"Michael?" Honoria gave him her hand. She'd heard of the earl of Chillingworth; by reputation, he was Devil Cynster's match. "Have you seen him recently?"
"Ah-no." Chillingworth turned to greet Lady Waltham and Miss Mott. Lord Hill and Mr. Pringle joined the group, distracting the other two ladies; Chillingworth turned back to Honoria. "Michael and I share the same club."
And very little else, Honoria suspected. "Indeed? And have you seen the play at the Theatre Royal?" Lady Waltham had waxed lyrical about the production but couldn't remember its title.
The earl's brows rose. "Quite a tour de force." He glanced at Devil, absorbed with Lord Malmsbury. "If St. Ives is unable to escort you, perhaps I could get up a party, one you might consent to join?"
Classically handsome, well set, tall enough to look down into her eyes, Chillingworth was a damsel's dream-and a prudent mama's nightmare. Honoria opened her eyes wide. "But you've already seen the play, my lord."
"Watching the play would not be my aim, my dear."
Honoria smiled. "But it would be my aim, my lord, which might disappoint you."
An appreciative gleam lit Chillingworth's eyes. "I suspect, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, that I wouldn't find you disappointing at all."