"It's too perfect not to be. Too much like his other works."
"Whose work? Who painted it?"
"Holbein the Younger, court-portraitist for Henry the Eighth."
They spent the next hour talking, speculating, deciding that the miniature belonged in a museum. That resolved, Lucifer returned the painting to the secret drawer, then fetched the lamp and placed it on the table beside the bed.
He'd pulled off his wet boots and stripped off his coat and shirt long before; Phyllida was still in her damp shirt and breeches. She regarded him speculatively, fascinated by the way the flickering lamplight played over the muscles of his chest. She let her gaze drift downward, to where the wet fabric of his breeches molded lovingly to his form, then languidly brought her gaze back to his face-to his eyes, smoldering blue.
She raised a haughty brow.
He smiled. Intently. His fingers closed on the buttons on his waistband. He held her gaze as if daring her to watch as he peeled the wet breeches from him. Phyllida raised her brow higher-and did. His breeches hit the floor with a splat. He came onto the bed in a prowling crawl. With an ease that still shocked her-tantalized her and left her breath stuck in her throat-he picked her up and rearranged her so she was kneeling, sitting back on her ankles, her back to him as he knelt behind her, his naked thighs outside hers. She was facing the end of the four-poster bed. With the curtains tied back, she looked out at her reflection in the long, wide mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
The sight was mesmerizing. His shoulders showed above and beyond hers; she looked fragile and vulnerable all but surrounded by him. Female and male, one dressed, one naked; the contrasts were dramatic. His hands looked very large clamped about her waist. He checked the vision he was creating, then glanced down. Phyllida watched as his hands rose and his fingers busied themselves with the buttons of her shirt. At least, this time she wouldn't have to sew them back on.
"I'm going to strip these wet clothes from you, then I'm going to dry you, then warm you up-we wouldn't want you to catch a chill."
Phyllida had no wish to argue. She leaned her turbaned head back on his shoulder and, watching from under half closed lids, let him get on with it.
Let him peel the wet shirt from her, then unwind her sodden bands. Watched him grab a towel and apply it to her breasts in a slow, circular motion. When her breasts were not only dry but swollen and warm, peaked and firm, he dropped the towel and started on her breeches. Removing them required a little more cooperation; giggling at the curses and inventive suggestions he murmured between laying kisses along the back of her bare shoulders and licking errant drops from her skin, she helped him ease the cold, clinging fabric from her hips and down her thighs.
Without warning, he lifted her, whisking the wet garment over her knees and calves; it went flying to join the pile on the floor. He picked up the towel as he set her down before him, still on her knees, still facing the mirror. Fragile, vulnerable, and naked, surrounded by his strength.
He wielded the towel to telling effect, using the lightly abrasive pile
to tease and tantalize until all of her body was flushed and heated, until every inch of her skin was sensitized and aching, until she was awash with a wanton desire that only he could slake.
Then he dropped the towel.
She was dry. He set his clever fingers, strong hands, wicked lips, and even wickeder tongue to the task of warming her up. Until she was gasping, heated to the point where her skin felt afire and molten need had spread through every vein. Through her lashes she saw her body flushed with desire, a glow unlike any other. She needed him, wanted him-she arched in his arms, sank her fingers into his thighs, and dropped her head back to his shoulder.
He shifted her, urging her on, molding her as he wished, showing her how to be as wanton as she dared.
Then he joined with her. So easily, so perfectly, so completely. He closed his arms around her and rocked her, rocked into her; she closed her eyes and savored the feel of him buried so deep within her.
He was as hot as the sun, burning up all around her, muscles flexing like hot steel all about her. He showed her what could be, then let her choose, let her turn and clasp her long legs about his hips and take him deep, let her wrap her arms about him and find his lips with hers, let her take him with her into oblivion.
Together. Forever.
They were married on a Monday, the day after Mr. Filing read the banns for the third time. Mr. Filing officiated before a church packed to the rafters. Everyone from the village, everyone from the surrounding farms and houses, was there, as were numerous Cynsters who had moved heaven and earth to be present.
Gabriel stood beside his brother and happily handed him the ring. Flick and Mary Anne were bridesmaids. Demon was the second groomsman.
In the body of the church sat Gabriel's wife, Alathea, smiling fondly, and Celia Cynster, Lucifer's mother, who cried happily throughout the short service. Beside her, Martin, Lucifer's father, looked smugly satisfied as he handed clean handkerchiefs to his spouse. Lucifer's three sisters, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, all beamed.
Then it was done, and the last member of the Bar Cynster was wed.
Lucifer bent to kiss Phyllida; the sun broke from the wispy clouds to pour through the oriel window, enclosing the bride and groom in a nimbus of jeweled light. Then they smiled and turned, man and wife, to greet their family and friends.
At the bride and groom's insistence, the wedding breakfast was held at the Manor. The guests spread through the house, spilled onto the lawns, and strolled the wonderful garden. Standing at one side of the lawn with his father, Gabriel, and Demon, Lucifer watched as Celia all but paraded her new daughter-in-law, her delight in her second son's choice plain to see. Phyllida had, to the last, remained nervous of her reception into the ducal dynasty; it had taken Celia only three minutes to lay such trepidations to rest. In doing so, she'd earned her second son's enduring gratitude, but that wasn't something he intended to tell her. As a Cynster wife, Celia had weapons enough.
Beside him, Martin chuckled, the sound fond but wary. Lucifer, Demon, and Gabriel glanced at him, then followed his gaze to where Celia and Phyllida had met up with Alathea and Flick. They had their heads together.
Lucifer straightened. Demon sighed. Gabriel shook his head. It was left to Martin to put their thoughts into words. "Why we bother fighting it, the Lord only knows. Inevitability, thy name is woman."
Lucifer's lips lifted. "Actually, for us, I believe that should go: Inevitability, thy name is wife."
"Too true," Gabriel murmured.