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clenched, Devil
reminded himself that that—and only that—had been his aim. Thanks to fate, he'd
have time and more to claim recompense for the pain she was causing him, to
claim a suitable reward for his remarkable rectitude. His halo, for once, ought
to be glowing.
    It took half an hour of thinking of something else
before he could risk relaxing. By then she was deeply asleep. Shifting
carefully, he settled more comfortably, then noticed the fire was dying.
Reaching down, he snagged his jacket, then draped it carefully over his
wife-to-be.
    Lips curving, he rested his head against the chairback
and closed his eyes.
    He woke with his cheek pillowed on her curls.
    Devil blinked. Sunlight slanted through the shutters.
Honoria was still asleep, snuggled against him, legs curled across his thighs.
Then he heard the clop of hooves approaching. Vane, no doubt, come to seek him
out.
    Straightening, Devil winced as cramped muscles
protested. His wife-to-be did not stir. Gathering her in his arms, he stood;
Honoria mumbled, resettling her head against his shoulder. Devil gently
deposited her in the wing chair, tucking his jacket about her. A frown
fleetingly puckered her brows as her cheek touched the cold chintz, then her
features eased and she slid deeper into sleep.
    Devil stretched. Then, running his fingers across his
chest, he headed for the door. Yawning, he opened it.
    His breath hissed in through his teeth. "Hell and
the devil!" Taking stock of the arrivals, he cursed beneath his breath.
He'd been right about Vane—his cousin, mounted on a black hunter, had just
pulled up. Another horseman halted alongside. Devil's features blanked as he
nodded to his only older cousin, Charles—Tolly's half brother.
    That, however, was not the worst. From the other
bridle path, a party of four trotted forward—Lord Claypole, Lady Claypole, and
two grooms.
    "Your
Grace
! How surprising to come upon
you here." A sharp-featured woman with crimped hair, Lady Claypole barely
glanced at Vane and Charles before returning her gaze to Devil, her
protruberant blue eyes widening.
    "I was stranded by the storm." Bracing one
forearm against the doorframe, Devil blocked the doorway.
    "Indeed? Beastly night." Lord Claypole, a
short, rotund gentleman, wrestled his bay to a halt. "Might I inquire,
Your Grace, if you've seen anything of our governess? Took the gig out to
Somersham yesterday—gig came home without her—haven't seen hide nor hair of her
since."
    Devil looked blank. "The storm was quite
wild."
    "Quite, quite." His lordship nodded briskly.
"Daresay the horse got loose and bolted home. Testy brute. Sure to find
Miss Wetherby safe and sound at the vicarage, what?" His lordship looked
at his wife, still absorbed with the view. "Don't you think so,
m'dear?"
    Her ladyship shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure she'll be
all right. So terribly inconsiderate of her to put us to all this fuss."
Directing a weary smile at Devil, Lady Claypole gestured to the grooms.
"We felt we should mount a search, but I daresay you're right, my lord,
and she'll be sitting snug at the vicarage. Miss Wetherby," her ladyship
informed Devil archly, "comes with the
highest
recommendations."
    Devil's brows rose. "Does she indeed?"
    "I had it from Mrs. Acheson-Smythe. Of the
highest
calibre—
quite
exclusive. Naturally, when she learned of my Melissa,
she set aside all other offers and—" Lady Claypole broke off, protruberant
eyes starting. Her mouth slowly opened as she stared past Devil's bare
shoulder.
    Heaving an inward sigh, Devil lowered his arm,
half-turning to watch Honoria's entrance. She came up beside him, blinking
sleepily, one hand pressed to her back; with the other, she brushed errant
curls from her face. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her topknot loose, releasing
wispy tendrils of gold-shot brown to wreathe auralike about her head. She
looked deliciously tumbled, her cheeks lightly flushed, as if they had indeed
been entertaining each other in the manner the Claypoles