Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens

it was due to indignation. Head high, she swept down the hall.
    His instruction to his butler to wait had recalled what their sparring had driven from her mind. As they neared the morning-room door, it occurred to Honoria that she might have been arguing for no real reason. Devil reached for the doorknob, his fingers closing about hers—she tugged. He looked up, incipient impatience in his eyes.
    She smiled understandingly. “I’m sorry—I’d forgotten. You must be quite distracted by your cousin’s death.” She spoke softly, soothingly. “We can discuss all this later, but there’s really no reason for us to wed. I daresay, once the trauma has passed, you’ll see things as I do.”
    He held her gaze, his eyes as blank as his expression. Then his features hardened. “Don’t count on it.” With that, he set the door wide and handed her through. He followed, closing the door behind him.
    A petite woman, black hair streaked with grey, was seated in a chair before the hearth, a hoop filled with embroidery on her lap. She looked up, then smiled—the most gloriously welcoming smile Honoria had ever seen—and held out her hand. “There you are, Sylvester. I’d wondered where you’d got to. And who is this?”
    His mother’s French background rang clearly in her accent; it also showed in her coloring, in the hair that had once been as black as her son’s combined with an alabaster complexion, in the quick, graceful movements of her hands, her animated features and the candid, appraising glance that swept Honoria.
    Inwardly ruing her hideously creased skirts, Honoria kept her head high as she was towed across the room. The Dowager hadn’t so much as blinked at her son’s bare chest.
    â€œ Maman .” To her surprise, her devilish captor bent and kissed his mother’s cheek. She accepted the tribute as her due; as he straightened, she fixed him with a questioning glance every bit as imperious as he was arrogant. He met it blandly. “You told me to bring you your successor the instant I found her. Allow me to present Miss Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby.” Briefly, he glanced at Honoria. “The Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.” Turning back to his mother, he added: “Miss Anstruther-Wetherby was residing with the Claypoles—her boxes will arrive shortly. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”
    With the briefest of nods, he proceeded to do just that, closing the door firmly behind him. Stunned, Honoria glanced at the Dowager, and was pleased to see she wasn’t the only one left staring.
    Then the Dowager looked up and smiled—warmly, wel-comingly, much as she had smiled at her son. Honoria felt the glow touch her heart. The Dowager’s expression was understanding, encouraging. “Come, my dear. Sit down.” The Dowager waved to the chaise beside her chair. “If you have been dealing with Sylvester, you will need the rest. He is often very trying.”
    Resisting the temptation to agree emphatically, Honoria sank onto the chintz.
    â€œYou must excuse my son. He is somewhat . . .” The Dowager paused, clearly searching for the right word. She grimaced. “ Detresse´ .”
    â€œI believe he has a number of matters on his mind.”
    The Dowager’s fine brows rose. “His mind?” Then she smiled, eyes twinkling as they rested once more on Honoria’s face. “But now, my dear, as my so- detresse´ son has decreed, we will get acquainted. And as you are to be my daughter-in-law, I will call you Honoria.” Again, her brows rose. “Is that not right?”
    Her name became “ ’Onoria”—the Dowager couldn’t manage the “H.” Honoria returned her smile, and sidestepped the leading question. “If you wish it, ma’am.”
    The Dowager’s smile grew radiant. “My dear, I wish it with all my