"She's the last marriageable Anstruther-Wetherby female and as rich as bedamned-isn't it just like Devil to have such a pearl fall into his lap."

"Such a handsome couple-Celestine designed her gown expressly."

Surrounded by such comments, by felicitations and congratulations, Honoria circulated through the throng, smiling, graciously inclining her head, exchanging the required words with all those who'd come to see her wed.

She was now the duchess of St. Ives. The past months of consideration, the last weeks of frenetic activity, had culminated in a simple service in the chapel in the grounds. The church had been packed, the overflow surrounding it like a jeweled sea. Mr. Merryweather had pronounced them man and wife, then Devil had claimed his kiss-a kiss she'd remember all her life. The sun had broken through as the crowd surged forth, forming a long aisle. Bathed in sunshine, they'd run a gauntlet of well-wishers all the way to the ballroom.

The wedding banquet had commenced at noon; it was now close to three o'clock. The musicians were resting-only six waltzes had been scheduled, but she'd already danced more. The first had been with Devil, an affecting experience. She'd been starved of breath by its end, only to be claimed by Vane, then Richard, followed by Harry, Gabriel, and Lucifer in quick succession. Her head had been spinning when the music finally ceased.

Scanning the crowd, Honoria spied Devil talking to Michael and her grandfather, seated near the huge fireplace. She headed toward them.

Amelia bobbed up in her path. "You're to bring Devil to cut the cake. They're setting up the trestles in the middle of the room-Aunt Helena said Devil would toe the line more easily if you ask."

Honoria laughed. "Tell her we're on our way."

Thrilled to be involved, Amelia whisked herself off.

Devil saw her long before she reached him; Honoria felt his gaze, warm, possessively lingering, as she dealt with the continual claims on her attention. Reaching his side, she met his eyes briefly-and felt her tension tighten, felt anticipation streak through her, the spark before the flame. They'd shared a bed for four weeks, yet the thrill was still there, the sudden breathlessness, the empty ache of longing, the need to give and take. She wondered if the feeling would ever fade.

Serenely, she inclined her head, acknowledging her grandfather. At Devil's behest, they'd met briefly before leaving London; focused on her future, she'd found it unexpectedly easy to forgive the past.

"Well, Your Grace!" Leaning back, Magnus looked up at her. "Here's your brother going to stand at the next election. What d'you think about that, heh?"

Honoria looked at Michael; he answered her unvoiced question. "St. Ives suggested it." He looked at Devil.

Who shrugged. "Carlisle was ready to put your name forward, which is good enough for me. With the combined backing of the Anstruther-Wetherbys and the Cynsters, you should be assured of a sound constituency."

Magnus snorted. "He'll get a safe seat, or I'll know the reason why."

Honoria grinned; stretching up, she planted a kiss on Michael's cheek. "Congratulations," she whispered.

Michael returned her affectionate kiss. "And to you." He squeezed her hand, then released it. "You made the right decision."

Honoria raised a brow, but she was smiling. Turning, she met Magnus's eye. "I am come to steal my husband away, sir. It's time to cut the cake."

"That so? Well-lead him away." Magnus waved encouragingly. "I wouldn't want to miss witnessing this phenomenon-a Cynster in tow to an Anstruther-Wetherby."

Honoria raised her brows. "I'm no longer an Anstruther-Wetherby."

"Precisely." Devil met Magnus's gaze, a conqueror's confidence in his eyes as he raised Honoria's hand to his lips. He turned to Honoria. "Come, my dear." He gestured to the room's center. "Your merest wish is my command."

Honoria slanted him a skeptical glance. "Indeed?"

"Indubitably." With polished efficiency, Devil steered her through the throng. "In fact," he mused, his voice deepening to a purr, "I'm anticipating fulfilling a goodly number of your wishes before the night is through."

Smiling serenely, Honoria exchanged nods with the duchess of Leicester. "You're making me blush."

"Brides are supposed to blush-didn't they tell you?" Devil's words feathered her ear. "Besides, you look delightful when you blush. Did you know your blush extends all the way-"

"There you are, my dears!"

To Honoria's relief, the Dowager appeared beside them. "If you'll just stand behind the cake. There's a knife there waiting." She shooed them around the table; family and guests crowded around. Their wedding cake stood in pride of place, seven tiers of heavy fruitcake covered with marzipan and decorated with intricate lace. On the top stood a stag, pirouetting on the Cynster shield.

"Good God!" Devil blinked at the creation.

"It's Mrs. Hull's work," Honoria whispered. "Remember to mention it later."

"Make way! Make way!"

The unexpected commotion had all turning. Honoria saw a long thin package waved aloft. Those at the edge of the crowd laughed; comments flew. A corridor opened, allowing the messenger through. It was Lucifer, his mission to deliver the package to Vane, standing before the table opposite Devil. With exaggerated ceremony, Vane accepted the package-a sword in its scabbard-reversing it and presenting it to Devil. "Your weapon, Your Grace."

The ballroom erupted with laughter.

His smile beyond devilish, Devil reached for the hilt. The blade-his cavalry saber-came singing from its sheath. To cheers and all manner of wild suggestions, he brandished it aloft-a piratical bucanneer in the heart of the elegant ton.

Then his eyes met Honoria's. One swift step and he stood behind her, his arms reaching around her. "Wrap your hands about the hilt."

Bemused, Honoria did so, gripping the thick-ridged rod of the hilt with both hands. Devil wrapped his hands about hers-Honoria suddenly felt faint.

A deep, soft chuckle sounded in her right ear. "Just like last night."

Last night-when he'd spent the final night of his bachelorhood with his cousins. Sighting Webster carrying a cask of brandy to the library, Honoria had resigned herself to spending her last night as a spinster alone. She'd retired to her bed and tried to fall asleep, only to discover that she'd become too used to having a large, warm, very hard body in the bed beside her. That same large, warm, very hard body had slipped quietly into her room in the small hours of the morning-and slid beneath the covers. She'd pretended to be asleep, then decided cutting off her nose to spite her face was no fun. She'd made her wishes known.

Only to be informed in a deep, sleepy chuckle, that he was too inebriated to mount her. Fiend that he was, he'd suggested she mount him-and had proceeded to teach her how. One lesson she would never forget.

Only when, utterly exhausted, sated to her toes, she'd collapsed on top of him, only to have him take control, pushing her on, possessing her so completely she had all but lost her mind, had she realized that, in keeping with the rest of their bodies, Cynster males also had hard heads. Not thick, not dense-just hard.

The memories poured through her, leaving her weak. Turning her head slightly, she met Devil's eyes-and was immensely glad she hadn't seen his smugly triumphant smile last night; she was seeing enough of it now. It took immense effort to stiffen her spine and close her hands, beneath his, about the saber's hilt, without recalling what it reminded her of. Drawing a deep breath, she poured every ounce of warning she could into her eyes, then looked at the cake. With his help, she raised the saber high.

The blade came singing down; guiding the swing, Devil drew her back, ensuring the saber cut a neat slice in each of the seven layers. Cheers and clapping erupted on all sides; ribald comments flew.

Her knees weak, Honoria fervently prayed everyone present thought those comments were the cause of her flaming cheeks. She prayed even harder that none bar the reprobate she'd married had noticed just where the rounded knob at the end of the sabre's hilt had finally come to rest. Hemmed in by the crowd behind them, they hadn't been able to move far enough back; the knobbed end of the hilt had slipped into the hollow between her thighs.

And for once, she couldn't blame him-the stillness that gripped him, the quick indrawn breath that hissed past her ear, exonerated him; he was as shaken as she. Their eyes met-were hers as nakedly wanting as his? Carefully, he drew the sword from her slackened grasp and handed it to Vane-then swiftly bent his head and brushed her lips with his. "Later."

The whispered word was a promise; Honoria shivered and felt an answering ripple pass through him. Again their eyes met-they both blinked, both drew breath-and turned aside, putting distance between their overcharged bodies.

In a daze, Honoria did the rounds of her Anstruther-Wetherby relations-the uncles and aunts she'd never known, the cousins who now regarded her with something akin to awe. It was a relief to return to the Cynster circle, to the warm smiles, openly affectionate, to the reassuring nods and the unflagging support. She stopped beside Louise; Arthur stood beside her.

Arthur took Honoria's hand. "You make a fine duchess, my dear." Despite the lines grief had etched in his face, as he raised her hand to his lips, Honoria glimpsed the debonair, devil-may-care gentleman he must once have been. "Sylvester's a lucky man."