"A constituency matter?"

His brows quirked. "Indeed — you might well call it that."

He bowed, then, with his practiced, easy smile, stepped back, saluted her, and strolled away across the lawn. Amelia saw Devil cross to have a last word; from the way Magnus followed his grandson's departure, Michael had already taken his leave there.

Scanning the crowd surrounding the tables, filling the shade with color and laughter, Amelia located Luc. He'd been checking on his sisters. Anne, Portia, and Penelope, together with Fiona, invited and allowed to attend as a special treat, were sitting about one end of the long table with others of similar age, including Amelia's younger cousins, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica. Simon was presiding at the very end; he exchanged some negligent remark with Luc, who laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and left him.

Moving along the table, Luc heard his name called, in an imperious accent he knew better than to ignore. Looking over the heads, he saw the Dowager watching; he made his way to her.

"Come." She waved. "Give your arm. We will stroll and you can tell me how lucky you are to have married my niece, and how you will extend yourself to the utmost to keep her happy."

Outwardly smiling, inwardly alert, Luc helped Helena from her chair, then dutifully gave her his arm; by mutual accord, they strolled away from the gathering into the relative privacy deeper under the trees.

"You will be happy, you know."

The comment caught him unprepared; he glanced at Helena, and found himself trapped in her pale green eyes, eyes that he knew from experience always saw too much. She was worse than his mother; very little escaped the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

She smiled, patted his hand, then looked ahead. "When you have witnessed as many weddings as I, you simply know."

"How… comforting." He wondered why she was telling him — wondered what she knew.

"Just like this place." Helena gestured to the church, standing quiet and peaceful, basking in the sunshine, its moment past, its job done. "It is as if the very stones possess some magic."

He was struck by how close to his thoughts of yesterday her observation came. "Have there never been any less-than-successful Cynster marriages?" He knew of at least one.

"Not that were celebrated here. And none in my time."

That last was said with decision, as if warning that if his and Amelia's union did not live up to expectations, they would have to answer to her.

"That other you are thinking of — Arthur's first marriage — was not celebrated here. I was told that Sebastian forbade it, and in truth, Arthur refused to request the boon."

And if Helena had been old Sebastian's duchess at the time, rather than a young girl in France, Luc felt sure that illfated union would never have been permitted at all.

"You are…" — he struggled to find words, settled for—"a believer, are you not?"

"Mais oui! I have lived too much, seen too much, ever to doubt that the power exists."

He felt her green gaze, sensed her gentle amusement, but refused to let her catch his eye.

"Ah," she said, facing forward again. "You are resisting — is that it?"

As usual in conversations with Helena, one came to the point of wondering how one had come to this. Luc said nothing, reacted not at all.

She smiled again, patted his hand. "Never mind. Just remember — whatever is not yet resolved between you, the power is there — you can accept it and wield it anytime you choose. No matter the difficulty, all you need do is ask, and the power will deliver it up to you — right the wrong, ease the way, whatever is necessary."

She paused, then, amusement again in her tone, she continued, "Of course, to call on that power you first need to acknowledge it exists."

"I knew there was a catch."

She laughed, and turned them back toward the tables. "Eh, bien—you will manage. Trust me — I know."

Luc raised his brows fleetingly; he wasn't going to argue.

He did, however, wonder if she was right.

It was finally — at last! — time to leave. The afternoon was waning; Amelia disappeared indoors and changed into a new carriage dress of cerulean blue, then returned to the lawns. To Luc's side.

There was a moment of crazed jostling over her bouquet — her throw went wild, it landed in a branch, then fell onto Magnus's head, eliciting much laughter and a host of ribald suggestions. Then the younger crew, after hugging them and bidding them farewell, went down to the lake. Their elders remained in their chairs under the trees; the others — the Bar Cynster and their wives, Amanda and Martin, all crowded around, kissing Amelia, shaking Luc's hand — and offering more suggestions, to Amelia as well as to Luc. At last, they let them go, standing in a group to watch as Luc and Amelia, accompanied by Devil and Honoria, strolled to where the Calverton traveling coach stood before the porch, horses prancing.

The distance was sufficient to render the moment private.

They reached the carriage; Honoria, suspiciously misty-eyed, drew Amelia into her embrace. "It's almost seven years since I first met you, here, on the gravel beside a carriage."

Their gazes met; both remembered — then they smiled, touched cheeks.

Honoria whispered, "Remember — whatever you do, enjoy it."

Smothering a laugh, Amelia nodded; she was about to climb into the carriage when Devil caught her, hugged her, kissed her cheek, then tossed her up.

He turned to Luc. "From now on, you get to catch her when she tumbles out."

Luc glanced at Amelia — she grinned and settled back on the seat. Making a mental note to ask for an explanation later, he kissed Honoria's cheek, then held out his hand.

Devil gripped it; their gazes met, locked. "I'll see you in town in September."

Luc inclined his head. "Indeed — we can catch up, and no doubt Gabriel will want to make a start on his new idea."

"Presuming the preconditions have been met."

One boot on the step, Luc raised a brow. "Of course. And I daresay we'll be able to compare notes, you and I."

They were much of a height. Devil held Luc's midnight blue gaze, his own pale gaze steady, then inclined his head, accepting the challenge. "As you say."

With a nod, Luc climbed up; Devil shut the door.

"Good-bye!" Honoria waved.

"Good luck!" Devil added.

The driver cracked his whip — the coach lurched, and rolled forward; slowly gathering speed, it rolled down the gently curving drive. Honoria and Devil stood side by side and watched until the avenue of oaks intervened, blocking the coach from sight.

Honoria heaved a sigh. "Well, that's it for a while." She turned to her spouse. "And what was that all about? On what subject do you and Luc expect to compare notes?"

His gaze on the distant avenue, Devil paused, then looked down at his duchess. His wife. Looked into her misty grey eyes, the clear steady eyes that had first trapped his hardened heart.

"Have I ever told you that I love you?"

Honoria blinked, then opened her eyes wide. "No. As you very well know."

He could feel his face hardening. "Well, I do."

She — the mother of his three children, who now knew him better than anyone else in the world, even better than his mother — studied his eyes, then smiled. "I know. I always have." Linking her arm in his, she turned, not back to their guests but toward the rose garden around the side of the house. "Did you think I didn't?"

He considered, allowing her to steer their steps. "I suppose I always assumed you'd guessed."

"So why the sudden confession?"

That was much harder to explain. They stepped down to the sunken garden, strolled past the rioting roses to the seat at its end. Honoria neither spoke nor prompted. They sat; together they looked back at the house — their home — steeped in the glories of the past, full of the laughter and cries of their children, the future incarnate.

"It's like a rite of passage," Devil finally said. "But not one that's connected with any other. At least, that's how it is for me — and some others."

"Like Luc?"

Devil nodded. "It's easier, for us, to live the reality rather than declare it, to acknowledge it in our hearts but not put it into words. Basically, to act the part without owning to the label."

Her eyes on the house, Honoria followed his thoughts, tried to understand. "But… why? Oh, I can understand at first, but surely, over time, as you admit, actions speak the truth and the words become redundant—"

"No." Devil shook his head. "Those particular words never become worthless. Or easy." He glanced at Honoria. "They never lose their power."

She could feel it now as she met his gaze. Understanding dawned; misty-eyed again, she smiled. "Ah — I see. Power. So, to you, putting the fact into words—"

"Saying them out aloud."

"Uttering them, declaring the truth, is like…" She gestured, knowing what she meant yet not able to describe it.

Devil could, did. "It's like giving an oath of fealty — not just by one's actions acknowledging your sovereign, but offering your sword and accepting and acknowledging another's power to rule you." He met Honoria's gaze. "Men like me — like Luc — we're conditioned never to give that final, binding oath, not until we're forced to it. To do so willingly goes against every precept, every ingrained rule."

"You mean you — and Luc — are rather more… primitive than most?"

Devil narrowed his eyes. "It's possibly more accurate to say our instincts are less flexible. We're both heads of our houses, both raised to protect all that's ours — and we've both been raised knowing others are depending on us to do just that."