Scandal's Bride (44 page)

Devil raised his brows. “What news?”

“The impending extension of our family.”

“Really?” Devil grinned and thumped Vane on the shoulder. “Excellent. Another playmate for Sebastian.”

Both Richard, beaming and shaking hands with Vane, and Vane himself, stopped and turned to stare at Devil.

“Another?” Vane asked.

Devil grinned even more as he resettled his shoulders against the bedpost. “Well, you didn't think I'd stop at just one, did you?”

They hadn't, but . . . “When?” Richard asked.

Devil shrugged nonchalantly. “Sometime in summer.”

Richard hesitated, then raised a brow and sank back.

“Sounds like our respective mothers and aunts will be in alt. Nothing they like better than a baby or two.” Or three. But he kept his lips shut on that point and looked at Vane. “So what happened when you got to Somersham?”

“We arrived mid-morning, one hour after Helena and the twins, who she's been chaperoning about, got in from the Ashfordleighs—we didn't even get a chance to get out of our coats. Your mother had read Honoria's note and got the bit well and truly between her teeth even before we arrived. Nothing would do but she must rush north to your side—to your deathbed, as she put it. As usual, it was impossible to gainsay her—and, of course, I couldn't let her go rushing through the snow with just the twins for escort. Well,” Vane gestured, “you can imagine what it was like. Mrs. Hull on the stairs with Sebastian in her arms declaring you were at death's door. Webster all but wringing his hands and making unhelpful suggestions as to how best to reach the Lowlands. The twins oohing and aahing and trying not to remember Tolly's death. And your mother, center stage, vowing she would fight through drifts on her hands and knees to get to your side in time. In time for what, I didn't ask.”

“To make a long story short, I didn't stop them because I couldn't. The push north had gathered so much momentum before we arrived that it was beyond my poor ability to deflect.”

Richard grimaced in exasperated understanding. “Couldn't you at least have left the twins behind?”

Vane eyed him straitly. “Have you tried recently to turn the twins—independently or in concert?”

Richard blinked at him. “But they're only girls.”

“That's what I keep trying to tell them—they seem to have different ideas.”

“Humph!” Richard settled deeper into his prison.

“Well, they won't be able to test their wings here—it's as quiet as a nunnery.”

An hour later, Catriona presided over the noisiest dinner she could ever recall. It wasn't that anyone raised their voices, or spoke above the tone of polite conversation. But the sudden injection of Cynster elegance, wit and curiosity had spawned innumerable conversations, both at the main table, where all the guests sat, and at all the tables in the hall, filled by her household.

Everyone was chattering animatedly.

The wash of sound did not give her a headache—not at all. It was comforting, in some ill-defined way. There was warmth in the laughter, in the interest and attention, in the real affection so openly displayed. There was a human element the Cynsters had brought to the vale that, somehow, had been missing before. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but . . .

In her habitual role as head of the household, she kept an eye on the courses, making sure her guests needs were met. Everything ran smoothly—indeed, despite the totally unexpected influx, no serious problem had occurred.

Her gaze, at that instant, resting on the Dowager, Catriona inwardly grinned. Everything had gone right, because nothing dared go wrong, not before the Dowager and Honoria. Patience was less forceful a personality, at least on the surface, but even she could command when she wished. She'd called both the twins and her husband to order very effectively that morning.

Catriona inwardly frowned. Vibrant, effective matriarchs did not fit her earlier vision of what Cynster wives must be like. Recalling what had given rise to that transparently inaccurate view, she waited until Honoria, beside her, was free, then caught her eye. “I know,” she murmured, leaning closer and lowering her voice, “what the bare circumstances of Richard's birth were. What I can't quite understand”—her gaze flicked to the Dowager—“is how his acceptance into the family came about.”

Honoria grinned. “It is difficult to see—unless one has previously met Helena. Then . . . anything becomes possible.” She lowered her voice. “Devil told me that when Richard was dumped, a squalling babe of a few months, on the ducal doorstep, Helena heard the ruckus, and before Devil's father had a chance to hide matters, Helena simply—literally—took Richard out of his hands.” She paused and sent an affectionate glance up the table to the Dowager. “You see, Helena loves children, but after Devil, she couldn't have any more of her own. The one thing she most yearned for was another—especially another son. So, when Richard arrived, in her inimitable way she decided it was all Providence's doing and claimed him as her own. The trick was, by then, she was well established as Devil's father's duchess—a veritable power within the ton. Quite simply, none had the gall to gainsay her—where was the point? Helena could
have socially destroyed most people with nothing more than a raised brow.”

“I'm surprised Devil's father was so . . . acquiescent.”

“Acquiescent? From all I've heard of him, I doubt the term would apply. But he sincerely loved Helena—the accident that resulted in Richard's birth was more in the way of him comforting Richard's mother than in any intended infidelity. And so he indulged Helena—he loved her enough to allow her the one thing she asked of him in recompense: he allowed her to claim Richard and bring him up as her own, something which unquestionably gave her great and abiding pleasure.”

Again, Honoria glanced affectionately at the Dowager. Catriona did the same.

“So,” Honoria concluded, “Richard's birth has been an open secret for thirty years, and, really, no one cares any more. He's simply Richard Cynster, Devil's brother—and as the family approve of that, who's to argue?”

Catriona shared a glance with Honoria, then smiled and touched her arm. “Thank you for telling me.”

Honoria returned the smile, then looked around, alerted by the deep rumble of her spouse's voice. She promptly called him to order, taking up verbal cudgels in the twins' defense. The head of their house was dissatisfied with their appearance—in what way he refused to clarify.

Catriona stifled a grin. Cynster wives were definitely not mere cyphers, pretty trophies to be displayed on their husbands' arms. With three others in the room, she couldn't escape the conclusion that, for whatever inscrutable male reasons, Cynster men had a soul-deep affinity for strong women.

And, furthermore, despite their occasional comments to the contrary, they wouldn't have it any other way. They took real delight in indulging their wives; one only needed to catch the look in Devil's eyes as they rested on Honoria, or in Vane's as he watched Patience.

Or in Richard's as he watched her.

The realization stopped her thoughts—something inside her quivered. The reason Cynster men so indulged their wives was there in their eyes. Much indulged their wives might be; much loved they certainly were.

And, as Devil loved Honoria, and Vane loved Patience, so Richard loved her.

It was that simple.

Dragging in a tight breath into lungs suddenly parched, Catriona barely heard the flow of noise and chatter about her. Her sight was turned inward.

Richard had fulfilled his vow to play second fiddle to her—to honor and indulge her position as lady of the vale—which was a large concession from a man like him—a warrior like him. She'd realized that from the start—that without such a concession, their marriage could never work, could never be the success they both needed it to be.

He'd made that concession because he loved her.

The sudden clarity, the absolute certainty that filled her mind was dazzling, breathtaking.

She'd known that he needed her, that he now knew he belonged here, in his appointed place at her side. But she hadn't, until that quivering instant, realized that he loved her as well.

Glancing at Devil, she saw him grin and flick a finger to Honoria's cheek, then he turned to address Vane, but his hand closed over Honoria's where it rested on the table. Vane was lounging in his chair, one hand on Patience's back, his fingers idly toying with her curls.

Only by that light in his eyes, and, perhaps, if she had any experience by which to judge, his intensity in their bed, did Richard show his love for her. He was reserved—she'd known that before she'd met him; he always wore a mask in public. He didn't display his love openly, as the others did so easily, apparently without thought. She needed instead to pay attention to his actions, and the motives behind them, to see what force was driving him.

She should, perhaps, have seen it before, but he yielded his secrets grudgingly. That he knew was beyond question; as Honoria had mentioned, Cynster males weren't blind, although they sometimes pretended they were. He had, she recalled, been very definite that he wanted her as his cause.

Turning to speak to the twins, she hugged her newfound discovery to her heart and, throughout dinner, took it out now and then to ponder. To consider. Again and again, she observed that special something that flowed openly between Devil and Honoria, and Vane and Patience—and wanted it for her own.

Quite how she might bring it about—give Richard the confidence he needed to show his love openly, presumably by convincing him she returned it fullfold—was something she'd yet to determine.

But it was something she vowed she would do.

Smiling sunnily, she chatted with the twins—thanks to The Lady, she now had ample time to work on Richard.

The next morning, Richard lay in bed and tried to disguise his fretfulness. Lying in bed doing nothing was his least favorite pastime, but at the moment, that was all he could do. Nothing.

At least he'd managed to coax his wife into sleeping beside him once more; she'd apparently been sleeping in the room next door ever since his poisoning, so as not to disturb him. He had made it very plain that now he'd regained his senses, not having her beside him would disturb him even more. He'd won that round, but no other.

There was no point in arguing—he couldn't stand on his own, much less walk. He'd tried, surreptitiously, in one of the few moments he'd been left alone. Luckily, he'd crashed back on the bed and not the floor. His muscles were not just weak but, as his witchy wife had warned him, still feeling the effects of the poison. Even holding his eyelids up was an effort.

Inwardly cursing she who had drugged him, he kept his face relaxed and listened to Vane's news of shared friends. With his usual instinctive grasp, Devil had refrained from pressing the question of who had poisoned him, waiting until he'd recovered enough to inquire. While Richard and Catriona had not discussed the matter beyond their exchange before Helena, Richard had, with complete confidence, assured Devil that the poisoner was not a threat now, and that he and Catriona would deal with the matter once he'd fully recovered.

Devil had accepted that; Richard knew he could rely on his brother to quash any further interest in the matter. It was definitely a situation he and his witchy wife needed to deal with on their own.

Not, however, yet.

Stifling a sigh, Richard smiled at Vane's description of a race held at Beuclaire Hall. Then he let his gaze drift past his cousin, to where Catriona sat on the window seat, industriously darning, her hair turned to a blaze of glory by the sunlight streaming in through the window.

At least there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

Five minutes later, heralded by the most peremptory of knocks, the door opened. A tall, broad-shouldered, ineffably elegant figure sauntered in.

His gaze fell first on Catriona—and went no further.

The ends of his long lips lifting in a smile both Richard and Vane knew well, the gentleman advanced, then swept Catriona a bow.

“Gabriel Cynster, my dear.”

Catriona instinctively held out her hand; he took it and drew her effortlessly to her feet, into his arms, and kissed her. Raising his head, he smiled wolfishly down at her. “Richard's cousin.”

“Another one,” Vane commented drily.

Smoothly releasing Catriona and gracefully reseating her with an irresistible smile, Gabriel turned to the bed and raised a languid brow. “You here, too? If I'd known, I wouldn't have half-killed my horse getting here.”

Blinking, Catriona picked up her needle, but kept her gaze on the tableau about the bed.

“How the devil did you hear?” Richard asked. “Don't tell me it's common knowledge among the ton.”

Halting by the bed, Gabriel looked down at Richard. “Well, you're obviously still alive—Mama must have got her skeins tangled. She was quite adamant I'd find you at death's door.” Gracefully, he sat on the end of the bed. “As for the news being bruited about, I can't say, but it wouldn't surprise me. Mama wrote me a series of orders, couched in a manner to discourage disobedience, and bade me hie north at speed. I was at a very select gathering in a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. How the devil she knew where to find me I really don't like to think.”

Vane humphed.

Richard grinned sleepily.

Gabriel shook his head. “It's a sad day when one can't even escape to a select, supposedly secret orgy without having one's mother summon one—without a verbal blink.”

Both Richard and Vane chuckled. Gabriel raised his brows resignedly.

Catriona shook out her mending and started to fold it. “I'll certainly write to Lady Celia and thank her for her kind thoughts.”

A sudden hiatus gripped the three about the bed.