"You should ask Helena about that someday-she has stories that will curl your hair. You won't need the tongs for a week."
Honoria frowned. "I thought you were encouraging me."
Louise smiled. "I am-but that doesn't mean I can't see Devil's faults. But for all those-and you won't find a Cynster wife who's not had to cope with the same-there's a great deal to be said for a man who will unfailingly be there to shoulder the burdens, who, regardless of all else, is devoted to his family. Devil may be the leader of the pack-the president of the Bar Cynster-but give him a son or a daughter, and he'll happily sit in Cambridgeshire and play spillikins every night."
Unbidden, the image Louise's words conjured up took shape in Honoria's mind-a large, black-haired, harsh-featured male sprawled on a rug before a blazing fire with a child in petticoats clambering over him. Watching the scene, she felt a warm glow of pride, of satisfaction; she heard the child's shrill giggles over a deeper rumbling laugh-she could almost reach out and touch them. She waited-waited for the fear that had always dogged her to rise up and swallow the image whole, to banish it to the realm of unattainable dreams. She waited-and still the image glowed.
Firelight sheened on both black heads, unruly locks thick and wild. It gilded the child's upturned face-in her mind, Honoria stretched out her hand to the man's familiar shoulder, hard and stable as rock beneath her fingers. Unable to help herself, fascinated beyond recall, she reached, hesitantly, so hesitantly, for the child's face. It shrieked with laughter and ducked its head; her fingers touched hair like silky down, soft as a butterfly's wing. Emotion welled, unlike any she'd known. Dazed, she shook her head.
Then she blinked rapidly and hauled in a quick breath. She focused on Louise, idly scanning the crowd. What had she said? "The Bar Cynster?"
"Ah!" Louise sent her an arch look, then glanced about. No one was close enough to hear. "They think we don't know, but it's a standing joke among the gentlemen about town. Some wit coined the term when Richard and Harry followed Devil and Vane to London, supposedly to denote a…certain rite of passage. With Richard and Harry, of course, there was never any doubt that they would follow Devil and Vane into the customary Cynster pursuits." Her emphasis and the look in her eye left no doubt as to what those pursuits were. "Later, when Rupert and Alasdair went on the town, it was merely a matter of time before they, too, were called to the Bar Cynster."
"Like a barrister being called to Temple Bar?" Honoria kept her mind focused on the point.
"Precisely." Louise's smile faded. "Tolly would have been next."
It was Honoria's turn to lay a hand on Louise's arm and squeeze reassuringly. "I'd imagined the name derived from the heraldic term."
"The bar sinister?" Louise shook off her sorrow and pointedly met Honoria's gaze. "Between you, me, and the other Cynster ladies, I'm quite certain many gentlemen about town refer to our sons as 'noble bastards.' " Honoria's eyes widened; Louise grinned. "That, however, is not something anyone, gentleman or lady, would be willing to admit in our presence."
Honoria's lips twitched. "Naturally not." Then she frowned. "What about Charles?"
"Charles?" Louise waved dismissively. "Oh, he was never part of it."
Two ladies approached to take their leave; when the handclasps were over and they were private once more, Louise turned to Honoria. "If you need any support, we're always here-the others in a similar bed. Don't hesitate to call on us-it's an absolute rule that Cynster wives help each other. We are, after all, the only ones who truly understand what it's like being married to a Cynster."
Honoria glanced over the thinning crowd, noting the other family members, not just the Dowager, Horatia, and Celia, but other cousins and connections. "You really do stick together."
"We're a family, my dear." Louise squeezed Honoria's arm one last time. "And we hope very much that you'll join us."
*****
"There!" Heaving a relieved sigh, Honoria propped the parchment inscribed with her brother's direction against the pigeonholes of the escritoire. Describing her doings to Michael without letting her troubled state show had proved a Herculean task. Almost as difficult as facing the fact that she might be wrong-and that Devil, the Dowager, Michael, and everyone else might be right.
She was in the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. The windows on either side of the fireplace overlooked the courtyard below. Propping her elbow on the desk, she put her chin in her hand and stared outside.
Eight years ago she'd suffered her loss; seven years ago she'd made up her mind never to risk losing again. Until three days past, she hadn't reviewed that decision-she'd never had reason to do so. No man, no circumstance, had been strong enough to force a reevaluation.
Three days ago, everything had changed. Lady Osbaldestone's sermon had shaken her, setting the consequences of refusing Devil firmly in her mind.
Louise and the twins had compounded her uncertainty, showing her how close to the family she'd already become.
But the most startling revelation had been the image evoked by Louise, the image she'd resurrected in every spare moment since-the image of Devil and their child.
Her fear of loss was still there, very real, very deep; to lose again would be devastating-she'd known that for eight years. But never before had she truly wanted a child. Never before had she felt this driving need-a desire, a want, that made her fear seem puny, something she could, if she wished, brush aside.
The strength of that need was unnerving-not something she could readily explain. Was it simple maternal desire gaining strength because Devil would be so protective, that, because he was so wealthy, their child would have every care? Was it because, as Cynsters, both she and their child would be surrounded by a loving, supportive clan? Or was it be cause she knew that being the mother of Devil's child would give her a position no other could ever have?
If she gave Devil a child, he would worship at her feet.
Drawing a deep breath, she stood and walked to the window, gazing unseeing at the weeping cherry, drooping artistically in the courtyard. Was wanting Devil, wanting him in thrall, the reason she wanted his child? Or had she simply grown older, become more of a woman than she had been at seventeen? Or both? She didn't know. Her inner turmoil was all-consuming, all-confusing; she felt like an adolescent finally waking up, but compared to growing up this was worse.
A knock on the door startled her. Straightening, she turned. "Come!"
The door swung inward; Devil stood on the thresh
old. One black brow rose; inherently graceful, he strolled into the room. "Would you care for a drive, Honoria Prudence?"