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with a dying man and a man known to his intimates as Devil. Ensconced in the wing chair by the fire, Honoria sipped tea from a mug and considered her position. It was now night; the storm showed no sign of abating. She could not leave the cottage, even had that been her most ardent desire.
    Glancing at her rescuer, still seated on the pallet, she grimaced; she did not wish to leave. She’d yet to learn his name, but he’d commanded her respect, and her sympathy.
    Half an hour had passed since the youth had spoken; Devil—she had no other name for him—had not left his dying cousin’s side. His face remained impassive, showing no hint of emotion, yet emotion was there, behind the facade, shadowing the green of his eyes. Honoria knew of the shock and grief occasioned by sudden death, knew of the silent waiting and the vigils for the dead. Returning her gaze to the flames, she slowly sipped her tea.
    Sometime later, she heard the bed creak; soft footfalls slowly neared. She sensed rather than saw him ease into the huge carved chair, smelled the dust that rose from the faded tapestry as he settled. The kettle softly hissed. Shifting forward, she poured boiling water into the mug she’d left ready; when the steam subsided, she picked up the mug and held it out.
    He took it, long fingers brushing hers briefly, green eyes lifting to touch her face. “Thank you.”
    He sipped in silence, eyes on the flames; Honoria did the same.
    Minutes ticked by, then he straightened his long legs, crossing his booted ankles. Honoria felt his gaze on her face.
    â€œWhat brings you to Somersham, Miss . . . ?”
    It was the opening she’d been waiting for. “Wetherby,” she supplied.
    Instead of responding with his name—Mr. Something, Lord Someone—he narrowed his eyes. “Your full name?”
    Honoria held back a frown. “Honoria Prudence Weth-erby,” she recited, somewhat tartly.
    One black brow rose; the disturbing green gaze did not waver. “Not Honoria Prudence Anstruther -Wetherby?”
    Honoria stared. “How did you know?”
    His lips quirked. “I’m acquainted with your grandfather.”
    A disbelieving look was her reply. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I look like him?”
    A short laugh, soft and deep, feathered across her senses. “Now you mention it, I believe there is a faint resemblance—about the chin, perhaps?”
    Honoria glared.
    â€œNow that,” her tormentor remarked, “is very like old Magnus.”
    She frowned. “What is?”
    He took a slow sip, his eyes holding hers. “Magnus An-struther-Wetherby is an irascible old gentleman, atrociously high in the instep and as stubborn as bedamned.”
    â€œYou know him well?”
    â€œOnly to nod to—my father knew him better.”
    Uncertain, Honoria watched him sip; her full name was no state secret—she simply didn’t care to use it, to claim relationship with that irascible, stubborn old gentleman in London.
    â€œThere was a second son, wasn’t there?” Her rescuer studied her musingly. “He defied Magnus over . . . I remember—he married against Magnus’s wishes. One of the Mont-gomery girls. You’re their daughter?”
    Stiffly, Honoria inclined her head.
    Wetherby. What the deuce are you doing here, gracing our quiet backwater?”
    Honoria hesitated; there was a restlessness in the long limbs, a ripple of awareness—not of her, but of the body on the pallet behind them—that suggested conversation was his need. She lifted her chin. “I’m a finishing governess.”
    â€œA finishing governess?”
    She nodded. “I prepare girls for their come-out—I only remain with the families for the year before.”
    He eyed her with fascinated incredulity. “What in all the heavens does old Magnus think of that?”
    â€œI’ve no idea. I’ve never