Devil's Bride (7 page)

She'd reached that firm conclusion when he reappeared, leading Sulieman. The stallion was skittish, the man somber. Honoria stood as he neared.

Stopping in front of her, he halted Sulieman beside him; with the log immediately behind her, Honoria couldn't step back. Before she could execute a sideways sidle, Devil looped the reins about one fist—and reached for her.

By the time she realized his intention, she was perched precariously sidesaddle on Sulieman's back. She gasped, and locked her hands about the pommel. “What on
earth
. . . ?” Unlooping the reins, Devil threw her an impatient frown. “I'm taking you home.” Honoria blinked—he had a way with words she wasn't sure she appreciated. “You're taking me to
your
home—the Place?”

“Somersham Place.” The reins free, Devil reached for the pommel. With Honoria riding before him, he wasn't intending to use the stirrups.

Honoria's eyes widened. “
Wait!
”

The look Devil cast her could only be achieved by an impatient man. “What?”

“You've forgotten your jacket—it's in the cottage.” Honoria fought to contain her panic, occasioned by the thought of his chest—bare—pressed against her back. Even within a foot of her back. Within a foot of any of her.

“Vane'll bring it.”

“
No!
Well—whoever heard of a duke riding about the countryside bare-chested? You might catch cold—I mean . . .” Aghast, Honoria realized she was looking into pale green eyes that saw far more than she'd thought.

Devil held her gaze steadily. “Get used to it,” he advised. Then he vaulted into the saddle behind her.

T
he only benefit Honoria could discover in her position on Sulieman's back was that her tormentor, behind her, could not see her face. Unfortunately, he could see the blush staining not only her cheeks but her neck. He could also feel the rigidity that had gripped her—hardly surprising—the instant he'd landed in the saddle behind her, he'd wrapped a muscled arm about her and pulled her against him.

She'd shut her eyes the instant he'd touched her; panic had cut off her shriek. For the first time in her life she thought she might actually faint. The steely strength surrounding her was overwhelming; by the time she subdued her flaring reactions and could function rationally again, they were turning from the bridle path into the lane.

Glancing about, she looked down—and clutched at the arm about her waist. It tightened.

“Sit still—you won't fall.”

Honoria's eyes widened. She could
feel
every word he said. She could also feel a pervasive heat emanating from his chest, his arms, his thighs; wherever they touched, her skin burned. “Ah . . .” They were retracing the journey she'd taken in the gig; the curve into the straight lay just ahead. “Is Somersham Place your principal residence?”

“It's home. My mother remains there most of the year.”

There was no duke of Somersham. As they rounded the curve, Honoria decided she had had enough. Her hips, her bottom, were wedged firmly between his rock-hard thighs.

They were exceedingly close, yet she didn't even know his name. “What
is
your title?”

“Titles.” The stallion tried to veer to the side of the lane but was ruthlessly held on course. “Duke of St. Ives, Marquess of Earith, Earl of Strathfield, Viscount Wellsborough, Viscount Moreland, . . .”

The recital continued; Honoria leaned back against his arm so she could see his face. By the time names ceased to fall from his lips, they'd passed the place of yesterday's tragedy and rounded the next bend. He looked down; she narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you quite finished?”

“Actually, no. That's the litany they drummed into me when I was in shortcoats. There are more recent additions, but I've never learned where they fit.”

He glanced down again—Honoria stared blankly back at him. She'd finally caught the elusive connection.

Cynsters hold St. Ives.
That was a line of the rhyme her mother had taught her, listing the oldest families in the
ton
. And if Cynsters still held St. Ives, that meant . . . Abruptly, she focused on the chiseled features of the man holding her so easily before him. “You're
Devil Cynster?
”

His eyes met hers; when she continued to stare in dumbfounded accusation, one black brow arrogantly rose. “You want proof?”

Proof?
What more proof could she need? One glance into those ageless, omniscient eyes, at that face displaying steely strength perfectly melded with rampant sensuality, was enough to settle all doubts. Abruptly, Honoria faced forward; her mind had reeled before—now it positively whirled.

Cynsters—the
ton
wouldn't be the same without them. They were a breed apart—wild, hedonistic, unpredictable. In company with her own forebears, they'd crossed the Channel with the Conqueror; while her ancestors sought power through politics and finance, the Cynsters pursued the same aim through more direct means. They were and always had been warriors supreme—strong, courageous, intelligent—men born to lead. Through the centuries, they'd thrown themselves into any likely-looking fray with a reckless passion that made any sane opponent think twice. Consequently, every king since William had seen the wisdom of placating the powerful lords of St. Ives. Luckily, by some strange quirk of nature, Cynsters were as passionate about land as they were over battle.

Added to that, whether by fate or sheer luck, their heroism under arms was matched by an uncanny ability to survive. In the aftermath of Waterloo, when so many noble families were counting the cost, a saying had gone the rounds, born of grudging awe. The Cynsters, so it went, were invincible; seven had taken the field and all seven returned, hale and whole, with barely a scratch.

They were also invincibly arrogant, a characteristic fueled by the fact that they were, by and large, as talented as they thought themselves, a situation which engendered in less-favored mortals a certain reluctant respect.

Not that Cynsters demanded respect—they simply took it as their due.

If even half the tales told were true, the current generation were as wild, hedonistic, and unpredictable as any Cynsters ever were. And the current head of the clan was the wildest, most hedonistic, and unpredictable of them all. The present duke of St. Ives—he who had tossed her up to his saddle and declared he was taking her home. The same man who'd told her to get used to his bare chest. The piratical autocrat who had, without a blink, decreed she was to be his duchess.

It suddenly occurred to Honoria that she might be assuming too much. Matters might not be proceeding quite as she'd thought. Not that it mattered—she knew where life was taking her. Africa. She cleared her throat. “When next you meet them, the Claypole girls might prove trying—they are, I'm sorry to say, their mother's daughters.”

She felt him shrug. “I'll leave you to deal with them.”

“I won't be here.” She made the statement firmly.

“We'll be here often enough—we'll spend some of the year in London and on my other estates, but the Place will always be home. But you needn't worry over me—I'm not fool enough to face the disappointed local aspirants without availing myself of your skirts.”

“I beg your pardon?” Turning, Honoria stared at him.

He met her gaze briefly; his lips quirked. “To hide behind.”

The temptation was too great—Honoria lifted an arrogant brow. “I thought Cynsters were invincible.”

His smile flashed. “The trick is not to expose oneself unnecessarily to the enemy's fire.”

Struck by the force of that fleeting smile, Honoria blinked—and abruptly faced forward. There was, after all, no reason she should face
him
unnecessarily either. Then she realized she'd been distracted. “I hate to destroy your defense, but I'll be gone in a few days.”

“I hesitate to contradict you,” came in a purring murmur just above her left ear, “but we're getting married. You are, therefore, not going anywhere.”

Honoria gritted her teeth against the shivery tingles that coursed down her spine. Turning her head, she looked directly into his mesmerizing eyes. “You only said that to spike Lady Claypole's guns.” When he didn't respond, just met her gaze levelly, she looked forward, shrugging haughtily. “You're no gentleman to tease me so.”

The silence that followed was precisely gauged to stretch her nerves taut. She knew that when he spoke, his voice deep, low, velvet dark. “I never tease—at least not verbally. And I'm not a gentleman, I'm a nobleman, a distinction I suspect you understand very well.”

Honoria knew what she was meant to understand—her insides were quaking in a thoroughly distracting way—but she was not about to surrender. “I am not marrying you.”

“If you think that, my dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, I fear you've overlooked a number of pertinent points.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the past night, which we spent under the same roof, in the same room, unchaperoned.”

“Except by a dead man, your cousin, who everyone must know you were fond of. With his body laid out upon the bed, no one will imagine anything untoward occurred.” Convinced she'd played a winning card, Honoria wasn't surprised by the silence which followed.

They emerged from the trees into the brightness of a late-summer morning. It was early; the crisp chill of the night had yet to fade. The track followed a water-filled ditch. Ahead, a line of gnarled trees lay across their path.

“I had intended to ask you not to mention how we found Tolly. Except, of course, to the family and the magistrate.”

Honoria frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I'd rather it was thought that we found him this morning, already dead.”

Honoria pursed her lips, and saw her defense evaporate. But she could hardly deny the request, particularly as it really mattered not at all. “Very well. But why?”

“The sensationalism will be bad enough when it becomes known he was killed by a highwayman. I'd rather spare my aunt, and you, as much of the consequent questioning as possible. If it's known he lived afterward and we found him before he died, you'll be subjected to an inquisition every time you appear in public.”

She could hardly deny it—the
ton
thrived on speculation. “Why can't we say he was already dead when we found him yesterday?”

“Because if we do, it's rather difficult to explain why I didn't simply leave you with the body and ride home, relieving you of my dangerous presence.”

“Given you appear impervious to the elements, why didn't you leave after he died?”

“It was too late by then.”

Because the damage to her reputation had already been done? Honoria swallowed an impatient humph. Between the trees, she could see a stone wall, presumably enclosing the park. Beyond, she glimpsed a large house, the roof and the highest windows visible above tall hedges. “Anyway,” she stated, “on one point Lady Claypole was entirely correct—there's no need for any great fuss.”

“Oh?”

“It's a simple matter—as Lady Claypole will not give me a recommendation, perhaps your mother could do so?”

“I think that's unlikely.”

“Why?” Honoria twisted around. “She'll know who I am just as you did.”

Pale green eyes met hers. “That's why.”

She wished narrowing her eyes at him had some effect— she tried it anyway. “In the circumstances, I would have thought your mother would do all she can to help me.”

“I'm sure she will—which is precisely why she won't lift a finger to help you to another position as governess.”

Stifling a snort, Honoria turned forward. “She can't be that stuffy.”

“I can't recall her ever being described as such.”

“I rather think somewhere to the north might be wise—the Lake District perhaps?”

He sighed—Honoria felt it all the way to her toes. “My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, let me clarify a few details. Firstly, the tale of us spending the night alone in my woodsman's cottage will out—nothing is more certain. Regardless of all injunctions delivered by her put-upon spouse, Lady Claypole will not be able to resist telling her dearest friends the latest scandal involving the duke of St. Ives. All in absolute confidence, of course, which will ensure the story circulates to every corner of the
ton
. After that, your reputation will be worth rather less than a farthing. Regardless of what they say to your face, not a single soul will believe in your innocence. Your chances of gaining a position in a household of sufficient standing to set your brother's mind at rest are currently nil.”

Honoria scowled at the trees, drawing ever nearer. “I take leave to inform you, Your Grace, that I'm hardly a green girl. I'm a mature woman of reasonable experience—no easy mark.”