She reached the log. Satisfied, Devil turned; Vane was waiting at the cottage door.
“What?”
Devil’s face hardened. “Tolly’s dead. Shot.”
Vane stilled, his eyes fixed on Devil’s. “Who by?”
“That,” Devil said softly, glancing at Charles as he neared, “I don’t yet know. Come inside.”
They stopped in a semicircle at the foot of the rude pallet, looking down on Tolly’s body. Vane had been Devil’s lieutenant at Waterloo; Charles had served as an adjutant. They’d seen death many times; familiarity didn’t soften the blow. In a voice devoid of emotion, Devil recounted all he knew. He related Tolly’s last words; Charles, his expression blank, hung on every syllable. Then came a long silence; in the bright light spilling through the open door, Tolly’s corpse looked even more obscenely wrong than it had the night before.
“My God. Tolly!” Charles’s words were broken. His features crumpled. Covering his face with one hand, he sank to the edge of the pallet.
Devil clenched his jaw, his fists. Death no longer possessed the power to shock him. Grief remained, but that he would handle privately. He was the head of his family—his first duty was to lead. They’d expect it of him—he expected it of himself. And he had Honoria Prudence to protect.
The thought anchored him, helping him pull free of the vortex of grief that dragged at his mind. He hauled in a deep breath, then quietly stepped back, retreating to the clear space before the hearth.
A few minutes later, Vane joined him; he glanced through the open door. “She found him?”
Devil nodded. “Thankfully, she’s not the hysterical sort.” They spoke quietly, their tones subdued. Glancing at the bed, Devil frowned. “What’s Charles doing here?”
“He was at the Place when I arrived. Says he chased Tolly up here over some business matter. He called at Tolly’s rooms—Old Mick told him Tolly had left for here.”
Devil grimaced. “I suppose it’s as well that he’s here.”
Vane was studying his bare chest. “Where’s your shirt?”
“It’s the bandage.” After a moment, Devil sighed and straightened. “I’ll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to the Place and send a cart.”
“And I’ll stay and watch over the body.” A fleeting smile touched Vane’s lips.
“You always get the best roles.”
Devil’s answering smile was equally brief. “This one comes with a ball and chain.”
Vane’s eyes locked on his. “You’re serious?”
“Never more so.” Devil glanced at the pallet. “Keep an eye on Charles.”
Vane nodded.
The sunshine outside nearly blinded him. Devil blinked and squinted at the log. It was empty. He cursed and looked again—a terrible thought occurred. What if she’d tried to take Sulieman?
His reaction was instantaneous—the rush of blood, the sudden pounding of his heart. His muscles had already tensed to send him racing to the stable when a flicker of movement caught his eye.
She hadn’t gone to the stable. Eyes adjusting to the glare, Devil watched her pace back and forth, a few steps to the side of the log. Her dun-colored gown had blended with the boles of the trees, momentarily camouflaging her. His panic subsiding, he focused his gaze.
Honoria felt it—she looked up and saw him, bare-chested still, the very image of a buccaneer, watching her, unmoving, irritation in every line. Their gazes locked—a second later, she broke the contact. Nose in the air, she stepped gracefully to her right—and sat primly on the log.
He waited, sharp green gaze steady, then, apparently sat-isfied that she’d remain where she’d been put, he headed for the stable.
Honoria ground her teeth, and told herself that he didn’t matter. He was an expert in manipulation—and in intimidation—but why should that bother her? She would go to this Place of his, wait for her boxes, and then be on her way. She could spend the time meeting the Dowager Duchess.
At least she’d solved one part of the mystery plaguing her—she’d met her elusive duke. The image she’d carried for the past three days—the image Lady Claypole had painted—of a mild, unassuming, reclusive peer, rose in her mind. The image didn’t fit the reality—the duke called Devil was not mild or unassuming. He was a first-class tyrant. And as for Lady Claypole’s claim that he was caught in her coils, her ladyship was dreaming.
But at least she’d met her duke, even if she had yet to learn his name. She was, however, having increasing difficulty believing that the notion of introducing himself had not, at some point in the past fifteen hours, passed through his mind. Which was a thought to ponder.
Honoria wriggled, ruing the loss of her petticoat. The log was rough and wrinkly; it was making painful indentations in her flesh. She could see the stable entrance; from the shifting shadows, she surmised Devil was saddling his demon horse. Presumably he would ride to the Place and send conveyances for her and his cousin’s body.
With the end of her unexpected adventure in sight, she allowed herself a moment’s reflection. Somewhat to her surprise, it was filled with thoughts of Devil. He was overbearing, arrogant, domineering—the list went on. And on. But he was also strikingly handsome, could be charming when he wished and, she suspected, possessed a suitably devilish sense of humor. She’d seen enough of the duke to accord him her respect and enough of the man to feel an empathetic tug. Nevertheless, she had no desire to spend overmuch time in the company of a tyrant called Devil. Gentlemen such as he were all very well—as long as they weren’t related to you and kept a respectful distance.
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.
Chapter 4
The 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.”
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