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His lips lengthened, compressed to a line. “Indeed—for I have no intention of changing my mind, either.”

  For one finite instant, Honoria met his gaze, then she raised her brows and looked away.

  Jaw clenched, Devil lifted her to the carriage seat, then followed her up. A minute later, they were back on the road; he let his horses have their heads, the whipping wind soothing his overheated brain. Possessiveness had never gripped him so hard, never sunk its talons so deep. Fate had given her to him, to have and to hold. He would have her—take her to wife—there was no alternative.

  She had a reason, she said—one she wouldn’t tell him. So he’d find out and eradicate it. It was that or go mad.

  Chapter 9

  “Yes?” entered the library. Devil looked up from a ledger as Webster

  “Chatham just rode in, Your Grace—the gentleman you were expecting is waiting as directed.”

  “Good.” Shutting the ledger, Devil stood. “Where is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?”

  “I believe she’s in the rose garden, Your Grace.”

  “Excellent.” Devil headed for the door. “I’m going riding, Webster. I’ll be back in an hour with our guest.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Two grooms ran up as Devil strode into the stable yard. “Saddle up the bay and get Melton to saddle Sulieman.”

  “Ah—we’ve not sighted Melton since early, Y’r Grace.”

  Devil raised his eyes to the skies. “Never mind—I’ll get Sulieman. You fig out the bay.”

  When he led Sulieman into the yard, the bay was waiting. Mounting, Devil accepted the bay’s reins and rode out. Six days had passed since Honoria had dispatched her summons to her brother.

  Cresting a low rise, he saw a carriage halted in the road ahead, one of his grooms chatting to the coachman. Beside the carriage, a gentleman paced impatiently. Devil’s eyes narrowed, then he sent Sulieman down the road.

  The gentleman glanced up at the sound of hooves. He straightened, head rising, chin tilting to an angle Devil recognized instantly. Drawing rein, he raised a brow. “Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, I presume?”

  The answering nod was curt. “St. Ives.”

  Michael Anstruther-Wetherby was in his mid-twenties, of athletic build, with the same steady assurance, the same directness, that characterized his sister. Used to sizing men up in an instant, Devil rapidly readjusted his image of his prospective brother-in-law. Honoria’s smugness had painted her brother as weaker than she, perhaps lacking the true Anstruther-Wetherby character. Yet the man eyeing him straitly, challenge and skepticism very clear in his blue eyes, had a decidedly purposeful chin. Devil smiled. “I believe we have matters to discuss. I suggest we take a ride beyond the reach of interruptions.”

  The blue eyes, arrested, held his, then Michael nodded. “An excellent idea.” He reached for the bay’s reins, then he was in the saddle. “If you can guarantee no interruptions, you’ll have achieved a first.”

  Devil grinned, and set course for a nearby hillock. He halted on the crest; Michael drew up alongside. Devil glanced his way. “I’ve no idea what Honoria wrote, so I’ll start at the beginning.”

  Michael nodded. “That might be wise.”

  Gazing over his fields, Devil outlined the events leading to Honoria’s presence at the Place. “So,” he concluded, “I’ve suggested that getting married is appropriate.”

  “To you?”

  Devil’s brows flew. “Whom else did you have in mind?”

  “Just checking.” Michael’s grin surfaced briefly, then he sobered. “But if that’s the case, why have I been summoned to escort her to Hampshire?”

  “Because,” Devil replied, “your sister imagines she’s so long in the tooth that a reputation is neither here nor there. She plans to be the next Hester Stanhope.”

  “Oh, lord!” Michael cast his eyes heavenward. “She’s not still set on Africa, is she?”

  “It’s her dearest wish, so I’ve been informed, to ride in the shadow of the Sphinx, pursued, no doubt, by a horde of Berber chieftains, then to fall victim to Barbary Coast slave traders. I understand she believes she’s starved of excitement and the only way she’ll get any is to brave the wilds of Africa.”

  Michael looked disgusted. “I’d hoped she’d grown out of that by now. Or that some gentleman would appear and give her mind a new direction.”

  “As to the first, I suspect she’ll grow more determined with age—she is, after all, an Anstruther-Wetherby, a family renowned for its stubbornness. But as to giving her mind a new direction, I already have that in hand.”

  Michael looked up. “Has she agreed to marry you?”

  “Not yet.” Devil’s expression hardened. “But she will.”

  There was an instant’s silence, then Michael asked: “Free of any coercion?”

  Devil’s eyes met his; one brow lifted superciliously. “Naturally.”

  Michael studied Devil’s eyes, then his features relaxed. He looked out over the fields; Devil waited patiently. Eventually, Michael looked his way. “I’ll admit I would be glad to see Honoria safely wed, especially to a man of your standing. I won’t oppose the match—I’ll support it however I can. But I won’t agree to pressure her into any decision.”

  Devil inclined his head. “Aside from anything else your sister is hardly a biddable female.”

  “As you say.” Michael’s gaze turned shrewd. “So what do you want of me?”

  Devil grinned. “My brand of persuasion doesn’t work well at a distance. I need Honoria to remain within reach.” With a gesture, he indicated that they should ride on, and touched his heels to Sulieman’s flanks.

  Michael cantered alongside. “If Honoria’s set on returning home, I’ll need some reason to gainsay her.”

  Devil shot him a glance. “Is she her own mistress?”

  “Until she’s twenty-five, she’s in my care.”

  “In that case,” Devil said, “I have a plan.”

  By the time they cantered into the stable yard, Michael was entirely comfortable with his brother-in-law to be. It appeared that his sister, usually an irresistible force, had finally met a sufficiently immovable object. He matched his stride to Devil’s as they headed for the house.

  “Tell me,” Devil said, his gaze roving the house, checking for impending interruptions. “Has she always been frightened of storms?”

  He glanced at Michael in time to see him wince.

  “They still make her twitch?”

  Devil frowned. “Rather more than that.”

  Michael sighed. “Hardly surprising, I suppose—I still get edgy myself.”

  “Why?”

  Michael met his eyes. “She told you our parents were killed in a carriage accident?”

  Devil searched his memory. “That they were killed in an accident.”

  “There was rather more to it than that.” Michael drew a deep breath. “Neither Honoria nor I are frightened of storms—at least, we weren’t. On that day, our parents took the other two for a drive.”

  “Other two?” Devil slowed his pace.

  Michael looked up. “Meg and Jemmy. Our brother and sister.” Devil halted, his expression blank. Michael stopped and faced him. “She didn’t tell you about them?”

  Devil shook his head; abruptly, he focused on Michael.

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Michael looked away, across the lawns toward the house. “The pater wanted to take Mama for a drive—it started as a lovely day. Mama had been ill—she was going through one of her better patches—Papa wanted her to get some air. The little ones went with them. Honoria and I stayed home—we couldn’t fit and we both had studies to attend to. Then the storm blew up—raced in out of nowhere. Honoria and I loved watching the clouds roll in. We ran up to the schoolroom to watch.”

  He paused, his gaze distant, fixed in the past. “The schoolroom was in the attics, overlooking the drive. We stood at the window and looked out. We never dreamed . . .” He swallowed.
“We were laughing and joking, listening for the thunder, trying to spot the flashes. Then there was a massive crash overhead. In the same instant, we saw the curricle come racing up the drive. The children were frantic, clinging to Mama. The horses had panicked—Papa had his hands full managing them.” He paused. “I can see them so clearly, even now. Then the lightning struck.”

  When he said nothing more, Devil prompted: “The carriage?”

  Michael shook his head. “The bolt hit a huge elm beside the drive. It fell.” Again he paused, then, drawing a deep breath, went on: “We watched it fall. The others didn’t see it at first—then they did.” He shuddered. “I closed my eyes, but I don’t think Honoria did. She saw it all.”

  Devil gave him a moment, then asked: “They were killed?”

  “Instantly.” Michael drew a shaky breath. “I can still hear the horses screaming. We had to put them down.”

  Very gently, Devil said: “Go back—what happened to Honoria?”

  Michael blinked. “Honoria? When I opened my eyes, she was standing, absolutely still, before the window. Then she stretched out her hands and stepped forward. I grabbed her and pulled her away. She clung to me then.” He shivered. “That’s the one thing I remember most vividly—how she cried. She made no sound—the tears just rolled down her cheeks, as if her sorrow was so deep she couldn’t even sob.” After a pause, he added: “I don’t think I’ll ever forget how helpless her crying made me feel.”

  Devil didn’t think he’d ever forget either.

  Shoulders lifting on a deep breath, Michael glanced fully at Devil. “That’s the sum of it—we sorted things out and got on with our lives. Of course, the loss was worse for Honoria.” He fell in beside Devil as they continued toward the house. “As Mama had been so ill, Honoria had become more mother than sister to the younger two. Losing them was like losing her own children, I think.”

  Devil was silent as they crossed the last of the lawn; he glanced up as they neared the portico, briefly studying the inscription on its facade. Then he glanced at Michael. “You need a drink.”

  He needed one, too. Then he needed to think.

  Honoria was descending the main staircase, a frown puckering her brows, when the front door opened and her brother walked in.

  “Michael!” Face clearing, she hurried down. “I’ve been expecting you for hours.” Hugging him, she returned his affectionate buss. “I saw a carriage arrive and thought it must be you, but no one came in. I was wondering—” She broke off as a large shadow darkened the doorway.

  Michael looked over his shoulder. “St. Ives was good enough to meet me. He’s explained the situation.”

  “He has? I mean—” Her gaze trapped in crystal green, Honoria fought the urge to gnash her teeth. “How very helpful.” She noted Devil’s expression of guileless innocence—it sat very ill on his piratical features.

  “You’re looking well.” Michael scanned her amethyst morning gown. “Not browbeaten at all.”

  Even with her gaze firmly fixed on her brother’s teasing face, Honoria was aware of Devil’s raised brow—and of the color that seeped into her cheeks. Tilting her chin, she linked her arm in Michael’s. “Come and meet the Dowager.” She steered him toward the drawing room. “Then we’ll go for a walk in the grounds.” So she could set the record straight.

  To her chagrin, Devil strolled after them.

  The Dowager looked up as they entered. With a brilliant smile, she laid aside her embroidery and held out her hand. “Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby—it is good to meet you at last. I trust your journey was without mishap?”

  “Entirely, ma’am.” Michael bowed over her hand. “It’s indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Bon!” The Dowager beamed at him. “And now we can be comfortable and talk, can we not?” Indicating the chaise beside her, she glanced at Devil. “Ring for tea, Sylvester. Now, Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby, you are with Carlisle, is that right? And how is the good Marguerite?”

  Subsiding into an armchair, Honoria watched as her brother, who she could have sworn was impervious to all forms of flattery, fell under the Dowager’s fire. Even more disturbing, time and again, she saw Michael exchange a glance with Devil; by the time Webster brought in the tea, it was clear that, somehow, Devil had succeeded in securing her brother’s approval. Honoria bit into a cucumber sandwich and tried not to glower.

  She dragged her brother from mother and son’s seductive influence as soon as she possibly could.

  “Let’s go down by the lake.” Tightening her hold on Michael’s arm, she steered him along the terrace. “There’s a seat, near the shore—it’s peaceful and private there.”

  “It’s a truly magnificent house,” was Michael’s only comment as they strolled down the lawn. They reached the seat, and she settled herself upon it; Michael hesitated, looking down at her, then sat beside her. “You could be very comfortable here, you know.”

  Honoria met his gaze levelly. “Just what has that devil told you?”

  Michael grinned. “Not all that much—just the bare facts.”

  Honoria drew a relieved breath. “In that case, it should be clear that there’s no need for any talk of marriage between myself and St. Ives.”

  Michael’s brows rose. “Actually, that’s not the impression I received.”

  “Oh?” Honoria made the syllable a challenge.

  Michael tugged at his earlobe. “Perhaps we’d better retread events.”

  She was very ready to do so. While she recited her well-rehearsed version of events, Michael listened intently. “And then he left me with the Dowager,” she concluded.

  Michael met her eye. “That’s what he told me.”

  Honoria had a premonition she’d just taken a wrong step.

  Michael straightened, one hand clasping hers. “Honoria, you’re an unmarried lady of twenty-four, of impeccable lineage and unblemished reputation. In this instance, I must agree with St. Ives—there’s really no course open to you other than to accept his offer. He’s behaved precisely as he should—no one could hold either of you to blame, yet the circumstances remain and require the prescribed response.”

  “No.” Honoria made the word a statement. “You can’t seriously imagine me happily married to Devil Cynster.”

  Michael raised his brows. “Actually, I find that easier to imagine than any other outcome.”

  “Michael! He’s a tyrant! An unmitigatingly arrogant despot.”

  Michael shrugged. “You can’t have everything, as Mama was wont to tell you.”

  Honoria narrowed her eyes; she let a pregnant moment pass before stating, categorically: “Michael, I do not wish to marry Devil Cynster.”

  Letting go of her hand, Michael leaned back against the seat. “So what do you see as an alternative?”

  Honoria knew relief—at least they were discussing alternatives. “I’d thought to return to Hampshire—it’s too late to get another post this year.”

  “You’ll never get another post, not once this gets out. And it will. St. Ives is right about that—if you marry him, the only whispers will be jealous ones; without his ring on your finger, they’ll be malicious. Destructively so.”

  Honoria shrugged. “That’s hardly a disaster. As you know, I care little for society.”

  “True.” Michael hesitated, then added: “You might, however, have a care for our name, and our parents’ memory.”

  Slowly, Honoria turned to face him, her eyes very narrow. “That was uncalled for.”

  His expression stern, Michael shook his head. “No—it had to be said. You cannot simply walk away from who you are and the fact that you have family connections together with the responsibility that entails.”

  Honoria felt chilled inside, like a general informed he’d just lost his last ally. “So,” she said, haughtily tilting her chin, “you would have me marry for the sake of the family—for the sake of a name I’ve never claimed?”

  “I would see you wed first and foremost for your own sake
. There’s no future for you in Hampshire, or anywhere else for that matter. Look about you.” He gestured to the sprawling bulk of the Place, displayed like a jewel in the grounds before them. “Here you could be what you were supposed to be. You could be what Papa and Mama always intended you to be.”

  Honoria pressed her lips tightly together. “I cannot live my life according to the precepts of ghosts.”

  “No—but you should consider the reasons behind their precepts. They may be dead, but the reasons remain.”

  When she said no more but sat mulishly looking down at her clasped hands, Michael continued, his tone more gentle: “I daresay this may sound pompous, but I’ve seen more of our world than you—that’s why I’m so sure the course I urge you to is right.”

  Honoria shot him an irate glance. “I am not a child—”

  “No.” Michael grinned. “If you were, this situation wouldn’t exist. But—!” he insisted, as she opened her mouth to retort, “just hold on to your temper and listen to what I have to say before you set your mind in stone.”

  Honoria met his eyes. “I only have to listen?”

  Michael nodded. “To the proposition St. Ives put to me—and the reasons why I think you should agree to it.”

  Honoria’s jaw fell. “You discussed me with him?”

  Michael closed his eyes for an instant, then fixed her with a distinctly male look. “Honoria, it was necessary he and I talked. We’ve both lived in society much longer than you—you’ve never done more than stick a toe in society’s sea. That’s a point St. Ives, thank heavens, is aware of—it’s that that’s behind his proposition.”

  Honoria glared. “Proposition? I thought it was a proposal.”

  Michael closed his eyes tight. “His proposal’s on the table and will remain there until you make your decision!” He opened his eyes. “His proposition concerns how we should go on until you do.”

  “Oh.” Faced with his exasperation, Honoria shifted, then looked across the lake. “So what is this proposition?”

  Michael drew a deep breath. “Because of his cousin’s death, a wedding could not be held inside three months—the Dowager will be in full mourning for six weeks, then half-mourning for another six. As you have no suitable family with whom to reside, what would normally occur is that you would remain with the Dowager and she would introduce you to the ton as her son’s fiance´e.”