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  “But I haven’t agreed to marry him.”

  “No—so in this case, you’ll simply remain under the Dowager’s wing. She intends going to London in a few weeks—you’ll go with her and she’ll introduce you to the ton. That will give you a chance to see society from a perspective you’ve never had—if, after that, you still wish to refuse St. Ives’s offer, he and I will accept your decision and try to come up with some acceptable alternative.”

  His emphasis made it clear he did not expect to find one. Honoria frowned. “What explanation will be given for my presence with the Dowager?”

  “None—Cynsters don’t need to tender explanations any more than Anstruther-Wetherbys.”

  Honoria looked skeptical. “Surely people will wonder?”

  “People will know, of that you may be sure. However, given the Dowager’s involvement, they’ll imagine an announcement is in the offing and comport themselves appropriately.” Michael grimaced. “I should warn you, the Dowager is something of a force to be reckoned with.”

  Honoria raised a questioning brow.

  Michael waved at the house. “You saw her just now. She’s a consummate manipulator.”

  Honoria’s lips twitched. “I had wondered whether you’d noticed.”

  “I noticed, but there’s precious little point trying to resist. You called St. Ives a tyrant—I don’t doubt he is, but that’s probably just as well. Within the ton, his mother’s considered a holy terror—of inestimable help if her sympathies lie with you, an enemy to be feared if they don’t. No one’s going to invite her ire by circulating possibly groundless rumors concerning her son and the lady who might be his duchess. There’s no safer place for you than under the Dowager’s wing.”

  Honoria could see it; slowly, she nodded, then looked frowningly at Michael. “I still think it would be much simpler for me to retire to Hampshire until all this blows over. Even if I don’t get another post, as you pointed out, I am twenty-four. It’s time I started on my travel plans.”

  Michael sighed, and looked away. “You can’t stay in Hampshire alone—we’ll have to get Aunt Hattie down.”

  “Aunt Hattie?” Honoria wrinkled her nose. “She’ll drive me distracted inside of a week.”

  Michael pursed his lips. “Can’t think of anyone else, and you can’t live alone, especially once your sojourn in the woods with Devil Cynster becomes public. You’ll find yourself dealing with all manner of unwanted visitors.”

  Honoria shot him a darkling glance, then frowned, very hard, at the lake. Michael preserved a stoic silence.

  Minutes ticked past; eyes narrowed, Honoria reviewed her options. She had, indeed, regretted sending for Michael so precipitously; it was clearly going to take time to track Tolly’s murderer down. Devil, initially a large hurdle to her plans, had been overcome; he now behaved as a reluctant but resigned coconspirator. The idea of them, together, unmasking Tolly’s killer was attractive—quite aside from the compulsion she felt to see justice done, the situation looked set to provide the excitement she’d craved all her life. Leaving now would see all that lost.

  There was also the small matter of her burgeoning desire to experience—just once—the pleasure Devil had alluded to. His words, his caresses, like Tolly’s face, now haunted her. He’d made it clear physical possession and pleasure were independent events—although the thought was guaranteed to bring a blush to her cheek, she was aware of an increasing compulsion to learn what he could teach her. Of pleasure. Possession, in this case, was out of the question, beyond all possibility. Cynsters never let go anything that became theirs—she was far too wise to become his on any level.

  Given she’d determined never to wed, her virtue would never be in question. It seemed wise to gain some experience of the pleasure possible between a man and a woman before she set off on her travels. And there was no denying the pleasure she’d thus far experienced at Devil Cynster’s hands had held an excitement all its own.

  With all that on offer, currently on her plate, but for Devil’s matrimonial fixation, her present situation suited her admirably. She didn’t want to go to Hampshire but with him so set on marriage, it hadn’t seemed possible to stay.

  Now, however, with his devilish proposition, the devil himself had cleared her path. She could remain in his household, in his mother’s care, safe from him and any other gentleman, for three full months—surely, by that time, they would have laid Tolly’s murderer by the heels? And she would have learned all she’d need to know of pleasure.

  Which left only one quibble—was she strong enough, clever enough, to avoid any traps Devil might set for her?

  Honoria straightened, and summoned a resigned grimace.

  “Very well.” She turned and met Michael’s eye. “I’ll agree to remain under the Dowager’s wing for three months.” Michael grinned—Honoria narrowed her eyes. “After that, I’ll go to Hampshire.”

  With a long-suffering groan, Michael rose and drew her to her feet. Arm in arm, they strolled back to the house.

  Later that evening, Honoria was seated in an armchair in the drawing room, her lap full of embroidery silks, when a shadow fell across her. The Dowager was on the chaise, similarly occupied in sorting brilliant hanks. Michael, pleading tiredness, had retired early; Devil had retreated to the library. The tea trolley had come and gone; the evening had slipped silently into night.

  Stymied in her attempt to discriminate between azure and turquoise, Honoria looked up—all the way up to Devil’s face. He stood directly before her, his expression inscrutable. For a long moment, he simply held her gaze, his own shadowed, impossible to read. Then he held out his hand. “Come for a walk, Honoria Prudence.”

  From the corner of her eye, Honoria noted that the Dowager had been struck deaf.

  Devil’s lips softened fleetingly; his gaze remained intense, focused on her face. “I promise not to bite.”

  Honoria considered the pros and cons—she needed to talk to him, to make sure, while Michael was still here, that their bargain—his proposition—was precisely as she thought. She searched his face. “Not to the summerhouse.” She might wish to learn more of pleasure, but she wanted the lessons under her control.

  This time, his pirate’s smile materialized fully if briefly. “Only on the terrace—I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

  Honoria quelled an incipient shiver, elicited by the deep purring tones of his voice, and shot him a disbelieving glance.

  He raised his brows resignedly. “Word of a Cynster.”

  And in that she could trust. Gathering her silks, Honoria set them aside, then placed her hand in his. He drew her to her feet, then settled her hand on his arm. The Dowager ignored them, apparently absorbed in lilac silks to the exclusion of all else. They strolled to where long windows stood open to the terrace, the night a curtain of black velvet beyond.

  “I wished to speak to you,” Honoria began the instant they gained the flags.

  “And I to you.” Looking down at her, Devil paused.

  Regally, Honoria inclined her head, inviting his comment.

  “Michael has informed me you’ve agreed to remain with my mother for the next three months.”

  Reaching the balustrade, Honoria lifted her hand from his sleeve and swung to face him. “Until the period of mourning is over.”

  “After which time, you’ll become my duchess.”

  She tilted her chin. “After which time, I’ll return to Hampshire.”

  He’d halted directly before her, no more than a foot away. With the light behind him, it was all she could do to discern his expression—arrogantly impassive; his eyes, hooded and shadowed, fixed on hers, she couldn’t read at all. Honoria kept her head high, her gaze unwavering, determined to impress on him how inflexible she was.

  The moment stretched—and stretched; she started to feel light-headed. Then one of his brows rose.

  “We appear to have a problem, Honoria Prudence.”

  “Only in your mind, Your Grace.”


  The planes of his face shifted; his expression held a warning. “Perhaps,” he said, exasperation clear beneath the polite form, “before we decide what will occur at the end of the three months, we should agree on the three months themselves?”

  Haughtily, Honoria raised her brows. “I’ve agreed to remain with your mother.”

  “And seriously consider my proposal.”

  The message in his tone was unmistakable—a bargain, or no deal. Drawing in a quick breath, she nodded. “And seriously consider the prospect of becoming your wife. I should, however, inform you that I am unlikely to change my stance on that matter.”

  “In other words, you’re bone stubborn—and I have three months to change your mind.”

  She did not at all like the way he said that. “I am not a vacillating female—I have no intention of changing my mind.”

  His teeth flashed in his pirate’s smile. “You’ve yet to experience my powers of persuasion.”

  Honoria shrugged; nose in the air, she shifted her gaze beyond his shoulder. “You may persuade away—I won’t be marrying, you or anyone.”

  Again, silence was his ally, slowly stretching her nerves taut. She nearly jumped when hard fingertips slid beneath her chin, turning her face back to him.

  Even in the dark she could sense the piercing quality of his gaze. feel its potency. “Women have been known, on occasion, to change their minds.” He spoke slowly, softly, his tones deep and purring. “How much of a woman are you, Honoria Prudence?”

  Honoria felt her eyes widen. His fingertips slid across the sensitive skin beneath her chin; sharp slivers of sensation shivered through her. Her lungs had seized; it took considerable effort to lift her chin free of his touch. Haughtily, she stated: “I’m too wise to play with fire, Your Grace.”

  “Indeed?” His lips curved. “I thought you wanted excitement in your life?”

  “On my terms.”

  “In that case, my dear, we’ll have to negotiate.”

  “Indeed?” Honoria tried for airy nonchalance. “Why so?”

  “Because you’re shortly to become my duchess—that’s why.”

  The glance she bent on him held every ounce of exasperation she could summon, then, with a swish of her skirts, she turned and stepped out of his shadow, following the balustrade. “I’ve warned you—don’t later say I haven’t. I am not going to marry you at the end of three months.” She paused, then, head rising; eyes widening, she swung back and waved a finger at him. “And I am not a challenge—don’t you dare view me as such.”

  His laughter was that of a pirate—a buccaneer, a swash-buckling rogue who should have been safely on a deck in the middle of some ocean—nowhere near her. The sound, deep, rolling, and far too sure, held a threat and a promise; it enveloped her, caught her up, and held her—then he was there, before her once more.

  “You are challenge personified, Honoria Prudence.”

  “You are riding for a fall, Your Grace.”

  “I’ll be riding you before Christmas.”

  The deliberate reference shocked Honoria, but she wasn’t about to let it show. Keeping her chin high, she narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t, by any chance, imagining you’re going to seduce me into marriage?”

  One arrogant black brow rose. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Well it won’t work.” When his second brow joined the first, Honoria smiled, supremely confident. “I cut my eye-teeth long ago—I know perfectly well you won’t press me while I’m residing under your roof, in your mother’s care.”

  For a long moment, he held her gaze. Then he asked: “How much do you know of seduction?”

  It was Honoria’s turn to raise her brows. Taking another step along the terrace, she shrugged lightly. “You won’t be the first to try it.”

  “Possibly not, but I’ll be the first to succeed.”

  Honoria sighed. “You won’t, you know.” Glancing up, she saw him frown. She narrowed her eyes. “Succeed, I mean.” The frown disappeared. He paced slowly beside her as she strolled the flags. “I know you won’t force me—I’ll simply call your bluff.”

  She felt his glance; oddly, it was less intense, less disturbing than before. When he spoke, she detected faint amusement in his tone. “No force, no bluff.” He met her gaze as she glanced up. “There’s a lot you have to learn about seduction, Honoria Prudence, and this time, you’ll be dealing with a master.”

  Honoria shook her head despairingly. Well, she’d warned him. He was so arrogantly confident it would do him good to be taken down a peg or two—to learn that not all things on this earth would meekly bow to his rule.

  The evening reached chill fingers through her gown; she shivered.

  Devil’s hand on her arm halted her. “We should go in.”

  Honoria half turned—and found herself facing him. As she watched, his expression hardened; abruptly, he leaned closer. With a stifled shriek, she backed—into the balustrade. He set his hands on the stone parapet, one on either side of her, caging her between his arms.

  Breathless, her heart racing, she blinked into his eyes, now level with hers. “You promised not to bite.”

  His expression was graven. “I haven’t—yet.” His eyes searched hers. “As you’ve been so ingenuously frank, the least I can do is return the favor—so that we understand each other fully.” He held her gaze steadily; Honoria felt the full weight of his will. “I will not permit you to turn your back on who you are, on the destiny that was always intended to be yours. I will not let you turn yourself into a governessing drudge, nor an eccentric to titillate the ton.

  Honoria’s expression blanked.

  Devil held her gaze ruthlessly. “You were born and bred to take a position at the head of the ton—that position now lies at your feet. You have three months to reconcile yourself to the reality. Don’t imagine you can run from it.”

  Pale, inwardly quivering, Honoria wrenched her gaze from his. Turning, she yanked at his sleeve.

  Letting go of the balustrade, Devil straightened, leaving her escape route clear. Honoria hesitated, then, her expression as stony as his, she turned and looked him straight in the eye. “You have no right to decree what my life is to be.”

  “I have every right.” Devil’s expression softened not at all; his gaze was mercilous. “You will be what you were meant to be—mine.”

  The emphasis he placed on that single word shook Honoria to her toes. Barely able to breathe, she walked quickly back to the drawing room, head high, skirts shushing furiously.

  Chapter 10

  Three days later, Devil stood at the library windows, his gaze, abstracted, fixed on the summerhouse. Behind him, open ledgers littered his desk; a pile of letters begged for attention. He had a lot of unfinished business on his plate.

  No trace had been found of Tolly’s killer, and the simple task of securing his bride was proving remarkably complicated. The latter was more bothersome than the former—he was sure they’d eventually track Tolly’s murderer down. He was also unshakably convinced Honoria would be his bride—he was simply no longer so sanguine about what state he’d be in by the wedding.

  She was driving him demented. What power had goaded him into declaring his hand so forcefully, there, on the terrace in the moonlight? It had been sheer madness to act the tyrant as he had—yet he could feel the same emotion, the urge to conquer, to seize, to hold, flaring even now, simply at the thought of her.

  Luckily, her stubbornness, her defiance, her unquenchable pride had forbidden her to flee before his heavy-handed declaration. She’d let Michael depart alone. Now, with her nose in the air, wrapped in a cloak of chill civility, she held him at a distance.

  After learning of her past, common sense suggested he at least reconsider. Common sense stood not a chance against the deep-seated conviction that she was his. Where she was concerned he felt like one of his conquering ancestors preparing to lay siege to a much-desired prize. Given what he now suspected, her surrender, when it came, would need t
o be proclaimed from the battlements.

  He’d wondered how she’d reached a succulently ripe twenty-four still unwed. Even hidden away as a governess, not all men were blind. Some must have seen her and appreciated her worth. A determination on her part to remain a spinster, childless, could, in this case, explain the inexplicable. Her stubbornness was a tangible thing.

  In this case, her stubbornness would need to surrender.

  He wasn’t going to let her go. Ever.

  At least she couldn’t later say that he hadn’t warned her.

  His gaze, still on the summerhouse, sharpened; Devil straightened and reached for the handle of the French doors.

  Honoria saw him coming; her hand froze in midair, then she looked down and resumed her stitching. Devil climbed the steps two at a time; she looked up and met his gaze squarely. Slowly, she raised her brows.

  He held her gaze, then glanced at the seat beside her.

  She hesitated, then carefully gathered up her strewn silks. “Did your man learn anything in Chatteris?” Devil stared at her.

  Honoria laid the silks in her basket. “I saw him ride in.”

  Swallowing his irritation, Devil sat beside her, angling his shoulders so he faced her. “Nothing—no horseman came by way of Chatteris.” Perhaps he should grow screening hedges about the summerhouse? She’d adopted it as her lair; he could see a number of pertinent advantages.

  Honoria frowned. “So that’s all the towns ’round about—and no gentleman hired a horse anywhere.”

  “Except for Charles, who came by way of Cambridge.”

  “Is there any other place—a tavern, or some such—where horses might be hired?”

  “My people checked all the hedge-taverns within reach. Short of borrowing a horse, something we can’t rule out, it seems likely the murderer rode away on his own horse.”

  “I thought you said that was unlikely?”