"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."