"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."
"Unfortunately, my dear, you have your cause and effect confused. If you had, indeed, been a fresh-faced chit just out of the schoolroom, few would imagine I'd done anything other than sleep last night. As it is…" He paused, slowing Sulieman as they neared the trees. "It's well-known I prefer more challenging game."
Disgusted, Honoria humphed. "It's ridiculous-there wasn't even a bed."
The chest behind her quaked, then was still. "Trust me-there's no requirement for a bed."
Honoria pressed her lips shut and glared at the trees. The path wended through the stand; beyond stood the stone wall, two feet thick and eight feet high. An archway gave onto an avenue lined with poplars. Through the shifting leaves, she sighted the house, still some way to the left. It was huge-a long central block with perpendicular wings at each end, like an E without the middle stroke. Directly ahead lay a sprawling stable complex.
The proximity of the stables prompted her to speech. "I suggest, Your Grace, that we agree to disagree over the likely outcome of last night. I acknowledge your concern but see no reason to tie myself up in matrimony to avoid a few months' whispers. Given your reputation, you can hardly argue." That, she felt, was a nicely telling touch.
"My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." His gentle, perfectly lethal purr sounded in her left ear; tingles streaked down her spine. "Let me make one point perfectly clear. I don't intend to argue. You, an Anstruther-Wetherby, have been compromised, however innocently, by me, a Cynster. There is, therefore, no question over the outcome; hence, there can be no argument."
Honoria gritted her teeth so tightly her jaw ached. The struggle to suppress the shudder that purring murmur of his evoked distracted her all the way to the stable arch. They rode beneath it, Sulieman's hooves clattering on the cobbles. Two grooms came running but pulled up short of where Devil reined in his black steed.
"Where's Melton?"
"Not yet about, Y'r Grace."
Honoria heard her rescuer-or was that captor?-curse beneath his breath. Entirely without warning, he dismounted-by bringing his leg over the pommel, taking her to the ground with him. She didn't have time to shriek.
Catching her breath, she realized her feet had yet to reach earth-he was holding her still, firmly caught against him; another shudder threatened. She drew breath to protest-on the instant, he gently set her down.
Lips compressed, Honoria haughtily brushed down her skirts. Straightening, she turned toward him-he caught her hand, grabbed the reins, and headed for the stable block, towing her and his black demon behind him.
Honoria swallowed her protest; she'd rather go with him than cool her heels in the stable yard, a prey to his grooms' curiosity. Gloom, filled with the familiar smells of hay and horses, engulfed her. "Why can't your grooms brush him down?"
"They're too frightened of him-only old Melton can handle him."
Honoria looked at Sulieman-the horse looked steadily back.
His master stopped before a large stall. Released, Honoria leaned against the stall door. Arms crossed, she pondered her predicament while watching her captor-she was increasingly certain that was a more accurate description of him-rub down his fearsome steed.
Muscles bunched and relaxed; the sight was positively mesmerizing. He'd told her to get used to it; she doubted she ever could. He bent, then fluidly straightened and shifted to the horse's other side; his chest came into view. Honoria drew in a slow breath-then he caught her eye.
For one instant, their gazes held-then Honoria looked away, first at the tack hanging along the stable wall, then up at the rafters, inwardly berating herself for her reaction, simultaneously wishing she had a fan to hand.
It was never wise to tangle with autocrats, but, given she had no choice, she needed to remember that it was positively fatal to acknowledge he had any power over her.
Determined to hold her own, she ordered her mind to business. If he believed honor demanded he marry her, she'd need to try a different tack. She frowned. "I do not see that it's fair that, purely because I was stranded by a storm and took shelter in the same cottage as you, I should have to redirect my life. I am not a passive spectator waiting for the next occurrence to happen-I have plans!"
Devil glanced up. "Riding in the shadow of the Great Sphinx?" He could just imagine her on a camel-along with a hovering horde of Berber chieftains who looked remarkably like him and thought like him, too.
"Precisely. And I plan to explore the Ivory Coast as well-another exciting place so I've heard."
Barbary pirates and slave traders. Devil tossed aside the currying brush and dusted his hands on his breeches. "You'll just have to make do with becoming a Cynster-no one's ever suggested it's a mundane existence."
"I am not going to marry you."
Her flashing eyes and the set of her chin declared her Anstruther-Wetherby mind was made up; Devil knew he was going to seriously enjoy every minute it took to make her change it. He walked toward her.
Predictably, she backed not an inch, although he saw her muscles lock against the impulse. Without breaking stride, he closed his hands about her waist and lifted her, setting her down with her back against the stall wall. With commendable restraint, he removed his hands, locking one on the top of the half-closed door, bracing the other, palm flat, on the wall by her shoulder.
Caged, she glared at him; he tried not to notice how her breasts rose as she drew in a deep breath. He spoke before she could. "What have you got against the proposition?"
Honoria kept her eyes locked on his-standing as he was, her entire field of vision was filled with bare male. Once her heart had ceased to thud quite so loudly, she raised her brows haughtily. "I have no desire whatever to marry purely because of some antiquated social stricture."