"That's the sum of your objections?"
"Well, there's Africa, of course."
"Forget Africa. Is there any reason other than my motives in offering for you that in your opinion constitutes an impediment to our marriage?"
His arrogance, his high-handedness, his unrelenting authority-his chest. Honoria was tempted to start at the top of her list and work her way down. But not one of her caveats posed any serious impediment to their marriage. She searched his eyes for some clue as to her best answer, fascinated anew by their remarkable clarity. They were like crystal clear pools of pale green water, emotions, thoughts, flashing like quicksilver fish in their depths. "No."
"Good."
She glimpsed some emotion-was it relief?-flash through his eyes before his heavy lids hid them from view. Straightening, he caught her hand and headed for the stable door. Stifling a curse, she grabbed up her skirts and lengthened her stride. He made for the main archway; beyond lay his house, peaceful in the morning sunshine.
"You may set your mind at rest, Miss Anstruther-Wetherby." He glanced down, the planes of his face granite-hard. "I'm not marrying you because of any social stricture. That, if you consider it, is a nonsensical idea. Cynsters, as you well know, do not give a damn about social strictures. Society, as far as we're concerned, can think what it pleases-it does not rule us."
"But… if that's the case-and given your reputation I can readily believe it is-why insist on marrying me?"
"Because I want to."
The words were delivered as the most patently obvious answer to a simple question. Honoria held on to her temper. "Because you want to?"
He nodded.
"That's it? Just because you want to?"
The look he sent her was calculated to quell. "For a Cynster, that's a perfectly adequate reason. In fact, for a Cynster, there is no better reason."
He looked ahead again; Honoria glared at his profile. "This is ridiculous. You only set eyes on me yesterday, and now you want to marry me?"
Again he nodded.
"Wry?"
The glance he shot her was too brief for her to read. "It so happens I need a wife, and you're the perfect candidate." With that, he altered their direction and lengthened his stride even more.
"I am not a racehorse."
His lips thinned, but he slowed-just enough so she didn't have to run. They'd gained the graveled walk that circled the house. It took her a moment to replay his words, another to see their weakness. "That's still ridiculous. You must have half the female population of the ton waiting to catch your handkerchief every time you blow your nose."
He didn't even glance her way. "At least half."
"So why me?"
Devil considered telling her-in graphic detail. Instead, he gritted his teeth and growled: "Because you're unique."
"Unique?"
Unique in that she was arguing. He halted, raised his eyes to the heavens in an appeal for sufficient strength to deal with an Anstruther-Wetherby, then looked down and trapped her gaze. "Let me put it this way-you are an attractive Anstruther-Wetherby female with whom I've spent an entire night in private-and I've yet to bed you." He smiled. "I assume you would prefer we married before I do?"
The stunned shock in her eyes was balm to his soul. The grey orbs, locked on his, widened-then widened even more. He knew what she was seeing-the sheer lust that blazed through him had to be lighting his eyes.
He fully expected her to dissolve into incoherent, ineffectual, disjointed gibberings-instead, she suddenly snapped free of his visual hold, blinked, drew a quick breath-and narrowed her eyes at him.
"I am not marrying you just so I can go to bed with you. I mean-" She caught herself up and breathlessly amended, "So that you can go to bed with me."
Devil watched the telltale color rise in her cheeks. Grimly, he nodded. "Fine." Tightening his grip on her hand, he turned and stalked on.
All the way from the cottage, she'd shifted and wriggled against him; by the time they'd reached the stable, he'd been agonizingly aroused. How he'd managed not to throw her down in the straw and ease his pain, he had no idea. But he now had a roaring headache, and if he didn't keep moving-keep her moving-temptation might yet get the upper hand. "You," he stated, as they rounded the corner of the house, "can marry me for a host of sensible, socially acceptable reasons. I'll marry you to get you into my bed."
He felt her dagger glance. "That is-Good God!"
Honoria stopped; stock-still, she stared. Somersham Place lay spread before her, basking in the morning sunshine. Immense, built of honey-colored stone at least a century before, it sprawled elegantly before her, a mature and gracious residence overlooking a wide lawn. She was dimly aware of the lake at the bottom of the lawn, of the oaks flanking the curving drive, of the stone wall over which a white rose cascaded, dew sparkling on the perfumed blooms. The clack of ducks drifted up from the lake; the air was fresh with the tang of clipped grass. But it was the house that held her. Durable, inviting, there was grandeur in every line, yet the sharp edges were muted, softened by the years. Sunbeams glinted on row upon row of lead-paned windows; huge double oak doors were framed by a portico of classic design. Like a lovely woman mellowed by experience, his home beckoned, enticed.
He was proposing to make her mistress of all this.
The thought flitted through her mind; even though she knew he was watching, she allowed herself a moment to imagine, to dwell on what might be. For this had she been born, reared, trained. What should have been her destiny lay before her. But becoming his duchess would mean risking…
No! She'd promised herself-never again.
Mentally shutting her eyes to the house, the temptation, she drew a steadying breath, and saw the crest blazoned in stone on the portico's facade, a shield sporting a stag rampant on a ground of fleur-de-lis. Beneath the shield ran a wide stone ribbon bearing a carved inscription. The words were Latin-it took her a moment to translate. "To have… and to hold?"
Hard fingers closed about hers. "The Cynster family motto."
Honoria raised her eyes heavenward. An irresistible force, he drew her toward the steps. "Where are you taking me?" A vision of silk cushions and gauze curtains-a pirate's private lair-flashed into her mind.
"To my mother. Incidentally, she prefers to be addressed as the Dowager."
Honoria frowned. "But you're not married."
"Yet. It's her subtle way of reminding me of my duty."
Subtle. Honoria wondered what the Dowager-his mother, after all-would do if she wished to make a point forcefully. Whatever, it was time and past to make a stand. It would be unwise to cross his threshold-beyond which, she had not the slightest doubt, he ruled like a king-without coming to some agreement as to their future relationship, or lack thereof.
They reached the porch; he halted before the doors and released her. Facing him, Honoria straightened. "Your Grace, we must-"
The doors swung inward, held majestically wide by a butler, one of the more imposing of the species. Cheated of her moment, Honoria only just managed not to glare.
The butler's eyes had gone to his master; his smile was genuinely fond. "Good morning, Your Grace."
His master nodded. "Webster."
Honoria stood her ground. She was not going to cross his threshold until he acknowledged her right to ignore-as he did whenever it suited him-society's dictates.