Honoria choked, then gave up and laughed unrestrainedly.
Devil cast her a disgusted glance—and drove on.
She was wiping her eyes, still racked by the occasional giggle, when he checked his team. They were a mile or so short of Somersham; Honoria sobered when Devil turned the horses off the road, eased them along a narrow lane, then swung onto a wide grassy patch and reined in.
“Behold—north Cambridgeshire.”
She could hardly miss it—the county lay spread before her, a tapestry of greens and golds, edged with the darker hues of woods and hedgerows.
“This is the closest we come to a lookout in these parts.”
Honoria studied the landscape—while her wariness escalated in leaps and bounds. They were on a grassy plateau, a stand of trees screening them from the road. Essentially private.
“Over there,” Devil pointed to the right, “you can see the roofs of Chatteris. The first dark green line beyond is the Forty-Foot Drain, the second is the Old Nene.”
Honoria nodded; she recalled the names from his earlier lecture on the fens.
“And now . . .” Devil secured the reins. “It’s time for lunch.”
“Lunch?” Honoria swung around, but he’d already leapt down from the curricle. An instant later, she heard him rummaging in the boot. He reappeared, a rug in one hand, a picnic basket in the other.
“Here.” He tossed the rug at her. Reflexively, she caught it—then caught her breath as his free arm snaked about her waist and he swung her to the ground. He smiled down at her, pure wolf in his eyes. “Why don’t you chose a suitable place to spread the rug?”
Honoria glared—she couldn’t speak; her heart was blocking her throat, her breathing had seized. She barely had enough strength to whisk herself free of his encircling arm. Marching across the grass as determindedly as her suddenly shaky limbs allowed, all too aware he prowled close behind, she spread the rug over the first reasonable patch, then, remembering her parasol, returned to the safety of the curricle to retrieve it.
The move gave her time to calm her senses, to take a firm grip on her wayward wits—to remind herself of how safe she really was. As long as she didn’t allow him to kiss her again, all would be well.
She could hardly be held responsible for the previous kisses he’d stolen—like the buccaneer he reminded her of, he’d surprised her, captured her and taken what he wished. This time, however, while she might unwittingly have walked into his trap, she did know it was a trap. He hadn’t sprung it yet—as a virtuous lady it was clearly her duty to ensure his planning came to nought.
His kisses, and the desire behind them, were far from innocent; she could not, in all conscience, indulge in such scandalous dalliance.
Which made her role very clear—circumspection, caution, and unassailable virtue. She headed back to the rug, repeating that litany. The sight of the repast he’d unpacked—the two wineglasses, the champagne, cool in a white linen shroud, the delicacies designed to tempt a lady’s palate—all bore testimony to his intent. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You planned this.”
Lounging on the rug, Devil raised his brows. “Of course—what else?”
He caught her hand and gently tugged; she had no choice but to sink, gracefully, onto the other half of the rug. She was careful to keep the basket between them. “You didn’t even know I was going to join you.”
His answer was a single raised brow and a look so outrageously patronizing she was literally lost for words.
He grinned. “Here.” He reached into the basket. “Have a chicken leg.”
Honoria drew in a deep breath. She looked at the portion he held out, the bone wrapped neatly in a napkin—then reached out, took it, and sank her teeth into it.
To her relief, he made no effort to converse. She shot a glance his way. He lay stretched on the rug, propped on one elbow as he worked steadily through the basket. Honoria took a long draft of champagne—and focused on distracting them both.
“Why,” she asked, “did Tolly come by way of St. Ives rather than Cambridge? If he wanted to see you, why didn’t he come by the faster route?”
Devil shrugged. “All of us travel via St. Ives.”
“For obvious reasons?”
He grinned. “We do, of course, feel a certain link with the town.” He caught Honoria’s eye. “One of my ancestors built the bridge-chapel, after all.”
The chapel she had entirely forgotten to demand a glimpse of. Honoria humphed. “As a penance, no doubt.”
“Presumably.” Devil sipped his champagne.
Honoria returned to her cogitations. “When did Charles arrive at the Place?”
“I don’t know—Vane said he was there when he arrived, late that evening, just before the worst of the storm.”
Honoria frowned. “If Charles followed Tolly from town, why didn’t he come upon us in the lane?”
“Charles wouldn’t come that way.”
“I thought all Cynsters travel via St. Ives?”
“All except Charles.” Sitting up, Devil started to repack the basket. He glanced at Honoria, then reached for her glass. He drained it in one gulp. “Charles, in case you hadn’t noticed, is not really one of the pack.”
Pack—a good word to describe them, the Cynster pack of wolves. “He does seem . . .” leaning on one arm, Honoria gestured, “in something of a different mold.”
Devil shrugged. “He takes after his mother in looks and in disposition. Barely a Cynster trait to be discerned.”
“Hmm.” Honoria settled more comfortably, a warm glow spreading through her. “When did his mother die?”
“Twenty or so years ago.”
“So your uncle remarried almost immediately?”
The basket repacked, Devil stretched out, crossed his arms behind his head, closed his eyes—and watched Honoria through his lashes. “Uncle Arthur’s first marriage was little short of a disaster. Almira Butterworth did what no other has in the history of the family—she trapped a Cynster into marriage, much good did it do her. After twelve years of marital discord, she died of consumption—Arthur married Louise a bare year later.”
“So how would Charles, not being a dyed-in-the-wool Cynster, have come to the Place? Did he drive?”
“He doesn’t drive—don’t ask me why. He always comes via Cambridge, hires a horse, then comes riding up the main drive. He once said something about a master always coming to the front door, rather than the back.”
Charles, Honoria decided, sounded as insufferable as she’d thought him. “So it’s unlikely he saw anything?”
“He said he didn’t see anyone about.”
Honoria tried to think, but could find no focus for further questions. It was pleasant in the sunshine. Her parasol lay furled in the grass beside her; she should open it, but could not summon the strength. A deliciously warm, relaxed sense of peace pervaded her—she was loath to break the spell.
Glancing at Devil, she noted his closed eyes, black lashes feathering his high cheekbones. Briefly, she let her gaze skim his long frame, conscious, as always, of the deep tug she’d never previously experienced, never felt for any other man. A frisson of pure excitement, it heightened every sense, sensitized every nerve, and set her pulse racing. Simultaneously, at some fundamental level, it drew her like a magnet, a potent attraction all too hard to deny. Every instinct she possessed screamed he was dangerous—specifically dangerous to her. Perversely, those selfsame instincts insisted that with him, she was safe. Was it any wonder she felt giddy?
Yet the last was as true as the first. Not even Michael eased her mind to the same degree nor conveyed the same certainty of inviolable protection. The devil might be a tyrant, an autocrat supreme, yet he was also to be relied on, predictable in many ways, rigid in his honor.
Her eyes once more on his face, Honoria drew in a slow breath. He was dangerous indeed, but the basket sat, large and cumbersome between them. Lips gently curving, she looked away, into the soft haze of the early afternoon t
o the green fields of his domain.
No field came close to the pale, clear green of his eyes.
She’d reached that conclusion when the horizon abruptly fell, leaving her flat on her back, gazing up at the cloudless sky. An instant later, half the sky vanished, replaced by a black mane, hard, angular features and a pair of eyes that saw far too much. And a pair of long, mobile lips, their contours reflecting the same laughing triumph she could see in his green eyes.
The basket was no longer between them. Nothing was.
Honoria’s breath caught—her gaze locked on his. Her heart thudded wildly; an uncharacteristic panic streaked through her. Could he read minds? It seemed that he could—the green gaze grew more intense, the line of his lips deepened. Then his lids lowered; slowly, deliberately, he bent his head.
Anticipation rose, an insidious temptation, stealing through her, unlocking her defenses. Honoria felt the fever rise, felt the longing grow. Each time he kissed her, it waxed stronger, more willful, harder to deny. She felt herself sinking under its influence, her lips softening. “No.” The word was a whisper—all she could manage. Her heartbeat filled her; her pulse all but deafened her.
He heard her and stopped, eyes glinting from under heavy lids. “Why not?” His brows quirked—his smile grew as he searched her eyes, her face. “You like it when I kiss you, Honoria Prudence.”
Her name, uttered in his deep, velvety dark voice, the ‘r’s gently rolled, was a sensual caress. Honoria struggled to hold back a shiver—she lost the fight when he raised one finger and traced her lower lip.
“You like my kisses—and I like kissing you. Why deny ourselves such innocent pleasure?”
Innocent? Honoria’s eyes widened—she might be safe with him, but his notion of safety and hers were not the same. “Ah . . . that’s not the point.”
The curve of his lips deepened. “Which point is that?”
She hadn’t the faintest idea. Honoria blinked blankly up at him—and saw his pirate’s smile flash. His head swooped—his lips covered hers.
This time, she ought to struggle. The thought flashed into her mind—and was lost in the same instant, as anticipation exploded and wiped her mental slate clean. Further thought was beyond her; his kiss connected with some other being—a sensual, sensate being—hidden deep inside her. It was that being who reveled in the long-drawn caress, in the hard pressure of his lips on hers, that being who opened her lips, brazenly inviting him beyond, to taste, to sample, to plunder to his heart’s content.
Other than through his lips, and the long fingers that framed her face, he did not touch her, yet she was surrounded by his strength, by his will, bent like a reed to his passion. Her body—skin, quivering flesh, even her bones—was achingly aware of him—of his strength, of the tense, sharply defined muscles mere inches away, of the hardness to match her melting softness.
Their lips melded, their tongues twined, sliding sensuously together. The kiss was as heady as the fine wine they’d drunk, as warm as the sunshine about them. He shifted, leaning over her as he deepened the kiss; Honoria tasted his desire. The compulsion to feed his hunger rose, flaring like a fever, an impetus steadily growing with each deep beat of her heart, a driving need to twine her arms about him, about his shoulders, his neck—to run her fingers through his thick hair. Her fingers literally itched. One hand had fallen on his upper arm, the other on his shoulder; clinging to caution, she flexed her fingers, sinking them deep in a desperate bid to deny the urge to touch, to feel, to explore.
Instead, the steely feel of him, harder than she’d imagined, something akin to warm resilient rock, seduced her; caught by her discovery, she flexed her fingers again, enthralled when his muscles shifted beneath her hands.
Immediately, his lips hardened; in a heartbeat, their kiss changed from merely hungry to ravenous. He was closer, his weight tantalizingly near yet not upon her; Honoria’s senses leapt. Their lips parted; she hauled in a gasping breath. Before she could open her eyes, he took her mouth again, commanding, demanding, ravaging her senses.
His hand closed over her breast.
The shock of his touch, of the sliding caress of long, strong fingers, was muted by the cambric of her carriage dress. There was nothing to mute the shock of her reaction—like lightning it speared through her, incandescent fire arcing through her veins. Beneath his hand, her breast swelled; her nipple had tightened to a firm bud even before his fingers found it. Honoria tried to gasp, but he was still kissing her; in desperation, she took her breath from him—and discovered that she could.
His fingers stroked, gently kneaded, and her abandoned senses sang. While the warmth of his caresses spread through her, heating her, heightening the melting sensation deep inside, Honoria mastered the art of breathing through their kiss—suddenly, she was no longer so giddy.
Suddenly she could think enough to know what she felt. Enough to appreciate the quivering excitement that held her, the thrill of anticipation that invested every nerve, every square inch of her skin. Enough to recognize the desire that thrummed heavily in her veins—the compulsion to actively return his kiss, to draw his hard body to hers, to invite, incite—do whatever she could—to quench and fill the molten void within her.
The knowledge rocked her, shocked her—and gave her the strength to draw back.
Devil sensed her withdrawal. Beneath his hand, her breast was hot and swollen, the furled bud of her nipple a hard button against his palm. Yet her retreat was obvious—in their kiss, in the sudden sinking of her senses. He knew women too well, too thoroughly, to miss the battle she waged—the battle to block her own inclination, to suppress the desire that had welled within her in answer to his need.
Inwardly, he cursed; she was causing him no end of pain. He was sorely tempted to open her bodice and slide his hand in—to show her what that would do to her, what more there was yet to come. But her innocence was a cross he’d steeled himself to bear—the knowledge that he would be the one to school her in love’s ways, the only man she would ever know intimately, was a powerful inducement.
She was no prude—she was attracted to him at a level so deep it excited him just to know it. She was ripe for seduction, by him; she would be his—his wife—there was no way he’d let her escape him. Raising his head, he watched as her lids fluttered, then rose, revealing misty grey eyes still silvered with passion. He trapped her gaze. “I should warn you that I’ve made myself four promises.”
His voice, deepened by passion, gravelly with frustration, rumbled between them. Honoria blinked dazedly; Devil suppressed a feral grin. “I’m going to enjoy watching your face the first time I pleasure you.” Dipping his head, he brushed her lips with his. “And the second and third time as well.”
He drew back—Honoria’s eyes were wide, startled. “Pleasure . . . ?”
“When I make that molten heat inside you explode.”
“Explode?”
“In a cataclysmic starburst.” Devil tightened the fingers that still lay about her breast, then let them slide in a languid caress, his thumb circling her ruched nipple. A quivering shiver raced through her. Deliberately, he caught her eye. “Trust me—I know all about it.”
She searched his eyes, her own widening; suddenly, she drew a breath.
“And,” Devil said, bending to taste her lips again, cutting off whatever she’d thought to say, “my fourth promise will be the culminating event.”
He drew back and watched her debate her next move; eventually, she cleared her throat and asked: “What else have you promised yourself?”
Devil’s face hardened. “That I’ll be watching your face as I fill you, as you take me inside you, as you give yourself to me.”
Honoria stilled—it took all her strength to suppress her reaction, a flaring impulse to passion and possession, a lancing desire so thrillingly vital, so compelling it literally stole her breath. The unexpected insight—into herself, into what might be—was shocking. Most shocking of all was the fact it didn’t scare her.
But she knew where her future lay—it couldn’t be with him. Her eyes locked on his, she shook her head. “It won’t happen. I’m not marrying you.”
She pushed against him; he hesitated, then drew back, letting her sit up. The instant she did, his fingers closed about her chin; he turned her to face him. “Why not?”
Honoria looked into his narrowed eyes, then haughtily lifted her chin from his hold. “I have my reasons.”
“Which are?”
She shot him a resigned glance. “Because you are who you are for a start.”
His frown turned black. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Honoria struggled to her feet—instantly, his hand was there to help. He followed her up. She bent and picked up the rug. “You’re a tyrant, an unmitigated autocrat, utterly used to your own way. But that’s beside the point.” The folded rug in her arms, she faced him. “I have no ambition to wed—not you, not any man.”
She met his gaze and held it; he continued to frown. “Why not?” The demand, this time, was less aggressive.
Honoria swiped up her parasol and started toward the curricle. “My reason is my own and not one I need share with you.” He was a duke—dukes required heirs. Reaching the curricle, she glanced back—basket in hand, he was trailing in her wake, his expression frowningly intent. When he stopped in front of her, she looked him in the eye. “Please understand, I won’t change my mind.”
He held her gaze for an instant, then he reached for the rug, tossed it into the boot, and swung the basket after it. Letting down the flap, he followed her to the side of the carriage. Honoria turned and waited; she caught her breath as his hands slid about her waist.
They firmed, but he didn’t lift her. Suddenly breathless, Honoria looked up—into crystal green eyes that belonged to a conqueror.
He held her, held her gaze, for a full minute, before saying: “We have a standoff, it seems, Honoria Prudence.”
Honoria attempted a look of hauteur. “Indeed?”
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