"Somersham Place." The reins free, Devil reached for the pommel. With Honoria riding before him, he wasn't intending to use the stirrups.
Honoria's eyes widened. "Wait!"
The look Devil cast her could only be achieved by an impatient man. "What?"
"You've forgotten your jacket-it's in the cottage." Honoria fought to contain her panic, occasioned by the thought of his chest-bare-pressed against her back. Even within a foot of her back. Within a foot of any of her.
"Vane'll bring it."
"No! Well-whoever heard of a duke riding about the countryside bare-chested? You might catch cold-I mean…" Aghast, Honoria realized she was looking into pale green eyes that saw far more than she'd thought.
Devil held her gaze steadily. "Get used to it," he advised. Then he vaulted into the saddle behind her.
Chapter 4
The only benefit Honoria could discover in her position on Sulieman's back was that her tormentor, behind her, could not see her face. Unfortunately, he could see the blush staining not only her cheeks but her neck. He could also feel the rigidity that had gripped her-hardly surprising-the instant he'd landed in the saddle behind her, he'd wrapped a muscled arm about her and pulled her against him.
She'd shut her eyes the instant he'd touched her; panic had cut off her shriek. For the first time in her life she thought she might actually faint. The steely strength surrounding her was overwhelming; by the time she subdued her flaring reactions and could function rationally again, they were turning from the bridle path into the lane.
Glancing about, she looked down-and clutched at the arm about her waist. It tightened.
"Sit still-you won't fall."
Honoria's eyes widened. She could feel every word he said. She could also feel a pervasive heat emanating from his chest, his arms, his thighs; wherever they touched, her skin burned. "Ah…" They were retracing the journey she'd taken in the gig; the curve into the straight lay just ahead. "Is Somersham Place your principal residence?"
"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 s
trength 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."