"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 fel
t 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.
He shifted to stand beside her, gesturing for her to precede him. Simultaneously, Honoria felt his hand at the back of her waist. Without her petticoat, only a single layer of fabric separated her skin from his hard palm. He didn't exert any great pressure; instead, seductively questing, his hand traveled slowly, very slowly, down. When it reached the curve of her bottom, Honoria sucked in a quick breath-and stepped quickly over the threshold.
He followed. "This is Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, Webster." He looked her way; Honoria glimpsed triumph in his eyes. "She'll be staying-her boxes should arrive this morning."
Webster bowed low. "I'll have your things taken to your room, miss."
Stiffly, Honoria inclined her head-her heart was still fluttering in her throat; her skin felt hot and cold in the strangest places. She couldn't fault the butler's demeanor; he seemed unsurprised by his master's lack of attire. Was she the only one who found his bare chest at all remarkable? Stifling an urge to sniff disbelievingly, she elevated her nose another inch and looked about the hall.
The impression created by the exterior extended within doors. A sense of graciousness pervaded the high-ceilinged hall, lit by sunlight pouring through the fanlight and the windows flanking the front doors. The walls were papered-blue fleur-de-lis on an ivory ground; the paneling, all light oak, glowed softly. Together with the blue-and-white tiles, the decor imparted an airy, uncluttered atmosphere. Stairs of polished oak, their baluster ornately carved, led upward in a long, straight sweep, then divided into two, both arms leading to the gallery above.