Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens

unexpected adventure in sight, she
allowed herself a moment's reflection. Somewhat to her surprise, it was filled
with thoughts of Devil. He was overbearing, arrogant, domineering—the list went
on. And on. But he was also strikingly handsome, could be charming when he
wished and, she suspected, possessed a suitably devilish sense of humor. She'd
seen enough of the duke to accord him her respect and enough of the man to feel
an empathetic tug. Nevertheless, she had no desire to spend overmuch time in
the company of a tyrant called Devil. Gentlemen such as he were all very
well—as long as they weren't related to you and kept a respectful distance.
    She'd reached that firm conclusion when he reappeared,
leading Sulieman. The stallion was skittish, the man somber. Honoria stood as
he neared.
    Stopping in front of her, he halted Sulieman beside
him; with the log immediately behind her, Honoria couldn't step back. Before
she could execute a sideways sidle, Devil looped the reins about one fist—and
reached for her.
    By the time she realized his intention, she was
perched precariously sidesaddle on Sulieman's back. She gasped, and locked her
hands about the pommel. "What on
earth
…?"
    Unloosing the reins, Devil threw her an impatient
frown. "I'm taking you home."
    Honoria blinked—he had a way with words she wasn't
sure she appreciated. "You're taking me to
your
home—the
Place?"
    "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
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    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