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 strength 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."
She felt him shrug. "I'll leave you to deal with
them."
"I won't be here." She made the statement
firmly.
"We'll be here often enough—we'll spend some of
the year in London and on my other estates, but the Place will always be home.
But you needn't worry over me—I'm not fool enough to face the disappointed
local aspirants without availing myself of your skirts."
"I beg your pardon?" Turning, Honoria stared
at him.
He met her gaze briefly; his lips quirked. "To
hide
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 strength 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."
She felt him shrug. "I'll leave you to deal with
them."
"I won't be here." She made the statement
firmly.
"We'll be here often enough—we'll spend some of
the year in London and on my other estates, but the Place will always be home.
But you needn't worry over me—I'm not fool enough to face the disappointed
local aspirants without availing myself of your skirts."
"I beg your pardon?" Turning, Honoria stared
at him.
He met her gaze briefly; his lips quirked. "To
hide
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