Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page B

from the bridle path into the lane.
    Glancing about, she looked down—and clutched at the arm about her waist. It tightened.
    â€œSit 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?”
    â€œIt’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?”
    â€œTitles.” 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?”
    â€œActually, 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