Free Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page A

perfect candidate.” With that, he altered their direction and lengthened his stride even more.
    â€œI am not a racehorse.”
    His lips thinned, but he slowed—just enough so she didn’t have to run. They’d gained the graveled walk that circled the house. It took her a moment to replay his words, another to see their weakness. “That’s still ridiculous. You must have half the female population of the ton waiting to catch your handkerchief every time you blow your nose.”
    He didn’t even glance her way. “At least half.”
    â€œSo why me ?”
    Devil considered telling her—in graphic detail. Instead, he gritted his teeth and growled: “Because you’re unique.”
    â€œ 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œ 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 felt her dagger glance.
    â€œThat 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