Devil winced. Teeth gritted, he lifted her and set her bottom back on his thigh. "I'm not taking you to bed-to wife-purely because you're afraid of lightning!"

Honoria narrowed her eyes at him-his expression was not encouraging. "This is ridiculous." She felt soft, warm and empty inside.

"Forget it." Devil ground the words out. "Just-sit-still."

Honoria stared at him, then uttered a strangled, disgusted sound and slumped back against his chest.

"Go to sleep."

She bit her tongue. In the orangery, she'd surprised him; after the accident, her tending him had simply been too much. He wouldn't again make the mistake of letting her touch him-without that, she stood no chance of getting his body to change his mind.

The warmth surrounding her had unlocked her muscles. Safe, certain-determined to prevail-she slid into untroubled slumber.

She woke the next morning neatly tucked in her bed. Blinking her eyes wide, she was almost at the point of dismissing her memories of the night as dreams when her gaze alighted on the odd blanket draped across the bed's corner. She narrowed her eyes at the inoffensive plaid; her recollections became much clearer.

With a disgusted humph, she sat up and threw back the covers. It was clearly time she had a long talk with his Obstinate Grace of St. Ives.

Gowned appropriately, she swept into the breakfast parlor primed to declare herself won-only to discover he'd left the house early, ostensibly on business. He was not expected to return until shortly before dinner, after which he would escort her to the Theater Royal.

She amended her plans-he invited some country neighbors passing through town to join them in their box. The Draycotts were charming, and utterly unshakable. At Devil's invitation, Lord Draycott accompanied them back to Grosvenor Square, the better to discuss repairs to the Five-Mile fence.

There was no storm that night.

The next morning, Honoria rose early, determined to catch her worm. He didn't even appear, taking breakfast in his library, in the protective presence of his steward.

By evening, she'd reached the end of her tether. Why he was avoiding her she had no idea, but his actions left her no choice. There was one approach guaranteed to gain his complete and undivided attention-as far as she was concerned, there was no reason she couldn't employ it.

Chapter 16

Donnnnnnng.

Devil spared not a glance for the long-case clock as he passed it on the stairs. Crossing the gallery, he lifted his candle in insouciant salute to his father's portrait, then strode on, into the long corridor that led to his rooms.

His sire, he was sure, would applaud his night's work.

In his pocket lay three notes inscribed with Viscount Bromley's square script. Bromley was already deep in debt, although by how much he was probably unaware. Of course, the last hand had seen the luck change. Devil smiled. He'd have Bromley tied tight in less than a week.

Despite his success, as he drew nearer his door, he tensed; the frustration he continually held at bay exerted its power. An ache settled in his gut; muscle after muscle turned heavy, as if he was fighting himself. Grimacing, he reached for the doorknob. As long as he limited his time with Honoria to public, social venues, he could cope.

He'd told her the truth-he was more than capable of manipulating, coercing, or seducing her into marriage. Indeed, his very nature compelled him to do so, which was why he felt like a wild beast caged. He was a born conqueror-taking what he wanted came naturally. Subtleties, sensitivities, were usually of little consequence.

His expression hardening, he entered his room. Shutting the door, he crossed to the tallboy; setting the candlestick by the mirror on its top, he untied his armband, unbuttoned his waistcoat, then eased the diamond pin from his cravat.

Reaching out to lay the pin in its box, his gaze slid past his reflection-white glimmered in the shadows behind him.

His head snapped around. Then, his tread utterly silent, he crossed to the chair by the fire.

Even before he touched the silk, he knew to whom it belonged. The fire, a mere glow of coals, was still warm enough to send her scent rising, wafting upward to ensorcel him. He only just stopped himself from lifting the soft silk to his face, from inhaling the beguiling fragrance. Stifling a curse, he dropped the peignoir as if it was as hot as the fire's coals. Slowly, he turned to the bed.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Even from this distance, he could see her hair, a rippling chesnut wave breaking across his pillows. She lay on her side, facing the center of the bed. The sight drew him like a lodestone. He was beside the bed, looking down on her, before he knew he'd moved.

No woman had ever slept in his bed-at least not during his tenure. His father had been of the stated opinion that a duke's bed was reserved for his duchess; he had agreed-no other woman had lain between his silken sheets. To return late at night to discover those sheets warmed by the one woman he wanted to find asleep there, breathing gently, soft, sleek limbs sunk deep into the down, left him reeling.

He couldn't think.

The realization left him shaking, battling a too-powerful urge to put aside all explanations and react-act-do what he wished with all his conqueror's soul to do.

But he needed to think-to be sure, certain, that he wasn't being led by the nose-no, not his nose, but another protuberant part of his anatomy-into committing a deed he would later regret. He'd taken his stance, one he knew was right. Demanding her knowing commitment, heart, mind, and soul, might not be a customary requirement, yet for him, with her, it simply had to be.

His gaze roamed her face, softly flushed, then slid lower, filling in what the sheet concealed. Swallowing a savage curse, he swung away. He fell to pacing, his footfalls cushioned by the carpet. Why the hell was she here?

He cast a glittering glance her way-it fell on her lips, slightly parted. He heard again the urgent, intensely feminine moans she'd uttered in the orangery while writhing beneath his hands. With a muted oath, he paced to the other side of the bed. From there, the view was less torturing.

Three minutes later, he still couldn't marshal a single un-lustful thought. Muttering one last, disgusted expletive, he swung back to the bed. Sitting on it was too dangerous, given her hands and her propensity to get them on him. Standing beside the carved post at one end, he reached across and, through the covers, grasped her ankle. He shook it.

She muttered and tried to wriggle free. Devil closed his hand, locked his fingers about her slim bones and shook her again.

She opened her eyes-blinking sleepily. "You're back."

"As you see." Releasing her, Devil straightened. Folding his arms, he leaned against the bedpost. "Would you care to explain why, of all the beds in this house, you chose mine to fall asleep in?"

Honoria raised a brow. "I would have thought that was obvious-I was waiting for you."

Devil hesitated; his faculties remained fogged by seething lust. "To what purpose?"

"I have a few questions."

His jaw firmed. "One o'clock in the morning, in my bed, is neither a suitable nor wise choice of time and venue to ask questions."

"On the contrary"-Honoria started to sit up-"it's the perfect place."

Devil watched the covers fall, revealing her shoulders, clearly visible through translucent silk, revealing the ripe swell of her breasts-"Stop!" His jaw clenched hard. "Honoria, just-sit-still."

Tartly, she hauled the covers up as she sat, then folded her arms beneath her breasts. She frowned at him. "Why have you been avoiding me?"

Devil returned the frown. "I would have thought that was obvious. You've a decision to make-I cannot conceive that private meetings between us, at present, would help. They certainly wouldn't help me." He'd intended giving her time-a week at least. The three days so far had been hell.

Honoria held his gaze. "About that decision-you've told me it's important to you-you haven't told me why."

For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak, then his folded arms lifted as he drew a deep breath. "I'm a Cynster-I've been raised to acquire, defend, and protect. My family is the core of my existence-without a family, without children, I'd have nothing to protect or defend, no reason to acquire. Given your past, I want to hear your decision declared. You're an Anstruther-Wetherby-given all I know of you, if you make a declaration, you'll stick by it. Whatever the challenge, you won't back down."

Honoria held his gaze steadily. "Given what you know of me, are you sure I'm the right wife for you?"

The answer came back, deep and sure. "You're mine."

Between them, the atmosphere rippled; ignoring the breathlessness only he could evoke, Honoria raised her brows. "Would you agree that, at present, I'm free of your seductive influence? Free of coercion or manipulation?"

He was watching her closely; he hesitated, then nodded.

"In that case-" She flung back the covers and scrambled across the bed. Devil straightened-before he could move away, Honoria grabbed the front of his shirt, and hauled herself up on her knees. "I have a declaration to make!"

Locking her eyes on his, locking both hands in his shirt, she drew a deep breath. "I want to marry you. I want to be your wife, your duchess, to face the world at your side. I want to bear your children." She invested the last with all the conviction in her soul.