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had known better. It had placed
Honoria Prudence in his path in a manner that ensured he couldn't pass her by.
The restless dissatisfaction that had gripped him of late seemed all of a
piece, part of fate's scheme. Jaded by the importunities of his latest
conquest, he'd come to the Place, sending word to Vane to meet him for a few
days' shooting. Vane had been due to join him that evening; with a whole day to
kill, he'd thrown a saddle on Sulieman and ridden out to his fields.
    The wide lands that were his never failed to soothe
him, to refocus his mind on who he was, what he was. Then the storm had risen;
he'd cut through the wood, heading for the back entrance to the Place. That had
put him on track to find Tolly—and Honoria Prudence. Fate had all but waved a
red flag; no one had ever suggested he was slow to see the light. Seizing
opportunity was how he'd made his name—he'd already decided to seize Honoria
Prudence. She would do very well as his wife. For a start, she was tall, with a
well-rounded figure, neither svelte nor fleshy but very definitely feminine.
Hair of chesnut brown glowed richly, tendrils escaping from the knot on the top
of her head. Her face, heart-shaped, was particularly arresting, fine-boned and
classical, with a small straight nose, delicately arched brown brows, and a
wide forehead. Her lips were full, a soft blush pink; her eyes, her finest
feature, large, wide-set and long-lashed, were a misty grey. He'd told true
about her chin—it was the only feature that reminded him of her grandsire, not
in shape but in the determination it managed to convey.
    Physically, she was a particularly engaging
proposition—she'd certainly engaged his notoriously fickle interest.
    Equally important, she was uncommonly level-headed,
not given to flaps or starts. That had been clear from the first, when she'd
stood straight and tall, uncowering beneath the weight of the epithets he'd so
freely heaped on her head. Then she'd favored him with a look his mother could
not have bettered and directed him to the matter at hand.
    He'd been impressed by her courage. Instead of
indulging in a fit of hysterics—surely prescribed practice for a gentlewoman finding
a man bleeding to death in her path?—she'd been resourceful and practical. Her
struggle to subdue her fear of the storm hadn't escaped him. He'd done what he
could to distract her; her instantaneous response to his commands—he'd almost
seen her hackles rising—had made distracting her easy enough. Taking his shirt
off hadn't hurt, either.
    His lips twitched; ruthlessly he straightened them.
That, of course, was yet another good reason he should follow fate's advice.
    For the past seventeen years, despite all the
distractions the ton's ladies had lined up to provide, his baser instincts had
remained subject to his will, entirely and absolutely. Honoria Prudence,
however, seemed to have established a direct link to that part of his mind
which, as was the case with any male Cynster, was constantly on the lookout for
likely prospects. It was the hunter in him; the activity did not usually
distract him from whatever else he had in hand. Only when he was ready to
attend to such matters, did he permit that side of his nature to show.
    Today, he had stumbled—more than once—over his lustful
appetites.
    His question over underdrawers was one example, and
while taking off his shirt had certainly distracted her, that fact, in turn,
had also distracted him. He could feel her gaze—another sensitivity he hadn't
been prey to for a very long time. At thirty-two, he'd thought himself immune,
hardened, too experienced to fall victim to his own desires.
    Hopefully, once he'd had Honoria Prudence a few
times—perhaps a few dozen times—the affliction would pass. The fact that she
was Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby's granddaughter, rebellious granddaughter at
that, would be the icing on his wedding cake. Devil savored the thought.
    He hadn't, of course, told her his name. If he