Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  All three were indulging in affairs under his roof—Aurelia and Susannah with two of his cousins, Margaret with the husband of one of her “friends,” who was helpfully otherwise engaged with another of his cousins.

  Luckily, he wasn’t, wouldn’t be held to be, responsible in any way for them, their sins, or their marriages. For the moment, at least, they could do as they pleased; they—his sisters, cousins, and their assorted friends—would provide cover for his pursuit of his chatelaine.

  For that, he would tolerate them, at least for now. He was easy enough in their company; he could interact with them or ignore them as he chose.

  Some had mentioned staying for the Alwinton Fair, a few weeks away. It was a highlight of the local year; their mother had often hosted house parties coinciding with the event. As he glanced around, noting bright eyes, flushed cheeks, and meaningful looks, it seemed his sisters and cousins were intent on recapturing those youthful, more carefree times.

  He, in contrast, was intent on capturing Minerva. With luck, the fair and the company would distract his sisters from any further misplaced interest in his affairs.

  Despite the frustration he’d recently endured having been to no real purpose, that frustration was still continuing. Not, however, for long. He’d forced himself to toe her line through a few hours of her company, discussing the mill and other estate matters—lulling her into a sense of safety.

  Into believing she was safe with him. From him.

  Nothing could be further from the truth, at least not with respect to their current point of contention. She was going to land in his bed—naked—sooner or later; he was intent on ensuring it was the former that applied.

  He located her at the center of a group by the fireplace; she still wore her weeds, as did his sisters, but the other female guests had switched to gowns of lavender or gray. Minerva still shone like a beacon to him. He prowled through the guests, heading her way.

  Minerva saw him coming; continuing to smile at Phillip Debraigh, who was entertaining the group with a tale, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths, and a firmer grip on her composure. Royce had, without argument, behaved precisely as she’d stipulated for the rest of the morning and all the afternoon, adhering to both the letter and intent of her dictate. There was no reason to imagine he’d suddenly change tack…

  Except that she couldn’t bring herself to believe that he would meekly accept her dismissal and fall in with her specified line.

  Which was why she tensed, lungs tightening, when he neared. Phillip ended his tale and excused himself, drifting off to join another group. The circle shuffled, adjusted, as Royce came to stand by her side.

  He greeted the others with his customary, coolly urbane air; last of all, he looked at her—and smiled.

  Pure wolf. That he planned something was patently clear from the expression in his dark eyes.

  Lips lightly curved, she inclined her head serenely in reply.

  One of the other ladies launched into the latest ton story.

  Nerves flickering, her lungs too tight, Minerva seized the moment to murmur, “If you’ll excuse me…” She stepped back—

  Halted, nerves leaping, as long, hard fingers closed—gently, yet with underlying strength—about her elbow.

  Royce turned with her, one dark brow arching. “Whither away?”

  Away from him. She looked across the room. “I should see if Margaret needs anything.”

  “I thought, as my chatelaine, you’re supposed to remain by my side.”

  “If you need me.”

  “I definitely need you.”

  She didn’t dare look at his face. His tone was bad enough; the tenor of his deep voice sent a shivery tingle skating down her spine. “Well, then, you should probably speak with those cousins you’ve spent least time with. Henry and Arthur, for instance.”

  Releasing her, he waved her forward. “Lead on.” He paced beside her as she glided through the guests toward the group with whom the two youngest Variseys present were standing. As they neared, he murmured, “Just don’t try to slip away from me.”

  The undisguised warning had her plastering on a smile, engaging Henry and Arthur, and dutifully remaining beside Royce as they conversed.

  She quickly realized why he’d appeared in the drawing room the full regulation half hour before dinner—so he could use the time to torture her with a thousand little touches. Nothing more than the polite, unremarkable, customary gestures a gentleman bestowed on a lady—his grip on her elbow, a touch on her arm, the sensation of his hand hovering at the back of her waist…then touching, lightly steering—burning.

  Her pulse leapt every time; when Retford at last appeared to announce dinner, she was wishing she’d brought down her fan. Under cover of the butler’s stentorian announcement, she glanced at Royce, narrowed her eyes. Although his impassive mien didn’t soften, with his eyes he managed to convey an expression of supreme innocence.

  She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You haven’t been innocent since birth.”

  He smiled—a gesture that, for her, didn’t bode well—and took her arm.

  Desperately tamping down her reaction, she indicated a lady across the room. “You should lead Caroline Courtney in.”

  “Lady Courtney can find her own partner. This is not a formal dinner.” He looked down at her, his dark gaze suggestive. “I’d much rather lead you.”

  He deliberately omitted the “in,” leaving her to supply the context—something the less sensible part of her mind was only too happy to do. Damn it. Damn him.

  Reaching the dining table at the head of the line, he sat her to the left of his great chair. As he took his seat, she grasped the chance provided by the scrape of other chairs to murmur, “This ploy of yours won’t work.” She caught his eye. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

  He held her gaze, let a heartbeat pass, then slowly raised one brow. “Oh?”

  She looked away, inwardly berating herself. She knew better than to fling gauntlets his way.

  Predictably, he picked hers up.

  She’d thought she would be reasonably safe at the table—the numbers had reduced so they weren’t sitting overly close—but she quickly learned that he didn’t need to physically touch her to affect her.

  All he needed to do was fix his gaze on her mouth as she supped her soup, or as she closed her lips about a delicate fish dumpling; how he could communicate lascivious thoughts with just a glance from his dark eyes she didn’t know, but he could.

  She sat back, cleared her throat, reached for her wineglass. Took a sip, felt his gaze on her lips, then felt it lower as she swallowed…as if he were tracking the liquid as it slid down her throat, traveled down inside her chest…

  Desperate, she turned to the gentleman—Gordon Varisey—sitting on her other side, but he was engrossed in a discussion with Susannah. Across the table, Caroline, Lady Courtney, was more interested in making eyes at Phillip Debraigh than in distracting her host.

  “Is my ploy working yet?”

  The soft, taunting words slipped past her ear like a caress; turning to face Royce as he sat back in his chair, wineglass in hand, she fought to quell a reactive shiver, and didn’t entirely succeed.

  Her only consolation was that no one else seemed to have noticed the subtle battle being waged at the head of the table. That being so…she narrowed her eyes on his, succinctly stated, “Go to the devil.”

  His lips curved in an entirely genuine—devastatingly attractive—smile. His gaze locked with hers, he raised his wineglass, sipped. “I expect I will.”

  She looked away; she didn’t need to see the sheen of red wine on the mobile lips she’d spent a good portion of her girlhood dreaming about. She reached for her wineglass.

  Just as he added, “If nothing else for what I’m imagining doing to you.”

  Her fingers missed the glass bowl, bobbled the long stem; the wineglass tipped—He caught it, his left hand reaching over hers, then curling over it as he presse
d the stem into her all but nerveless fingers.

  His hand rested, hard and strong, over hers, until she gripped the glass, then he withdrew his hand slowly, his fingers stroking over her hand and knuckles.

  Her lungs had seized long ago.

  He shifted, using the movement to lean closer and murmur, “Breathe, Minerva.”

  She did, hauling in a huge breath—refusing to notice that as he sat back, his gaze lowered to her breasts, half exposed by her evening gown.

  She was ready to do murder by the time the meal ended. Rising with the other ladies, she followed Margaret to the drawing room.

  Royce wasn’t going to let her be. She’d been chased by gentlemen—even noblemen—before; any man but he and she would have simply stood her ground, confident of her ability to trump whatever move he made, but she knew her limits. She needed to escape while she could. He would lead the gentlemen back to rejoin the ladies all too soon.

  Reaching the drawing room, the ladies filed in; she paused just inside the door, waiting until the others settled. She’d speak with Margaret, then—

  “There you are.” Susannah slipped her arm through hers and drew her toward the side of the room. “I wanted to ask”—Susannah leaned close—“whether you have any idea which lady Royce is corresponding with?”

  She frowned. “Corresponding?”

  “He said he’d make an announcement once the lady he’d chosen agreed.” Halting, Susannah fixed her eyes—a lighter brown than her brother’s—on Minerva’s face. “So I presume he’s asking her, and as she’s not here, I assume he must have written to her.”

  “Ah, I see. I haven’t seen him write any letter, but then he uses Handley for most of his correspondence, so I wouldn’t necessarily know.” Much to her relief, especially in this matter.

  “Handley?” Susannah tapped her lips with one fingertip, then slanted a glance Minerva’s way. “I haven’t met him, but perhaps he might be persuaded to divulge what he knows?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother trying. Aside from all else, he’ll tell Royce.” She hesitated, then added, “In fact, all Royce’s personal staff are utterly devoted. You won’t find any who’ll discuss his private affairs.”

  Including her.

  Susannah sighed. “I suppose we’ll learn the truth soon enough.”

  “Indeed.” She patted Susannah’s arm as she drew hers free. “I have to speak with Margaret.”

  Susannah nodded and strolled off to join some others while Minerva headed for Margaret, enthroned in state on the chaise facing the hearth.

  Susannah was right; Royce must have sent some communication to the lady he’d chosen as his duchess—a point she shouldn’t have forgotten. In typical Varisey fashion, while waiting for his bride to agree to be his, he was intent on bedding his chatelaine.

  If she needed any reminder of the unwisdom of letting him seduce her, recalling that she would learn any day who would be his duchess should help bolster her resolution.

  She really didn’t want to know; the thought curdled her stomach.

  Refocusing on her plans to stay out of his arms, and out of his bed, she paused beside Margaret. “I have a headache,” she lied. “Can you do the honors with the tea tray?”

  “Yes, of course.” Looking more relaxed than when her husband had been there, Margaret waved her away. “You should tell Royce not to work you so hard, dear. You need time for some distraction.”

  Minerva smiled and headed for the door; she understood perfectly what “distraction” Margaret was recommending—precisely the sort her brother had in mind. Variseys!

  She didn’t dally; she didn’t trust Royce not to cut the men’s drinking short, and under some pretext return to the drawing room early. Slipping out of the room, she went into the front hall, then quickly climbed the main stairs.

  There was no one about. She heard no rumble of male voices; the gentlemen must still be in the dining room. Relieved, she walked into the keep, hesitated, debating, then headed for the duchess’s morning room. It was too early for sleep, and her embroidery frame was there.

  The morning room had been the late duchess’s personal domain; her daughters had only intruded when invited. Since her death, they hadn’t set foot there. Variseys had little interest in the dead; they never clung to memories.

  That had suited Minerva. Over the last three years, the room had become her own.

  Presumably it would remain so—until the next duchess arrived.

  Opening the door, she went in. The room lay in darkness, but she knew it well. She walked toward the table that stood along the back of the nearer sofa, paused, then returned to the door and locked it. No sense taking any chances.

  Smiling to herself, she strolled to the sofa table, set her hand on the tinderbox, and lit the lamp. The wick flared; she waited until it burned steadily, then set the glass in place, adjusted the flame—and suddenly felt—knew—that she wasn’t alone…raising her gaze from the lamp, she looked—

  At Royce, sitting at his negligent ease on the sofa opposite. Watching her.

  “What are you doing here?” The words left her lips as her panicking mind assessed her options.

  “Waiting for you.”

  She’d locked the door. Looking into his eyes, so dark, his gaze intent and unwavering, she knew that despite him being on the farther sofa, if she tried to reach the door, he’d be there ahead of her. “Why?”

  Keeping him talking seemed her only option.

  Assuming, of course, that he would oblige.

  He didn’t. Instead, he slowly rose. “Helpful of you to lock the door.”

  “I wasn’t trying to help you.” She watched him walk toward her, tamped down her flaring panic, reminded herself it was pointless to run. One did not turn and flee from a predator.

  He rounded the sofa, and she swung to face him. He halted before her, looked into her face—as if studying it, her features, as if memorizing the details. “What you said—about me not kissing you again?”

  She tensed. “What about it?”

  His lips lifted fractionally. “I didn’t agree.”

  She waited, beyond tense, for him to reach for her, to kiss her again, but he didn’t. He stood looking down at her, watching her, his dark gaze intent, as if this were some game and it was her move.

  Trapped in his gaze, she sensed heat stirring, rising between them; desperate, she searched for some way to distract him. “What about your bride? You’re supposed to be arranging an announcement as we speak.”

  “I’m negotiating. Meanwhile…” He stepped forward; instinctively she stepped back. “I’m going to kiss you again.”

  That was what she was afraid of. He took another step, and she backed again.

  “In fact,” he murmured, closing the distance between them, “I’m going to kiss you more than just once, or even twice. And not just now, but later—whenever I feel like it.”

  Another step forward from him, another back for her.

  “I intend to make a habit of kissing you.”

  She quickly took another step back as he continued to advance.

  His gaze lowered to her lips, then flicked up to her eyes. “I’m going to spend a great deal of time savoring your lips, your mouth. And then…”

  Her back hit the wall. Startled, she raised her hands to hold him off.

  Smoothly, he caught them, one in each of his, and took one last step. Pinning her hands to the wall on either side of her head, he lowered his and looked into her eyes. Held her gaze relentlessly from a distance of mere inches.

  “After that”—his voice had lowered to a senses-caressing purr—“I’m going to spend even more time savoring the rest of you. All of you. Every inch of skin, every hollow, every curve. I’m going to know you infinitely better than you know yourself.”

  She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.

  “I’m going to know you intimately.” He savored the word. “I intend to explore you until there’s nothing left to lea
rn—until I know what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you scream. Then I’ll make you do all three. Frequently.”

  Her spine was plastered to the wall; he wasn’t leaning into her—yet—but with his arms raised, his coat had fallen open; there was barely an inch separating his chest and her breasts—and she could feel his heat. All down the front of her, she could feel his nearness, the beckoning hardness.

  Everything her wanton self needed for relief.

  But…She swallowed, forced herself to hold his gaze, lifted her chin. “Why are you telling me this?”

  His lips quirked. His gaze lowered, fastened on her lips. “Because I thought it only fair that you know.”

  She forced a laugh. A breathless one. “Variseys never play fair—I’m not sure you ‘play’ at all.”

  His lips twisted. “True.” His gaze drifted back to her eyes.

  She caught it. “So why did you tell me?”

  One brow lifted devilishly. “Because I intend to seduce you, and I thought that might help. Is it working?”

  “No.”

  He smiled then, slowly, his eyes locked on hers. He shifted one hand, turned it so, when she followed his sideways glance, she saw he had the tips of his long fingers clamped over the veins at her wrist.

  “Your pulse says otherwise.”

  His absolute unshakable arrogance set spark to her temper. Swinging her gaze back to his face, she narrowed her eyes on his. “You are the most ruthless, conceited, diabolical—”

  He cut her off, his lips closing on hers, drinking in her temper—diverting it with ruthless, diabolical efficiency into something even hotter.

  Something that melted her bones, that she fought, but couldn’t contain; the molten heat erupted and flooded through her, consuming intentions, inhibitions, all reservations.

  Eradicating all good sense.

  Leaving only hunger—blatant, explicit, ruthlessly seeking succor—in its wake.