Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  To any female this side of the grave, the view was mouthwatering; she wasn’t the only one drinking it in. With all ducal trappings stripped away, leaving only the man beneath, he looked more overtly earthily sexual than she’d ever seen him.

  She forced herself to look away, to give her attention to the women and keep it there, pretending to be absorbed in their conversation. The quick glances the younger women cast toward the fence broke her resolve—and she found herself looking his way again. Wondering when he’d learned to use a scythe; his effortless swing wasn’t something anyone just picked up.

  Their lunch consumed, the men were talking to him avidly; from their gestures and his, he was engaging in one of his disguised interrogations.

  If anything, she’d increased her assessment of his intelligence, and his ability to garner and catalog facts—and that assessment had already been high. While both were attributes he’d always had, they’d developed significantly over the years.

  In contrast, his ability with children was a skill she never would have guessed he possessed. He certainly hadn’t inherited it; his parents had adhered to the maxim that children should be seen and not heard. Yet when they’d broken for refreshment earlier, Royce had noticed the workers’ children eyeing Sword, not so patiently waiting tied to a nearby post; waving aside their mothers’ recommendations not to let them pester him, he’d walked over and let the children do precisely that.

  He’d answered their questions with a patience she found remarkable in him, then, to everyone’s surprise, he’d mounted and, one by one, taken each child up before him for a short walk.

  The children now thought him a god. Their parents’ estimation wasn’t far behind.

  She knew he’d had little to nothing to do with children; even those of his friends were yet babes in arms. Where he’d learned how to deal with youngsters, let alone acquired the requisite patience, a trait he in the main possessed very little of, she couldn’t imagine.

  Realizing she was still staring, broodingly, at him, she forced her gaze back to the women surrounding her. But their talk couldn’t hold her interest, couldn’t draw her senses, or even her mind, from him.

  All of which ran directly counter to her intentions; out of the castle and surrounded by his workers, she’d thought she’d be safe from his seduction.

  Physically, she’d been correct, but in other ways her attraction to him was deepening and broadening in ways she hadn’t—couldn’t have—foreseen. Worse, the unexpected allure was unintentional, uncalculated. It wasn’t in his nature to radically alter his behavior to impress.

  “Ah, well.” The oldest woman stood. “Time to get back to it if we’re to get all those sheaves stacked before dusk.”

  The other women rose and brushed off their aprons; the men saw, and stowed their mugs and jug, hitched up their trousers, and headed back into the field. Royce went with a group to one of the large drays; seizing the moment, Minerva went to check on Rangonel.

  Satisfied he was comfortable, she headed to where the others were readying an area for the first haystack. Rounding a dray piled with sheaves, she halted—faced with a fascinating sight.

  Royce stood five paces ahead of her, his back to her, looking down at a small girl, no more than five years old, planted directly in his path, nearly tipping backward as she looked all the way up into his face.

  Minerva watched as he smoothly crouched before the girl, and waited.

  Entirely at ease, the girl studied his face with open inquisitiveness. “What’s your name?” she eventually lisped.

  Royce hesitated; Minerva could imagine him sorting through the various answers he could give. But eventually he said, “Royce.”

  The girl tilted her head, frowned as she studied him. “Ma said you were a wolf.”

  Minerva couldn’t resist shifting sideways, trying to see his face. His profile confirmed he was fighting not to smile—wolfishly.

  “My teeth aren’t big enough.”

  The poppet eyed him measuringly, then nodded sagely. “Your snout isn’t long enough, either, and you’re not hairy.”

  Her own lips compressed, Minerva saw his jaw clench, holding back a laugh. After an instant, he nodded. “Very true.”

  The girl reached out, with one small hand clasped two of his fingers. “We should go and help now. You can walk with me. I know how the haystack’s made—I’ll show you.”

  She tugged, and Royce obediently rose.

  Minerva watched as the most powerful duke in all of England allowed a five-year-old poppet to lead him to where his workers had gathered, and blithely instruct him in how to stack sheaves.

  Days passed, and Royce advanced his cause not one whit. No matter what he did, Minerva evaded him at every turn, surrounding herself with either the estate people or the castle’s guests.

  The plays had proved a major success; they now filled the evenings, allowing her to use the company of the other ladies to elude him every night. He’d reached the point of questioning his not exactly rational but unquestionably honorable disinclination to follow her into her room, trampling on her privacy to press his seduction, his suit.

  While playing a long game was his forte, inaction was another matter; lack of progress on any front had always irked.

  Lack of progress on this front positively hurt.

  And today, the entire company had decided to go to church, presumably to atone for the many sins they’d committed. Despite none of those sins being his, he’d felt obliged to attend, too, especially as Minerva had been going, so what else was he to do?

  Wallowing in bed when that bed was otherwise empty—devoid of soft, warm, willing female—had never appealed.

  Seated in the front pew, Minerva beside him, with his sisters beyond her, he let the sermon roll over him, freeing his mind to range where it would—the latest prod to his escalating frustration was its first stop.

  They’d chosen Midsummer Night’s Dream for their play last night—and Minerva had suggested he play Oberon, a chant promptly taken up by the rest of the company in full voice. The twist of fate that had seen her caught by the same company’s brilliant notion that she play Titania, queen to his king, had been, in his opinion, nothing more than her due.

  Given their natures, given the situation, even though their exchanges on stage had been oblique, the palpable tension between them had puzzled a number of their audience.

  That tension, and its inevitable effects, had resulted in another near-sleepless night.

  He slanted a glance to his right, to where she, his fixation, sat, her gaze dutifully trained on Mr. Cribthorn, the vicar, rambling from his pulpit about long-dead Corinthians.

  She knew who and what he was; no one knew him better. Yet she’d deliberately set out to cross swords with him—and thus far she was winning.

  Accepting defeat on any stage had never come easily; his only recent failure had been over bringing to justice the last traitor he and his men knew lurked somewhere in the government. There were some things fate didn’t allow.

  Be that as it may, accepting defeat with Minerva was…entirely beyond his scope. One way or another she was going to be his—his lover first, then his wife.

  Her capitulation on both counts would happen—had to happen—soon. He’d told the grandes dames a week, and that week was nearly past. While he doubted they’d haul themselves all the way back to Northumbria if they didn’t see a notice in the Gazette this coming week, he wouldn’t put it past them to start sending candidates north—in carriages designed to break axles and wheels as they neared Wolverstone’s gates.

  The vicar called the congregation to their feet for the benediction; everyone rose. Subsequently, once the vicar had passed on his way up the aisle, Royce stepped out of the pew, stepped back to let Minerva go ahead of him, then followed, leaving his sisters trailing shawls and reticules in his wake.

  As usual, they were the first out of the church, but he’d noticed one of his more affluent farmers among the worshippers; as they
stepped down to the path, he bent his head close beside Minerva’s. “I want to have a word with Cherry.”

  She glanced back and up at him.

  And time stopped.

  With Margaret and Aurelia distracting the vicar, they were the only two in the churchyard—and they were very close, their lips inches apart.

  Her eyes, rich browns flecked with gold, widened; her breath caught, suspended. Her gaze lowered to his lips.

  His dropped to hers…

  He dragged in a breath and straightened.

  She blinked, and stepped away. “Ah…I must speak with Mrs. Cribthorn, and some of the other ladies.”

  He nodded stiffly, forced himself to turn away. Just as the rest of the congregation came flooding down the steps.

  Searching for Cherry, he set his jaw. Soon. She was going to lie beneath him very soon.

  Minerva let a moment pass while her heart slowed and her breathing evened, then she drew a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and went to speak with the vicar’s wife about the preparations for the fair.

  She was turning from Mrs. Cribthorn when Susannah approached.

  “There you are!” Susannah gestured to where the castle’s guests were piling into various carriages. “We’re heading back—do you want to come, or do you have to wait for Royce?”

  Royce had taken her up in his curricle for the drive to the church. “I…” Can’t possibly leave yet. Minerva swallowed the words. As a recognized representative of the castle, the largest and socially dominant house in the district, it simply wasn’t done to leave without chatting with their neighbors; the locals would see that as a slight. Neither she nor Royce could yet leave, a fact Susannah should have known. “No. I’ll wait.”

  Susannah shrugged, gathering her shawl. “Commendably dutiful—I hope Royce appreciates it, and that you aren’t bored to tears.” With a commiserating grimace, she headed for the carriages.

  Her last comment had been entirely sincere; the late duke’s daughters had adopted their father’s social views. Old Henry had rarely come to church, leaving it to his wife, and later Minerva alone, to carry the castle flag.

  More interesting to Minerva, Susannah’s comments confirmed that, despite the near debacle of last night’s play—she’d thought the lust that had burned in Royce’s eyes, that had resonated beneath the smooth tenor of his voice, the breathlessness that had assailed her, the awareness that had invested her every action, would have utterly given them away—not a single guest had realized that his interest in her had any basis beyond castle business.

  Admittedly, every single guest was distracted on his or her own account.

  That, however, didn’t explain the pervasive blindness. The truth was, regardless of his pursuit of her, Royce had unfailingly ensured that whenever they were not alone, their interaction projected the image of duke and dutiful chatelaine, and absolutely nothing more. All the guests, and even more his sisters, now had that image firmly fixed in their minds, and blithely ignored anything to the contrary.

  Looking over the congregation, she located his dark head. He stood in a group of farmers, most but not all his tenants; as was becoming usual, they were talking and he was listening. Entirely approving, she surveyed the gathering, then went to do her own listening with a group of farmers’ wives.

  She left it to him to find her when he was ready to leave. He eventually did, and allowed her to introduce him to the wife of the local constable, and two other ladies. After suitable words had been exchanged, they made their farewells and he strolled beside her down the path to where Henry waited with the curricle and the by now restive blacks.

  Curious, she glanced at his face. “You seem to be…” She waggled her head. “Unexpectedly amenable to the ‘letting the locals get to know you’ socializing.”

  He shrugged. “I intend to live here for the rest of my life. These are the people I’ll see every day, the ones I’ll be working with, and for. They might want to know more of me, but I definitely need to know more about them.”

  She let him hand her into the curricle. While she settled, she pondered his words. His father—

  She broke off the thought. If there was one thing she should by now have realized it was that he wasn’t like his father when it came to people. His temper, arrogance, and a great deal more, were very familiar, but his attitudes to others were almost universally different. On some aspects—for instance, children—even diametrically opposed.

  They were on the road beyond the village when he said, “Kilworth told me there’s no school in the district, not even at the most elementary level.”

  Timorous Mr. Kilworth, the deacon, would never have mentioned such a matter, not unless asked.

  “I suppose I should have guessed,” he continued, “but it never occurred to me before.”

  She regarded him with something close to fascination—safe enough with his attention focused on his horses as he steered them toward the bridge. “Are you thinking of starting a school here?”

  He flicked her a glance. “I’ve heard talk among other peers—there’s an evolving notion that having better educated workers benefits everyone.”

  And he’d seen a lot of croft and farm children in recent days.

  “I wouldn’t disagree.” His father had—vociferously—when she’d suggested it.

  “Any school shouldn’t be solely for the estate families—it needs to be for the district, so we’d need to recruit wider support, but…” He sent the blacks rocketing across the stone bridge. “I think it’s worthwhile pursuing.”

  As the horses thundered through the big gates and the wheels rolled more smoothly on the drive, he glanced at her. “Write down any thoughts you have.” His eyes rested on hers. “Once I have the matter of my bride settled, we’ll be able to move forward with that.”

  She felt ecstatic on the one hand, unsettled and oddly cast down on the other.

  Minerva was given no time to examine her contradictory feelings; she and Royce walked into the castle as the luncheon gong sounded, then during the meal the idea of a fishing expedition upstream along the Coquet was touted, and instantly found favor with all the men.

  And all the women, although none had any intention of picking up a rod. But the day was fine, sunny with the barest breath of a breeze, and everyone agreed a walk would do them good.

  She was tempted to cry off, to use her duties as an excuse to remain behind and try to untangle her emotions, but Royce paused beside her as the company rose from the table.

  He spoke quietly, for her ears only. “Keep an eye on the ladies—make sure the more adventurous don’t attempt to investigate the gorge.”

  Inwardly cursing, she nodded. It was just the sort of witless thing some of the ladies present might do, and the gorge was dangerous.

  The fishing rods and tackle were stowed in the boathouse by the lake; Royce led the men down to make their choices while the ladies hurried to fetch bonnets, shawls, and parasols.

  From the lake, rods over their shoulders, the men followed the path north along the stream. Feeling like a sheepdog, Minerva marshaled the ladies and herded them along the west and north wings and out along the route to the mill.

  The men were a little way ahead; some ladies called, waved. The men glanced back, waved, but continued walking.

  Among the ladies, Margaret and Caroline Courtney led the way, heads together as they shared secrets. The other ladies walked in twos and threes, chatting as they ambled in the sunshine.

  Minerva kept to the rear, ensuring no stragglers got left behind. The men crossed the bridge over the race; the ladies followed.

  After passing the mill, the twin parties reached the end of the race where it came off the gorge, and turned north along the gorge. Minerva did, indeed, have to dissuade three ladies from descending into the gorge to investigate the rock pools. “I know you can’t tell from up here, but the rocks are terribly slippery, and the stretches of water are treacherously deep.”

  She pointed to where th
e river ran strongly, gushing and churning over its rocky bed. “There’s been rain on the Cheviots over the last weeks—the currents will be surprisingly strong. That’s the biggest danger if you fall in—that you’ll be dashed to death on the rocks.”

  In her experience, it never hurt to be specific; the ladies “oh”-ed and readily walked on.

  The men drew ahead; the ladies loitered, pointing to this, examining that, but nevertheless drifting in the right direction. Minerva fell back, ambling even more slowly in her shepherdess role. Finally she had a moment to think.

  Not that her thoughts were all that clear.

  She was thrilled Royce wanted to establish a school in the village; she would cheer him on in that. More, she felt strangely proud of him, that he—a Varisey in so many ways—had thought of it on his own. She felt distinctly vindicated over encouraging him to turn from his father’s example and forge his own way, follow his own inclinations; they were proving very sound.

  But she wouldn’t be around to see the outcome—and that galled her. Disappointment, dejection, dragged her down, as if some prize she’d worked for and deserved was, by fate’s fickle decree, to be denied her. More, was to be granted to another, who wouldn’t appreciate it given she wouldn’t know him.

  His bride still remained unnamed, and therefore nebulous; she couldn’t fix a face on the female, so couldn’t direct her anger at her.

  Couldn’t resent her.

  She halted at the thought.

  Shocked by the unhappy emotion she’d just put a name to.

  Nonsensical, she chided herself; she’d always known his bride would arrive one day—and that, soon after, she’d leave.

  Leave the place she called home.

  Lips firming, she thrust the thought away. The others had wandered far ahead; they’d reached the end of the gorge and were continuing on, following the river path into more open meadows. Lifting her head, drawing in a deep breath, she lengthened her stride and set out to catch them up.

  No more thinking allowed.