Royce humphed, and got out of the bed. “I will, of course, wish to know anything and everything you learn that might be pertinent. I take it you know her maid?”
Folding Royce’s waistcoat, Trevor smiled. “A young person by the name of Lucy, Your Grace.”
Belting his robe, Royce narrowed his eyes on that smile. “A word to the wise. I might bed the mistress, but you’d be ill-advised to try the same with the maid. She’ll have your balls on a stick—the mistress, not the maid. And in the circumstances, I’d have to let her.”
Trevor’s eyes opened wide. “I’ll bear that in mind, Your Grace. Now, do you wish to shave?”
Minerva awoke when Lucy, her maid, came bustling into the room.
After leaving Royce, she’d slipped back to her room without seeing anyone; she’d undressed, put on her nightgown, brushed out her tangled hair, got into bed—and to her surprise had fallen deeply asleep.
She yawned, stretched—and felt twinges where she never had before. She watched Lucy open the curtains, then shake out her gown; when Lucy turned to the armoire, she surreptitiously peeked down the front of her nightgown.
She blinked, then looked across the room. “The black with the buttons up the front, Lucy. Just leave it over the chair. I’ll get up shortly, but you don’t need to wait. I can manage that gown by myself.”
And innocent Lucy didn’t need to see the telltale marks on her breasts. She didn’t want to think what she might discover farther down.
“I’ve brought up your washing water. Do you need me for anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you, Lucy. You can go and have your breakfast.”
“Thank you, miss.” With a cheery smile and a bobbed curtsy, Lucy took herself off. The door closed behind her.
Minerva exhaled, sank deeper into the mattress, and let her thoughts range over the previous night, and its entirely unexpected events. That Royce would act so directly—and that she would respond so definitely—had never entered her head. But he had, and she had, so where were they now?
She’d always assumed he’d be a vigorous lover. In that, he’d exceeded her expectations; her untutored self had never even imagined much of what, at his hands, she had now experienced. Yet despite her inexperience, she knew him—she hadn’t missed the hunger, the real need that had had him carting her off to his bed, that had driven him as he’d ravished her.
Possessed her.
Repeatedly.
When she’d woken before dawn, just as, from behind, he’d filled her, and proceeded to demonstrate yet another way he could possess her—her body, her senses, and her mind—utterly and completely, with his lips in the hollow below her ear rather than on hers, she, her senses, had been freer to absorb the nuances of his loving.
That he wanted her, desired her, she accepted without question.
That that want ran deep, she now understood.
She’d never imagined being the focus of that degree of desire, having so much male passion concentrated on her; the recollection sent a delicious shiver through her. She couldn’t deny she’d found it deeply satisfying; she’d be lying if she pretended she wouldn’t be happy to lie with him again.
If he asked, which he would. He wasn’t, she knew, finished with her; that had been explicit in their final moments that morning.
Thank God she’d had sufficient wit to seize the chance and make it plain that she neither expected nor wanted to receive an offer from him.
She hadn’t forgotten that other offer he was due to make—to the lady he’d chosen as his duchess. Not knowing if he’d made a formal offer yet, she’d needed to ensure he wouldn’t, in some Machiavellian moment, decide to use her virginity—the taking of it—as cause to marry her instead.
While he’d toed the grandes dames’ line, he wasn’t happy about it; he might well seize an opportunity to take a different tack. And to him, marrying her might be preferable to having to deal with some unknown young lady who would know very little about him.
She—Minerva—would be a more comfortable choice.
She didn’t need to think to know her response to that. He would be a sound husband to any lady who accepted the loveless partnership he would offer; just as long as said lady didn’t expect love or fidelity, all would be well.
For herself, love, real and abiding, was the only coin for which she would exchange her heart. Extensive experience of Varisey unions had bolstered her stance; their type of marriage was not for her. Avoiding, if necessary actively resisting, any suggestion of marrying Royce remained an unaltered, unalterable goal; nothing on that front had changed.
And, to her immense relief, spending the night in his bed hadn’t seduced her heart into loving him; her feelings toward him hadn’t changed all that much—or only on the lust side, not in terms of love.
Thinking of how she now felt about him…she frowned. Despite her resistance, she did feel something more for him—unexpected feelings that had developed since his return. Feelings that had driven her panic of yesterday, when she’d thought he would die.
Those new feelings had grown through seeing him with his people, from his attitudes and actions toward those he deemed in his care. From all the decisions and acts that distinguished him so definitively from his father. The physical pleasure he’d introduced her to hadn’t influenced her as much as all those things.
Yet while he might differ from his father in many ways, when it came to his wife and his marriage, he would revert to type. He’d demonstrated as much in his approach to his prospective bride.
If she let herself be bullied into marrying him, she would risk falling in love with him—irrevocably, irretrievably—and then like Caro Lamb she would pine, wither, and eventually go mad when he, not at all in love with her, left her for another. As he inevitably would.
She wasn’t so foolish as to believe that she might, through loving him, change him. No; if she married him, he, indeed everyone, would expect her to stand meekly by while he indulged as he wished with an endless succession of other ladies.
She snorted, threw back the covers, and swung her legs out of bed. “That’s not going to happen.”
No matter what she felt for him, regardless of what evolved from her infatuation-obsession, no matter what new aspects of attraction developed over the however many nights she might spend in his bed, she would not fall in love with him, ergo she wouldn’t marry him.
At least they were both now very clear on that last point.
Standing, she crossed to the basin and pitcher on her dresser; pouring water into the basin, she let her thoughts range ahead. As matters now stood…
Setting down the pitcher, she stared at the settling water as the immediate future cleared in her mind.
Of necessity her liaison with Royce would be short-lived— he would marry soon, and soon after, she would leave. A few days, a week. Two weeks at most.
Too short a time to fall in love.
Slipping her hands into the bowl, she splashed water on her face, feeling increasingly bright. More alert and expectant, almost intrigued over what the day might bring—reassured and confident that there was no reason she couldn’t indulge with him again.
The risk wasn’t significant. Her heart would be safe.
Safe enough so she could enjoy without a care.
By evening, expectation had turned to impatience. Minerva sat in the music room, ostensibly watching yet another of Shakespeare’s plays while she brooded on the shortcomings of her day.
A perfectly ordinary day, filled with nothing more than the customary events—which was the problem. She’d thought…but she’d been wrong.
Royce had summoned her to his study for their usual morning meeting with Handley; other than a fleeting moment when she’d walked into the room and their eyes had met—and he and she had both paused, both, she suspected, suddenly reminded of how the other’s skin had felt against theirs…but then he’d blinked, looked down, and she’d walked forward and sat, and he’d subsequently treated her
exactly as he had the previous day.
She’d followed his lead, then and later, as they’d parted, then met again, throughout the day, confident that at some point they would meet privately…but she was no longer so sure that would happen. She’d never engaged in a liaison before; she didn’t know the script.
He did, but he was seated two rows in front of her, chatting to Caroline Courtney, who had claimed the chair beside him.
Under cover of the dinner conversations, he’d asked her if Cranny still kept stocks of the chicken essence she’d used to administer to them when they’d suffered childhood chills. She hadn’t been sure, but when he’d suggested they send a bottle to the Honeymans for their daughter, she’d detoured to see the housekeeper before joining the company in the music room, thus missing her chance to sit next to him.
Narrowing her eyes on the back of his head, she wished she could see inside. What was he thinking? Specifically, what was he thinking about her? Was he thinking about her?
Or had one night been enough?
The more confident part of her brazenly scoffed, but a more vulnerable part wondered.
At the end of the play, she clapped politely, caught Royce’s eye for an instant, then excused herself and retired, leaving Margaret to manage the tea tray. She could do without spending the next half hour surrounded by the lascivious throng with him in the same room, aware of his gaze occasionally resting on her, fighting to keep hers from him—while every inch of her skin prickled with anticipation.
Reaching her room, willing her mind from the question of “Would he?” she stripped off her clothes, donned her nightgown, shrugged on her robe, then rang for Lucy.
She had a set of faint marks at the top of one thigh that was beyond her ability to explain.
Seated at her dressing table, she was brushing out her hair when Lucy breezed in.
“You’re early tonight, ma’am.” Lucy bent to pick up her gown. “Didn’t you enjoy the play?”
She pulled a face. “They’re becoming rather boring—just as well the fair’s next week or I’d have to devise some other entertainment.” She glanced at Lucy as the maid bustled to the armoire. “Did you learn anything?”
Opening the armoire, Lucy shook her dark head. “Mr. Handley’s a quiet one—he’s kind and smiles, but he’s not one to talk. And of course he sits at the top end of the table. Trevor’s closer to me, and he’s a right chatterer, but although he natters on, he never really says anything, if you know what I mean.”
“I can imagine.” She hadn’t really thought Royce would employ staff who didn’t keep his secrets.
“The only thing any of us have got out of the pair of them is that His Grace is still negotiating with this lady he’s chosen.” Shutting the armoire, Lucy turned. “Not even a whisper and nary a hint of who the lady is. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until we’re told.”
“Indeed.” She inwardly grimaced.
Lucy turned down the bed, then returned and halted beside her. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you, Lucy—you may go.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Good night.”
Minerva murmured a “Good night,” her mind once again running down the names on the grandes dames’ list. Which one had Royce chosen? One of those she knew?
She was tempted to ask him outright—it would help if she knew how well-trained his duchess-to-be was so she would know how much she herself would need to impart before said duchess could manage on her own. The thought of handing her chatelaine’s keys to some giggling ninnyhammer evoked a response very close to revulsion.
Rising, she snuffed the candelabra on the dressing table, leaving only the single candle burning by her bed. Drawing her robe closed, she belted it as she walked to the window.
If Royce wished to spend the night with her, he would come to her room; she might not have indulged in a liaison before, but she knew that much.
He would come. Or he wouldn’t.
Perhaps he’d heard from the family of the lady for whom he’d offered.
Crossing her arms, she looked out at the night-shrouded landscape.
And waited.
And wondered.
“Royce!”
Halting under the archway leading into the keep’s gallery, Royce let his head fall back, eyes closing in frustration.
That had been Margaret’s voice; he could hear her rus tling and puffing as she toiled up the main stairs behind him, along with some other lady.
Taking a firmer grip on his temper, he turned, and saw that Aurelia was Margaret’s companion. “Wonderful.”
The muttered sarcasm reached Margaret as she bustled up, but only confused her. He waved aside her puzzled look. “What is it?”
She halted a pace away, glanced at Aurelia as she joined her, then, hands gripped before her, looked at him. “We wanted to ask if you would be agreeable to us inviting some others up for the fair.”
“It used to be one of the highlights of our year when we lived here.” Aurelia lifted her chin, her cold eyes fixing on his face. “We would like your permission to hold a house party, like Mama used to.”
He looked from one hard, arrogantly aristocratic face to the other; he knew what those simple words had cost them. To have to ask their little brother, of whom they’d always disapproved, for permission to hold a party in their childhood home.
His first impulse was to tell them he’d rather all the visitors left—freeing him to pursue Minerva through the day as well as the night. But no matter his view of his sisters, this was their childhood home and he didn’t feel justified in barring them from it—which meant having others about was necessary for cover, and to distract them.
Neither Margaret nor Aurelia was at all observant, and while Susannah was more so, not even she had yet divined the nature of his interest in Minerva. She was his chatelaine; they assumed that was the reason behind every word he and she exchanged.
Aurelia had grown restless. “We’d thought to ask no more than ten extra—those already here will stay.”
“If you allow it,” Margaret hurriedly added.
Aurelia’s thin lips pressed together; she inclined her head. “Indeed. We thought…”
Tempting as it was to let them do more violence to their feelings, he’d much rather listen to Minerva gasping, sobbing, and moaning. He spoke over Aurelia. “Very well.”
“You agree?” Margaret asked.
“Keep it within reason—nothing more than Mama used to do.”
“Oh, we will.” Aurelia’s eyes lit, her face softening.
He didn’t want to feel the spark of pity that flared as he looked at them; they were married, had position, houses, and families, yet still they were searching for…happiness. Nodding curtly, he turned on his heel. “Speak with Retford, then tell Minerva what you want to do. I’ll warn her.”
His sisters’ thanks faded behind him as he strode into the keep proper.
Anticipation mounting, he headed for his rooms.
When, more than an hour later, he closed his hand about the knob of Minerva’s door, frustration was riding him hard. He’d assumed she’d left the gathering early so she could slip into his rooms unseen; he’d expected to find her there, in his bed, waiting. As he’d walked through his sitting room, the image he’d expected to see had filled his mind…
Instead, for some misbegotten reason, she’d retired to her bed. Turning the knob, he stepped quickly inside and shut the door. She was leaning against the side of the window; arms folded, she’d been looking out at the night.
As he crossed the room, she pushed away from the window frame, with one hand pushed back the heavy fall of her hair, then delicately smothered a yawn. “I thought you’d be up earlier.”
He halted before her; hands rising to his hips, he looked down at her. She appeared faintly tousled, her lids already heavy. He wanted nothing more than to haul her into his arms, but…“I was up earlier.” He spoke quietly, but his tone made her blink. “I expecte
d to find you gracing my bed. But you weren’t there. Then I had to wait for all the others to go to their beds before I came here. I thought I’d made it plain which bed we’d be using.”
She’d straightened; she narrowed her eyes on his. “That was last night. Correct me if I err”—her diction attained the same cutting precision as his—“but when engaged in an illicit liaison, it’s customary for the gentleman to join the lady in her room. In her bed.” She glanced at her bed, then looked pointedly at him.
Lips thinning, he held her gaze, then nodded curtly. “Perhaps. In this case, however—” He stepped smoothly around her and swept her up in his arms.
She gasped, clutched his coat, but didn’t bother asking where he was taking her as he strode for the door.
He juggled her, reached for the knob.
“Wait! Someone might see.”
“They’re all in bed. Someone’s bed.” Enjoying themselves. “They won’t be playing musical beds just yet.” He grasped the knob.
“But I’ll have to get back here in the morning! I never wander the corridors in just my robe.”
He glanced around, and saw the coat stand in the corner. He carried her to it. “Get your cloak.”
She did. Before she could raise any further objections he whisked her out of the door and strode across the wide gallery, then down the short corridor to his apartments. Deep shadows cloaked them all the way; he thought she sniffed as he heeled his sitting room door shut behind them, then carried her into his bedroom.
To his bed.
He dropped her on the crimson-and-gold counterpane, then looked down at her.
Narrow-eyed, she frowned at him. “Why is it so important we use your bed?”
“Because that’s where I want you.” Absolute truth—for once primitive instinct coincided with good strategy.
She heard his conviction. Opened her eyes wide. “Why for heaven’s sake?”
Because she belonged there. As far as his primitive self was concerned, there was no question of that, and using his bed would subliminally underscore how he thought of her, what her true role vis-à-vis himself was—one front in his campaign to impress that true role on her. The usual events of castle life would further advance his cause, but the day had been unhelpfully quiet; he’d taken steps to ensure tomorrow would be different. Meanwhile…
Mastered by Love Page 26
