Toeing off his shoes, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossed both aside, then grasped her slender ankles and drew her toward him until her knees were at the edge of the bed. Leaving her calves and feet dangling, he caged her legs between his and leaned over her; setting his hands palms flat on either side of her shoulders, he trapped her widening eyes. “Because I want you here, naked in my bed, every night from now on. And I always get what I want.”
She opened her mouth, but he had no interest in further discussion. He swooped and covered her lips with his, captured them, tasted them long and lingeringly, then dove into her waiting mouth.
Gloried in the welcome she was helpless to deny him; no matter what she thought, she was already his. Yet he found himself spending longer than he’d expected hotly wrestling for supremacy; despite her inexperience, she boldly challenged him, even though this was one battleground on which she could never hope to stand against him. Ruthlessly deploying skills he’d honed over decades, he drew forth her desire, lured her senses to him, then shackled them, subdued them, suborned them to his will.
So they were his to wield.
Only then did he ease back from the passion-laden exchange enough to shift his weight to one arm; with his other hand he grasped the tie of her robe.
Minerva couldn’t believe how desperate she was—couldn’t believe he’d so effortlessly reduced her to such a state of wanton yearning, where desire, hot and urgent, flowed swiftly down her veins, where passion spread beneath her skin, and smoldered more deeply within her.
Waiting to erupt, pour forth, and sweep her away.
She needed to feel his hands on her skin—needed to feel his body on hers.
Needed, with an urgent desperation she couldn’t fathom, to feel him inside her, linked and joined with her.
And that need wasn’t his; it was hers.
And it felt glorious.
Glorious to give herself up to the heat, to without reservation, or hesitation, wriggle and help him strip away her robe, help his clever hands divest her of her nightgown.
And then she lay naked on his brocaded bed—and she suddenly sensed one reason behind his insistence that he have her there.
She knew what sort of nobleman he really was—knew the impulses of a marcher lord still ran in his veins. Knew, sensed, had always on some level recognized the primitive sexual possessiveness and predatoriness that was an innate part of him. Unwrapped like a present, displayed naked on his bed, offered up for his delectation, his to use in whatever manner he wished…a subtle shiver wracked her—one part wholly feminine fear, the rest illicit excitement.
He sensed her awareness through the kiss, felt that evocative shiver; he closed one hand about her hip, anchoring her, his thumb cruising the sensitive skin of her stomach. His touch seared, branded; she knew he would brand her even more deeply before the night was out. That he intended just that.
Her breath hitched. Anticipation and a strange, unfamiliar need clashed, then washed, tumbling and jumbling, through her.
Leaning closer, he released her hip, coming down on one elbow to anchor her head between his large hands as he kissed her deeply, voraciously, ravenously, snaring her wits in a maelstrom of sensation. She had to engage with him; he gave her no option. Had to respond, to meet the challenge of his tongue, of his lips, of the hot wetness of his mouth.
Locked with her in the kiss, he speared his fingers into her hair, spread and drew them away from her head, letting the long tresses flow through his fingers, leaving them fanned to either side.
He seemed as fascinated with the silky texture of her locks as she was with his; instinctively she’d sunk her hands into his hair, feathering the dark silk with her fingers.
His body was close; hers sensed it and reacted, need swelling like a warm wave within, the rising tide a solid beat in her veins. His heat was near, yet muted by his clothes; he still had his shirt and trousers on.
She drew her hands from his hair, slid them down the long column of his throat, splayed her palms over his chest and ran them down until she could grip handfuls of his shirt and tug it free of his waistband. Succeeding, she ran her hands up under the loose fabric, palms and fingers greedy for the incomparable feel of his skin, hot and taut over the heavy ridges and planes of his magnificent chest.
All but purring, she let her senses feast; had she the time, she could have savored for hours, but that complex, complicated, increasingly urgent need pressed her on. Pressed her to run her hands down to his waistband, to find and release the buttons there.
She slipped only one free before he broke from the kiss, smoothly shifting to catch her hands, one in each of his.
“Later.” He murmured the word against her throat, then set his lips to trace the arching line.
Hot, urgent, his mouth fired her senses. With nipping pecks, he captured her attention, effortlessly held it as with openmouthed kisses he branded her skin. Here, there, as he would.
She was heated and panting when he reached her breasts.
She was writhing and frantic when, after expertly claiming them, he moved on, his wicked lips trailing lower to explore her navel, then lower still, to the apex of her thighs.
By the time he drew back, grasped her knees and spread them wide, she was far beyond all modesty; she wanted nothing more than to feel him there, for him to take her, possess her, however he wished.
She felt his gaze on her face. Heated beyond measure, she sensed his command, hauled in a tight breath and cracked open her lids. Enough for him to catch her gaze, for her to see the dark promise in the depths of his eyes, then he looked down, at her body, displayed, wantonly wet and eager, slick and swollen, all but begging. For him.
Then he bent, set his mouth to her flesh and ripped every sense she possessed away, ruthlessly took all she offered, all she had in her—then demanded more.
She sobbed and helplessly gave; as the second wave of unimaginable glory crashed through her veins, she screamed his name.
Even through the heated clouds of her release, she sensed his satisfaction.
Felt it in the touch of his hands as he rose, grasped her hips, and rolled her onto her stomach. He half lifted, half drew her toward him until her hips rested on the edge of the high mattress.
Awash in sensation, her skin flushed and damp, her wits still in abeyance, she wondered what…how…
He slid into her from behind, deep, then he pressed even deeper. She shuddered, gasped, felt her fingers close in the rumpled brocade cover. He gripped her hips and shifted her, positioned her, then he drew back, almost free of her clinging sheath, and thrust in again.
Hard. More powerfully.
Her breath puffed out on a shallow pant; her fingers tightened in the rough counterpane. He withdrew and thrust in again; eyes closing, she moaned. She could feel him high inside her, almost as if he were touching her lungs.
Then he settled to possess her, ruthlessly, relentlessly, thrusting deep and hard into her utterly willing body. Her wholly surrendered body. She moved fractionally under the force of the steady pounding, the subtle roughness of the brocade quickly becoming an excruciating abrasion against the peaks of her breasts.
Until she couldn’t take any more. His hands locked about her hips, he held her captive for each forceful penetration. Her skin flaringly alive, she could feel his groin meet the globes of her bottom, feel his testes against the backs of her thighs as he pushed deep and deeper. The rough fabric of his trousers abraded her legs; the edge of his shirt drifted over her bare back.
A sudden vision of how they looked—her utterly naked, he mostly clothed—taking her like this, exploded in her mind.
Her senses let go. Unraveled, fragmented, flew apart in a shattering release of imploding heat and tension.
He continued to thrust into her, and the release went on and on…until she fell from the peak with one last smothered gasp, and the blessed void gathered her in.
Jaw clenched, Royce slowed. Eyes closed, head back, chest heav
ing, he clung to the last shreds of his will, of his control, and rode out the incredible ripples of sensation, the aftermath of her heightened release as her sheath contracted repetitively about him, and lured, begged, commanded him to lose himself in her.
He had other plans.
Deeper plans. Plans that came from that more primitive self that, when it came to her, he could no longer deny. Didn’t want to deny.
When she finally slumped, her body utterly lax, he withdrew from her, shed his clothes in seconds, then lifted her. He stripped back the covers, then knelt on the bed and laid her down on her back, her head and shoulders cushioned by the plump pillows.
He seized the moment as he stretched alongside to drink in the sight—of her so utterly ravished, so surrendered, so possessed.
So his.
On the thought, he lifted over her, spread her thighs wide, and settled between. Covered her. Slid deeply into her, then lowered his head, captured her lips, and sank into her. Into her mouth, deep into her body, received within the silken embrace of her scalding sheath.
He started to ride her slowly, unhurriedly, senses wide, drinking in every iota of sensation. Of the inexpressible delight of her body cradling his, of her softness accepting his hardness, of the innumerable contrasts between their merging bodies.
His felt tight, nerves taut and flickering, seeking, wanting, needing. His mind was open, receptive, overwhelmingly aware of the breadth, depth, and incredible power of the need that swelled and welled inside him.
Then she joined him.
Her small hands found his face, framed it for a moment, then lowered to spread across his shoulders.
As the tempo of their joining inexorably rose, she gripped, clutched, her body undulating beneath his, dancing to a rhythm as old as time.
One he set, but she was with him, waltzing in the heat and the flames, in the scintillating fire of their shared passion.
And it was everything he’d wanted the moment to be—appeasement and acknowledgment, satiation and surrender, all in one.
She was everything he needed her to be—his lover, his bride, his wife.
His all.
In the moment when together they crested the last peak and found ecstasy waiting to claim them, he knew beyond question that he had all he needed of life in his arms. For this, she was the only woman for him, with him creating, then anchoring him in, this deeper, more heart-wrenching glory.
Submitting to him, surrendering to him.
Vanquishing him.
Now and forever.
The storm took them, and he surrendered, too, his fingers locked with hers as the fury of their joint passion wracked them, rocked them. Shattered and drained them, then left their senses to slowly fill again—with each other.
He’d never felt so close to any woman before, had never shared what he just had with any other.
When he finally summoned enough strength and will to move, he disengaged and lifted from her, then gathered her to him, into his arms, soothed when she came readily, snuggling close.
Through the darkness he touched his lips to her temple. “Sleep. I’ll wake you in time to leave.”
Her only reply was that her last lingering tension eased, then faded.
He closed his eyes and, utterly stated to the depths of his primitive soul, let sleep claim him.
Fourteen
Royce woke her before dawn in predictable fashion; Minerva reached her room with barely enough time to fall into her bed and recover before Lucy arrived to draw back the curtains.
After washing and dressing, once again eschewing Lucy’s assistance, she set about her usual routine with far more confidence than the day before. If Royce wanted her enough to insist she grace his bed, then he wasn’t about to lose interest in her just yet. Indeed, if last night was anything to judge by, his desire for her seemed to be escalating, not fading.
She pondered that, and how she felt about it, over breakfast, then, leaving his sisters and their guests to their own devices, retreated to the duchess’s morning room to prepare for their usual meeting in the study—and to consider what she might request of him.
If he could demand and insist on her physical surrender, then, she felt, some reward was her due. Some token of his appreciation.
When Jeffers arrived to summon her, she knew for what she would ask; the request would test Royce’s desire, but who knew how long his interest would last? She should ask now; with Variseys it paid to be bold.
Jeffers opened the study door. Entering, she saw that Falwell, as well as Handley, was present; the steward was sitting in the second chair before the desk.
Royce waved her to her usual seat. “Falwell has been describing the current state of the flocks and the clip. There appears to be some decline in quality.”
“Nothing major, of course,” Falwell quickly said, glancing, surprised, at Minerva. “Miss Chesterton has no doubt heard the farmers’ rumblings—”
“Indeed.” She cut off the rest of Falwell’s justification for doing nothing over recent years. “I understand the problem lies in the breeding stock.” Sitting, she met Royce’s gaze.
“Be that as it may,” Falwell said, “to get new breeding stock we’d have to go far south, and the expense—”
“Perhaps O’Loughlin could help?” She made the suggestion as innocently as she could. Royce had summoned her to join this discussion; presumably he wanted her opinions.
Falwell bridled; he didn’t like Hamish, but then Hamish had no time for him.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Royce did. “I’ll speak to O’Loughlin next time I’m up that way. He might have some breeders we could buy.”
Unsurprisingly, Falwell swallowed his words.
Royce glanced at the sheet on which he’d been making notes. “I need to speak with Miss Chesterton, Falwell, but if you would remain, once we’ve finished, you and I should look over the castle flocks.”
Murmuring acquiescence, Falwell rose, and at Royce’s direction retreated to a straight-backed chair against the wall.
Minerva inwardly cursed. She didn’t want Falwell to hear her request.
“So what have we to deal with today?”
Royce’s question refocused her attention. She looked down at her list, and swiftly went through Retford’s warning that in the wake of the funeral they would need to replenish the cellar, and Cranny’s request for new linens for the north wing bedrooms. “And while we’re looking at fabrics, there are two rooms in the south wing that could use new curtains.” Because of the castle’s isolation, all such items were normally procured from London.
Royce looked at Handley as his secretary glanced up from his notes. “Hamilton can make himself useful—he knows what wines I prefer, and for the rest he could consult with my London housekeeper—” He glanced at Minerva.
“Mrs. Hardcastle,” she supplied.
He looked at Handley. “Send a note to Hamilton about the wines and fabrics, and suggest he ask Mrs. Hardcastle to assist him with the latter. Regardless, he should purchase the materials subject to Miss Chesterton’s and Mrs. Cranshaw’s approval.”
Handley nodded, swiftly scribbling.
“The curtains need to be damask, with apple-green the predominant color,” Minerva said.
Handley nodded again.
Royce arched a brow at her. “Is there anything else?”
“Not about the household.” She hesitated; she would have infinitely preferred not to have Falwell present, but she had to strike while this iron was hot. She drew breath. “However, there’s a matter I’ve been meaning to bring to your attention.”
Royce looked his invitation.
“There’s a footbridge over the Coquet, further to the south, a little beyond Alwinton. It’s been allowed to deteriorate and is now in very bad condition, a serious danger to all who have to use it—”
Falwell shot to his feet. “That’s not on castle lands, Your Grace.” He came forward. “It’s Harbottle’s responsibility, and
if they choose to let it fall down, that’s their decision, not ours.”
Royce watched Falwell slant a glance at Minerva, sitting upright in her chair; her gaze was fixed on him, not the steward. Falwell tipped his head her way. “With all due respect to Miss Chesterton, Your Grace, we can’t be fixing things beyond the estate, things that are in no way ours to fix.”
Royce looked at Minerva. She met his eyes, and waited for his decision.
He knew why she’d asked. Other ladies coveted jewels; she asked for a footbridge. And if it had been on his lands, he would have happily bestowed it.
Unfortunately, Falwell was unquestionably correct. The last thing the dukedom needed was to become seen as a general savior of last resort. Especially not to the towns, who were supposed to manage their responsibilities from the taxes they collected.
“In this matter, I must agree with Falwell. However, I will raise the matter, personally, with the appropriate authorities.” He glanced at Handley. “Find out who I need to see.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He looked again at Minerva, met her gaze. “Is there anything else?”
She held his gaze long enough to make him wonder what was going through her head, but then she answered, “No, Your Grace. That’s all.”
Looking down, she gathered her papers, then stood, inclined her head to him, turned, and walked to the door.
As it closed behind her, he was already considering how to use the footbridge to his best advantage.
There was more than one way to skin a cat—Minerva wondered what approach Royce was considering. With the luncheon gong echoing through the corridors, she headed for the dining room, hoping she’d read him aright.
She hadn’t been surprised by Falwell’s comments; his role was to manage the estate as a business, rather than care for its people. The latter was in part her role, and even more so the duke’s. Royce’s. He’d said he would take up the issue—presenting her request more clearly in people terms might help. As she neared the dining room, Royce walked out of the parlor opposite. He’d heard her footsteps; he’d been waiting for her. He paused, met her gaze; when she reached him, without a word he waved her ahead of him through the dining room door.
Mastered by Love Page 27
