Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her own fault, of course, not that that made the dull twisting pain any less. She’d known from the start the dangers of falling in love—even a little bit in love—with him; she just hadn’t thought it could happen so quickly, hadn’t even realized it had.

  “I say, Minerva.”

  She focused on Henry Varisey as he leaned conspiratorially close.

  His gaze was fixed across the room. “Do you think the beautiful countess has any chance of learning what no one else yet has?”

  It took a moment to realize he was alluding to the name of Royce’s bride. She followed Henry’s gaze to where Helen all but hung on Royce’s arm. “I wish her luck—on that subject he’s been as close-mouthed as an oyster.”

  Henry glanced at her, arched a brow. “You haven’t heard anything?”

  “Not a hint—no clue at all.”

  “Well.” Straightening, Henry looked back across the room. “It appears our best hopes lie with Lady Ashton.”

  Assuming Lady Ashton’s wasn’t the name in question…Minerva frowned; Henry, at least, didn’t see Helen as even a possibility as Royce’s chosen bride.

  Across the room, Royce forced himself to keep his gaze on Helen Ashton, or whoever else was near, and not allow his eyes to deflect to Minerva, as they constantly wanted to. He’d walked into the drawing room before dinner, anticipating another delightful evening of enjoying his chatelaine, only to find himself faced with Helen. The very last woman he’d expected to see.

  He’d inwardly sworn, plastered on an unruffled expression, and battled not to seek help from the one person in the room he’d actually wanted to see. He had to deal with Helen first. An unwanted, uninvited irritation; he hadn’t understood why the hell she was there until he’d heard her story.

  Susannah. What the hell his sister had been thinking of he had no clue. He’d find out later. For that evening, however, he had to toe a fine line; Helen and too many others—all those who knew she’d been his recent mistress—expected him to pay attention to her now she was there.

  Because as far as they knew, he hadn’t had a woman in weeks. He didn’t have a mistress at Wolverstone. True, and yet not.

  With everyone watching him and Helen, if he so much as glanced at Minerva, someone would see—and someone would wonder. While he was working toward making their connection public through getting her to convince herself to accept his suit, he wasn’t yet sure of success, and had no intention of risking his future with her because of his ex-mistress.

  So he had to bide his time until he could confirm Helen’s status directly with her. As she was the senior lady present, he’d had no choice but to escort her into dinner and seat her at his left—in some ways a boon, for that had kept Minerva at a distance.

  He hoped—prayed—she would understand. At least once he explained…

  He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, but then again, Minerva knew him very well. She would hardly be shocked to learn that Helen had been his mistress, and was now his ex-mistress. In their world, it was the ex- that counted.

  Even with his outward attention elsewhere, he knew when Minerva left the room. A quick glance confirmed it, and sharpened the inner spur that impelled him to follow her.

  But he had to settle matters with Helen first.

  And Susannah. His sister swanned past beyond Helen; she caught his eye—no difficulty as it was fixed on her—and winked. Hiding his reaction behind an easy expression, he left Helen to her conversation with Caroline Courtney; reaching out he closed his fingers about Susannah’s elbow and drew her with him as he strolled a few paces.

  Once they were sufficiently apart to speak privately, he released her and looked down as she looked up at him.

  She smiled with childlike—childish—delight. “Well, brother dear, are you happier now?”

  He read her sincerity in her eyes. Inwardly sighed. “Actually, no. Helen and I parted when I left London.”

  Susannah’s face fell almost comically. “Oh.” She looked thoroughly disconcerted. “I had no idea.” She glanced at Helen. “I thought…”

  “If I might ask, what, exactly, did you tell her?”

  “Well, that you were here and alone, and having to make this dreadful decision of who to wed, and that if she came up, perhaps she might make your life easier, and, well…those sort of things.”

  Royce inwardly groaned, then sighed through his teeth. “Never mind. I’ll speak with her and straighten things out.”

  At least he now knew his instincts had been right; Helen wasn’t there to share just a night of passion. Thanks to Susannah’s poor phrasing, Helen now harbored higher aspirations.

  He let Susannah, rather subdued, go and returned to Helen’s side, but had to wait until everyone else finally decided to retire to take her to a place where they could speak privately.

  Leaving the drawing room at the rear of the crowd, he touched Helen’s arm, and indicated the corridor leading away from the hall. “This way.”

  He led her to the library.

  She passed through the door he held open for her, and came to a momentary halt; she was too experienced not to realize the significance of the venue. But then her spine straightened, and she walked further into the room. He followed and closed the door.

  A candelabra on the mantelpiece was alight; a small fire blazed cheerily in the hearth. He waved Helen to the wingchair to one side of the hearth. She walked ahead of him to the fireplace, but then swung to face him, hands clasped before her, fingers twining.

  She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, staying her words.

  “First, let me say that I was surprised to see you here—I had no idea Susannah had written to you.” Halting on the other side of the hearth, he held Helen’s blue gaze. “However, courtesy of what my sister wrote, I accept that you may be laboring under a misapprehension. To clarify matters—” He broke off, then let his lips twist cynically. “To be brutally frank, I’m currently negotiating for the hand of the lady I’ve chosen as my duchess, and am entirely uninterested in any dalliance.”

  And if she’d thought she had any chance at a more permanent connection, she now knew better.

  To give her her due, and as he’d expected, Helen absorbed the reality well. She was a natural survivor in their world. Her eyes on his face, she drew a long breath as she digested his words, then she inclined her head, her lips twisting in a rueful grimace. “Good Lord—how very…awkward.”

  “Only as awkward as we wish to make it. No one will be surprised if we amicably part and move on.”

  She thought, then nodded. “True.”

  “I will, naturally, do everything within my power to ensure you’re not made uncomfortable while here, and I hope, in the future, you will continue to regard me as a friend.” He continued to hold her gaze, entirely confident she would understand the offer behind his words, and value it accordingly.

  She didn’t disappoint him. She was far from stupid, and if she couldn’t have him as either lover or husband, then having him as a powerful, well-disposed acquaintance was the next best thing. Again she inclined her head, this time in a deeper obeisance. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She hesitated, then lifted her head. “If it would not inconvenience you, I believe I’ll remain for a few days—perhaps for the house party.”

  He knew about saving face. “By all means.”

  Their interview was at an end; he waved her to the door, falling in beside her as she walked down the room.

  He halted before the door, waited until she looked at him. “If I might ask, was it purely distraction you came up to Northumberland to offer, or…?”

  She smiled. “Susannah apparently believed I had some chance of becoming your duchess.” She met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think it likely.”

  “I apologize for Susannah—she’s younger than I, and doesn’t, in fact, know me as well as she thinks she does.”

  Helen laughed. “No one knows you as well as they think they do.” She paused, then sm
iled—one of her gloriously charming smiles. “Good night, Royce. And good luck with your negotiations.”

  Opening the door, she went out.

  Royce watched the door close behind her; he stood staring at the panels, his mind immediately refocusing on the one burning issue dominating his current existence—his negotiations with the lady he’d chosen as his duchess.

  His campaign to ensure Minerva said yes.

  Minerva lay alone in her bed—a perfectly good bed she’d slept comfortably in for years and years, but which now seemed entirely lacking.

  She knew what was missing, what lack it was that somehow made it impossible to fall asleep, but why the simple presence of a male body over a handful of days should have made such a deep impression on her psyche to the extent she—her body—fretted at his absence, she simply could not comprehend.

  If her body was restless, her mind was even more so. She had to stop thinking about all she’d learned—had to stop wondering if Helen had actually meant five interludes, or five intimacies; on both counts she and Royce had exceeded the limit. Yet perhaps he, being male, simply counted nights?

  The deadening truth she had to accept was that according to his immutable rule—and she could see why he, heir to a massively wealthy and powerful dukedom, had instituted such a rule and stuck by it—her time with him had come to an end.

  It was just as well Helen had arrived and explained; at least now she knew.

  Sitting up, she pummeled her pillow, then slumped down and pulled the covers over her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She had to get some sleep.

  She tried to compose her features, but they wouldn’t relax. Her frown refused to smooth away.

  In her heart, her gut, everything felt wrong. So utterly wrong.

  The click of her door latch had her opening her eyes. The door swung inward—rather violently—then Royce was in the room, shutting the door forcefully, but silently.

  He stalked to the bed. Halting beside it, he looked down at her; all she could see of his expression was that his lips were set in a grim line.

  “I suppose I should have expected this.” He shook his head, and reached for the covers.

  He tugged. She clutched them tighter. “Wh—”

  “Of course, I’d hoped my edict that you’re supposed to be in my bed might have been strong enough to hold, but apparently not.” His accents were clipped, a sure indication of strained temper. He jerked the covers from her grip and flung them off her.

  He stopped and stared down at her. “Heaven preserve me, we’re back to nightgowns.”

  The disgust in his voice would, in other circumstances, have made her laugh. She narrowed her eyes at him, then dove to scramble off the other side of the bed—but he was too fast.

  He caught her, hauled her to him, then hoisted her in his arms.

  He started for the door.

  “Royce!”

  “Shut up. I’m not in a good mood. First Susannah, then Helen, now you. Misogyny beckons.”

  She glanced at his face, at his adamantine expression, and shut her lips. As she couldn’t prevent him from carrying her to his room, she would argue once they got there.

  He paused by the coat rack. “Grab your cloak.”

  She did and quickly flicked the folds over her; at least he’d remembered that.

  He juggled her, opened her door, softly shut it behind them, then carried her swiftly through the shadows to his apartments, and on into his bedroom. All the way to his bed.

  She pinned him with a stony glare. “What about the countess?”

  Halting beside the bed, he met her gaze, his own hard. “What about her?”

  “She’s your mistress.”

  “Ex-mistress. The ex- is important—it defines that relationship.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “Yes, she does. She knew it before she came here, and I’ve just confirmed for her that the situation hasn’t changed.” He’d held her gaze throughout. “Any more questions on that subject?”

  She blinked. “No. Not at the moment.”

  “Good.” He tossed her on the bed.

  She bounced once. Before she could grab it, he whipped her cloak off and flung it across the room.

  He paused, then stepped back. His hands going to his coat buttons, he toed off his shoes; his eyes on her, he shrugged out of his tight-fitting evening coat, then pointed at her nightgown. “Take that off. If I do, it won’t survive.”

  She hesitated. If she was naked, and so was he, rational discussion wouldn’t be high on his agenda. “First—”

  “Minerva—take off the gown.”

  Sixteen

  Minerva—take off the gown.

  The words resonated in the dimness between them. He’d packed them with more distilled power, more direct command, than he’d ever used with her before; his tone filled her female ears with primitive threat, and unstated promise.

  A not-at-all-subtle reminder that he was the sort of nobleman no one even thought to deny. Certainly no woman. Of their own volition, her fingers shifted on the fine fabric draping her legs.

  She realized and stilled them, then, hauling in a breath through lungs suddenly tight, sat up, curling her legs, faced him, and narrowed her eyes on his. “No.” She set her jaw, if not as hard, then at least as belligerently as he. “You didn’t so much as glance at me all evening, and now you want to see me naked?”

  His implacability eased not one jot. He drew his cravat off, and dropped it. “Yes.” A heartbeat passed. “I didn’t glance at you—and I’m well aware it was for the whole damned evening—because everyone, literally everyone, was watching me, watching to see me and Helen, my recent mistress, interact, and if instead I’d looked at you, everyone else would have, too. And then they’d have wondered why—why instead of looking at my recent mistress I was looking at you. And not being entirely devoid of intelligence, they’d have guessed, correctly, that my distraction with you at such a moment was because you’re sharing my bed.”

  He shrugged off his waistcoat. “I didn’t look your way once the entire evening because I wanted to avoid the speculation I knew would ensue, and I know you won’t like.” He looked down as he dropped the waistcoat on top of his coat; he paused, then lifted his head and met her eyes. “I also didn’t want my cousins getting any ideas about you—and they would if they knew you were sharing my bed.”

  Truth—all truth. She heard it ring in every clipped, precise vowel and consonant. And the thought of his cousins approaching her—all the males were as sexually aggressive as he—had been the prod that had affected him most powerfully.

  Before she could consider what that might mean, with a barely restrained tug he pulled his shirttails from his waistband.

  His gaze lowered to her body, to the offending nightgown. “Take that damned gown off. If it’s still on you when I reach you, I’m going to shred it.”

  Not a warning, not a threat, not even a promise—just a pragmatic statement of fact.

  He was barely two yards away. She mentally threw up her hands and turned to draw the covers down so she could slip beneath them.

  “No. Stay where you are.” His voice had lowered, deepened; his tone sent a primitive thrill racing up her spine. He spoke increasingly slowly. “Just take the gown off. Now.”

  She turned back to face him. Her lungs had constricted again. She drew in a tight breath, then reached for the hem of the fine lawn gown, and drew it up, exposing her calves, her knees, her thighs, then, still sitting, her eyes locked on him, she wriggled and tugged until the long gown was bunched around her waist.

  The roughness of his brocade counterpane rasped the bare skin of her legs and bottom—and she suddenly had an inkling of why he might want her naked on the bed, rather than in it.

  And she wasn’t about to argue.

  From the waist down, she was no longer sheathed in the gown, but the folds shielded her hips and stomach, and all the rest of her, from his gaze.

  Her mouth suddenly dry, she
swallowed, then said, “Take off the shirt, and I’ll take off the gown.”

  His gaze lifted from her naked thighs, locked with hers for an instant, then he grabbed the hem of his shirt and hauled it up and over his head.

  She seized the instant—the barest fleeting instant—to drink in the arresting, arousing sight of his heavily muscled chest. Then he tore his hands free of the sleeves, dropped the shirt. His fingers reaching for the buttons at his waist, he stepped toward the bed.

  Grabbing the folds of her nightgown, she hauled it up and off.

  He was on her before she could pull her hands free. In a surging, muscled wave, he flattened her back on the bed.

  Before she could blink she was stretched naked on her back across the crimson-and-gold brocade, with him stretched over her, one heavy hand locked about her tangled ones, pinning them, leaving her with her arms stretched out above her head.

  Lifting off her, he set his hip alongside hers; leaning on the arm holding her hands captive, he looked down on her body as she lay displayed, naked and helpless, for his delectation.

  For his taking.

  Raising his free hand, he set it to her flesh. Used it to quickly, efficiently, ruthlessly arouse her until she writhed, until her body lifted and arched helplessly into that too-knowing hand, seeking, wanting.

  His hand cupped between her thighs, working the slick, swollen folds, with two long fingers buried in her sheath stroking deeply, he lowered his head and set his mouth to one breast.

  He licked, lipped, nipped, then drew her furled nipple deep into his mouth and suckled so fiercely, body bowing, she shrieked.

  Releasing her tortured flesh, he glanced at her face, caught her gaze, and thrust his fingers deep inside her—watched as she gasped and instinctively lifted her hips, wanting to, straining to, reach completion.

  Through the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, she heard him mutter something deep, dark, and guttural—she couldn’t make out the words.

  Her skin was so flushed, so excruciatingly sensitive, she felt like she was burning—literally burning with unslaked desire. Bare minutes had passed since he’d spread her beneath him on the bed, yet he’d reduced her to this—to needing him inside her more than she needed to breathe.