Mastered By Love (26 page)

 

After exchanging impressed looks with the crofter women, Minerva followed. Crossing the yard to the curricle, she saw and heard enough to know that the children had lost all fear of their duke; their eyes now shone with a species of hero worship more personal than simple awe.

 

His father had had no real relationship, no personal interaction, with his people; he’d managed them from a distance, through Falwell and Kelso, and had spoken with any directly only when absolutely necessary. He’d therefore only spoken to the senior men.

 

Royce, it seemed, might be different. He certainly lacked his father’s insistence on a proper distance being preserved between his ducal self and the masses.

 

Once again he took the basket, stowed it, then handed her up. Retrieving the reins from the oldest lad, he joined her. She held her tongue and let him direct the children back. Round-eyed, they complied, watched as he carefully turned the skittish pair, then waved wildly and sang their farewells as he guided the curricle down the lane.

 

As the cottages fell behind, the peace, serenity—and isolation—of the hills closed around them. Reminded of her goal, she thought quickly, then said, “Now we’re out this way, there’s a well over toward Shillmoor that’s been giving trouble.” She met his hard gaze as his head swung her way. “We should take a look.”

 

He held her gaze for an instant, then had to look back to
his horses. The only reply he gave was a grunt, but when they reached the bottom of the lane, he turned the horses’ heads west, toward Shillmoor.

 

Rather than, as she was perfectly certain he’d intended to, make for the nearest secluded lookout.

 

Sitting back, she hid a smile. As long as she avoided being alone with him in a setting he could use, she would be safe, and he wouldn’t be able to advance his cause.

 

 

It was early evening when Royce stalked into his dressing room and started stripping off his clothes while Trevor poured the last of a succession of buckets of steaming water into the bath in the bathing chamber beyond.

 

His mood was distinctly grim. His chatelaine had successfully filled their entire day; they’d left the little hamlet near Shillmoor with barely enough time to drive back to the castle and bathe before dinner.

 

And after overseeing the final stages of reconstruction of the well’s crumbling walls and sagging roof, then taking an active part in reassembling and correctly recommissioning the mechanism for pulling water up from the depths of the very deep well, he needed a bath.

 

The local men had taken the day off from working their fields and had gathered to repair the aging well, a necessity before winter; when he and Minerva had driven up, they’d been well advanced with the repairs to the walls. Their ideas for shoring up the roof, however, were a recipe for disaster; he’d stepped in and used his unquestioned authority to redesign and direct the construction of a structure that would have some hope of withstanding the weight of snow they commonly experienced in those parts.

 

Far from resenting his interference, the men, and the women, too, had been relieved and sincerely grateful. They’d shared their lunch—cider, thick slabs of cheese, and freshly baked rye bread, which he and Minerva had graciously accepted—then been even more amazed when, after watching the men scratch their heads and mutter over the mecha
nism they’d disassembled, he’d shrugged out of his hacking jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work with them, sorting the various parts and helping reassemble, realign, and reposition the mechanism—he was taller and stronger than any of those there—finally resulting in a rejuvenated and properly functioning well.

 

There’d been cheers all around as one of the women had pulled up the first brimming pail.

 

He and Minerva had left with a cacophony of thanks ringing in their ears, but it hadn’t escaped his notice how surprised and intrigued by him the villagers had been. Clearly, his way of dealing with them was vastly different from that of his sire.

 

Minerva had told him he didn’t need to be like his father; it seemed he was proving her correct. She should be pleased…and she was. Her excursions had ensured she won the day—that she had triumphed in the battle of wills, and wits, he and she were engaged in.

 

To him, the outcome was a foregone conclusion; he did not doubt she would end in his bed. Why she was resisting so strongly remained a mystery—and an ongoing challenge.

 

Boots removed, he stood and peeled off his breeches and stockings. Naked, he walked into the bathing chamber, and stood looking down at the steam wreathing above the water’s surface.

 

His chatelaine was the first woman he’d ever had to exert himself to win, to battle for in even the most minor sense. Despite the annoyance, the frequent irritations, the constant irk of sexual denial, he couldn’t deny he found the challenge—the chase—intriguing.

 

He glanced down. It was equally impossible to deny he found her challenge, and her, arousing.

 

Stepping into the tub, he sank down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The day might have been hers, but the night would be his.

 

 

He walked into the drawing room feeling very much a wolf anticipating his next meal. He located his chatelaine, standing before the hearth in her black gown with its modestly cut neckline, and amended the thought: a hunger-ravaged wolf slavering in expectation.

 

He started toward her. Within two steps, he registered that something was afoot; his sisters, his cousins, and those others still at the castle were abuzz and atwitter, the excitement of their conversations a hum all around him.

 

Suspicions had started forming before he reached Minerva. Margaret stood beside her; his elder sister turned as he neared, her face alight in a way he’d forgotten it could be. “Royce—Minerva’s made the most
wonderful
suggestion.”

 

Even before Margaret rattled on, he knew to his bones that he wasn’t going to share her sentiment.

 

“Plays—Shakespeare’s plays. There’s more than enough of us who’ve decided to stay to be able to perform one play each night—to entertain us until the fair. Aurelia and I felt that, as it’s now a week since the funeral, and given this is as private a party as could be, then there really could be no objections on the grounds of propriety.” Margaret looked at him, dark eyes alive. “What do you think?”

 

He thought his chatelaine had been exceedingly clever. He looked at her; she returned his gaze levelly, no hint of gloating in her expression.

 

Margaret and Aurelia especially, and Susannah, too, were all but addicted to amateur theatricals; while he’d been in the south at Eton, then Oxford, they’d had to endure many long winters holed up in the castle—hence their passion. He’d forgotten that, but his chatelaine hadn’t.

 

His respect for her as an opponent rose a definite notch.

 

He shifted his gaze to Margaret. “I see no objection.”

 

He could see no alternative; if he objected, put his foot down and vetoed the plays, his sisters would sulk and poke and prod at him until he changed his mind. Expression mild, he arched a brow. “Which play will you start with?”

 

Margaret glowed. “
Romeo and Juliet.
We still have all the abridged scripts, and the costumes and bits and pieces from when we used to do these long ago.” She laid a hand on Royce’s arm—in gratitude, he realized—then released him. “I must go and tell Susannah—she’s to be Juliet.”

 

Royce watched her go; from the questions thrown at her and the expressions evoked by her answers, everyone else was keen and eager to indulge in the amusement.

 

Minerva had remained, the dutiful chatelaine, beside him. “I assume,” he said, “that we’re to be regaled with
Romeo and Juliet
tonight?”

 

“That’s what they’d planned.”

 

“Where?”

 

“The music room. It’s where the plays were always held. The stage and even the curtain are still there.”

 

“And”—the most telling question—“just when did you make this brilliant suggestion of yours?”

 

She hesitated, hearing the underlying displeasure in his voice. “This morning over breakfast. They were moaning about how bored they were growing.”

 

He let a moment pass, then murmured, “If I might make a suggestion, the next time you consider how bored they might be, you might first like to consider how bored
I
might be.”

 

Turning, he met her eyes, only to see her smile.

 

“You weren’t bored today.”

 

There was no point in lying. “Perhaps not, but I am going to be utterly bored tonight.”

 

Her smile widened as she looked toward the door. “You can’t have everything.”

 

Retford’s summons rolled out. With irresistible deliberation, Royce took her arm. Noted the sudden leap of her pulse. Lowered his head to murmur as he led her to the door, “But I do intend to have everything from you. Everything, and more.”

 

 

Placing her beside him again at dinner, he took what revenge he could, his hand drifting over the back of her waist as he
steered her to her chair, his fingers stroking over her hand as he released her.

 

Minerva weathered the moments with what fortitude she could muster; jangling nerves and skittish senses were a price she was prepared to pay to avoid his ducal bed.

 

Frustratingly, no one—not even Margaret—seemed to think Royce monopolizing her company at all odd. Then again, with him leaning back in his great carver, making her turn to face him, their conversation remained largely private; presumably the others thought they were discussing estate matters. Instead…

 

“I take it
Romeo and Juliet
was not your choice.” He sat back, twirling his wineglass between his long fingers.

 

“No. It’s Susannah’s favorite—she was keen to play the part.” She tried to keep her attention on her plate.

 

A moment passed. “How many of Shakespeare’s plays involve lovers?”

 

Too many.
She reached for her wineglass—slowed to make sure he wasn’t going to say anything to make her jiggle it; when he kept silent, she gratefully grasped it and took a healthy sip.

 

“Do you intend to take part—to trip the stage in one of the roles?”

 

“That will depend on how many plays we do.” She set her glass down, made a mental note to check which plays were safe to volunteer for.

 

By example, she tried to steer his attention to the conversations farther down the table; with the increasing informality, these were growing more general—and more rowdy.

 

Indeed, more salacious. Some of his male cousins were calling suggestions to Phillip—cast as Romeo—as to how best to sweep his Juliet into the lovers’ bed.

 

To her consternation, Royce leaned forward, paying attention to the jocular repartee. Then he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear, “Perhaps I should make some suggestions?”

 

Her mind immediately conjured an all too evocative
memory of his last attempt to sweep her into his bed; when her intellect leapt to the fore and hauled her mind away, it merely skittered to the time before that, to his lips on hers, to the pleasure his long fingers had wrought while he’d pinned her to the wall in the lust-heavy dark…

 

It took effort to wrestle her wits free, to focus on his words. “But you haven’t succeeded.”

 

She would have called back the words the instant she uttered them; they sounded collected and calm—nothing like what she felt.

 

Slowly, he turned his head and met her eyes. Smiled—that curving of his lips that carried a promise of lethal reaction rather than any soothing reassurance. “Not. Yet.”

 

He dropped the quiet words like stones into the air between them; she felt the tension pull, then quiver. Felt something within her inwardly tremble—not with apprehension but a damning anticipation. She forced herself to arch a brow, then deliberately turned her attention back down the table.

 

As soon as dessert was consumed, Margaret dispatched Susannah, Phillip, and the rest of the cast to the music room to prepare. Everyone else remained at the table, finishing their wine, chatting—until Margaret declared the players had had time enough, and the entire company adjourned to the music room.

 

The music room lay in the west wing, at the point where the north wing joined it. Part of both wings, the room was an odd shape, having two doors, one opening to the north wing and one to the west wing corridors, and only one window—a wide one angled between the two outer walls. The shallow dais that formed the stage filled the floor before the window, a trapezoid that extended well into the room. The stage itself was the rectangle directly in front of the window, while the triangular areas to either side had been paneled off, blocking them off from the audience sitting in the main part of the room, creating wings in which the players could don the finery that made up their costumes, and stage props and furniture could be stored.

 

Thick velvet curtains concealed the stage. Footmen had set up four rows of gilt-backed chairs across the room before it. The crowd filed in, chatting and laughing, noting the closed curtains, and the dimness created by having only three candelabra on pedestals lighting the large room; a chandelier, fully lit, cast its light down upon the presently screened stage.

 

Minerva didn’t even attempt to slip from Royce’s side as he guided her to a seat in the second row, to the right of the center aisle. She sat, grateful to have survived the trip from the dining room with nothing more discomposing than the sensation of his hand at her waist, and the curious aura he projected of hovering over and around her.

 

Both protectively and possessively.

 

She should take exception to the evolving habit, but her witless senses were intrigued and unhelpfully tantalized by the suggestive attention.

 

The rest of the group quickly took their seats. Someone peeked out through the curtains, then, slowly, the heavy curtains parted on the first scene.