Mastered By Love (35 page)

“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 expected 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-ŕ-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…

 

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.