Mastered By Love (43 page)

 

So she could organize to leave him.

 

Royce was too adept at reading between other people’s lines to miss her underlying thoughts…but he had to tell her. She’d just handed him the perfect opening to break the news to her and propose, but…he didn’t want to yet. Wasn’t yet sure enough of her response. Of her.

 

Beneath the covers, she shifted, sliding one long leg over his waist, then easing across and sitting up, straddling him, the better to look into his face. Her eyes, the glorious autumn hues still darkened by recent passion, narrowed and bored into his, golden sparks of will and determination flaring in their depths. “
Have
you chosen your bride?”

 

That he could answer. “Yes.”

 

“Have you contacted her?”

 

“I’m negotiating with her as we speak.”

 

“Who is she? Do I know her?”

 

She wasn’t going to let him slide around her again. Jaw setting, eyes locked on hers, he ground out, “Yes.”

 

When he didn’t say anything more, she clutched his upper arms as if to shake him—or hold him so he couldn’t escape. “What’s her name?”

 

Her eyes held his. He was going to have to speak now. Engage with her now. He was going to have to find some way—forge some path through the mire…He searched her eyes, desperate for some hint of a way forward.

 

Her fingers tightened, nails digging in, then she uttered a frustrated sound; releasing him, she raised her palms, along
with her face, to the canopy. “
Why
are you being so damned difficult about this?”

 

Something within him snapped. “Because it
is
difficult.”

 

Her head came down; she pinned him with her eyes. “
Why
, for heaven’s sake?
Who
is she?”

 

Lips thin, he locked his gaze with hers. “You.”

 

All expression fled from her face, from her eyes. “What?”

 

“You.”
He poured every ounce of his certainty, his determination, into the words. “I’ve chosen you.”

 

Her eyes flared wide; her expression wasn’t one he could place—she wasn’t afraid of him. She started to draw back, pull away; he locked his hands about her waist.

 

“No.” The word was weak, her eyes still wide; her expression looked strangely bleak. Abruptly she dragged in a breath, and shook her head. “No, no, no. I told you—”

 

“Yes. I know.” He made the words terse enough to cut her off. “But here’s something—some things—
you
don’t know.” He caught her gaze. “I took you up to Lord’s Seat lookout, but I never told you why. I took you there to ask you to marry me—but I got distracted. I let you distract me into getting you into my bed first—and
then
you turned your virginity, the fact I’d taken it, into an even bigger hurdle.”

 

She blinked at him. “You wanted to ask me then?”

 

“I’d planned to—on Lord’s Seat, and then here on that first night. But your declaration…” He paused.

 

Her eyes narrowed again; her lips thinned. “You didn’t give up—you never give up. You set out to manipulate me—that’s what all this”—she waved her arms, encompassing the huge bed—“has been about, hasn’t it? You’ve been working to change my mind!”

 

With a disgusted snort, she tried to get off him. He tightened his grip on her waist, kept her exactly where she was, straddling him. She tried to fight loose, tried to pry his fingers away, wriggled and squirmed.

 

“No.” He bit the word off with sufficient force to have her look at him again—and grow still. He trapped her gaze, held
it. “It wasn’t like that—it was
never
about manipulating you. I don’t want you by stealth—I want your willing agreement. All
this
has been about
convincing
you. About showing you how well you fit the position of my duchess.”

 

Through his hands, he sensed her quietening, sensed that he’d caught her attention, however unwilling. He dragged in a breath. “Now you’ve forced my hand, the least you can do is listen. Listen to why I think we’d suit—why I want you and only you as my wife.”

 

Trapped in his dark eyes, Minerva didn’t know what to think. She couldn’t tell what she felt; emotions roiled and churned and tumbled through her. She knew he was telling the truth; veracity rang in his tone. He rarely lied, and he was speaking in terms that were utterly unambiguous.

 

He took her silence as acquiescence. Still holding her captive, still holding her gaze, he went on, “I want you as my wife because you—and only you—can give me everything I need, and want, in my duchess. The socially prescribed aspects are the most minor—your birth is more than adequate, as is your fortune. While an announcement of our betrothal might take many by surprise, it won’t in any way be considered a mésalliance—from society’s perspective, you’re entirely suitable.”

 

Pausing, he drew breath, but his eyes never left hers; she had never before felt so much the absolute focus of his attention, his will, his very being. “While there are many ladies who would be suitable on those counts, it’s in all the other aspects that you excel. I need—demonstrably need—a lady by my side who understands the prevailing social and political responsibilities and dynamics of the dukedom as, courtesy of my exile, I do not. I need someone I can trust implicitly to guide me through the shoals—as you did at the funeral. I need a lady I can rely on to have the backbone to confront me when I’m wrong—someone who isn’t afraid of my temper. Almost everyone is, but you never have been—among females that alone makes you unique.”

 

Royce didn’t dare take his eyes from hers. She was listen
ing, following—understanding. “I also need—and want—a duchess who is attuned to and devoted to the dukedom’s interests, and first and last to Wolverstone itself. To the estate, the people, the community. Wolverstone is not just a castle—it never has been. I need a lady who understands that, who will be as committed to it as I am. As you already are.”

 

The next breath he dragged in shook; his lungs were tight, his chest felt compressed, but he had to say the rest—had to step off the beaten path and take a chance. “Lastly, I…” He searched her autumn eyes. “Need—and want—a lady I care about.
Not
the customary Varisey bride. I want…to try and have more of a marriage, a more complete marriage—one based on more than calculation and convenience. For that I need a lady I can spend my life with, one I can share my life with from now into the future. I don’t want to occasionally visit my duchess’s bed—I want her in my bed, this bed, every night for all the nights to come.” He paused, then said, “For all those reasons, I need
you
as my bride. Of all the women I might have, no other will do. I can’t imagine…feeling as I do about any other. There never has been any other I’ve slept beside through the night, no other I’ve ever wanted to keep with me through the dawn.” He held her gaze. “I want you, I desire you—and only you will do.”

 

Staring into his dark eyes, Minerva felt her emotions surge and swell; she was in very deep water, in danger of being swept away. Being pulled under; the tug of his words, of his lure, was that strong—strong enough to tempt her, even her, even though she knew the price…she frowned. “Are you saying that you’ll remain faithful to your duchess?”

 

“Not to my duchess. But to you? Yes.”

 

Oh, clever answer; her heart skipped a beat. She looked into his eyes, saw his implacable, immovable will looking back—and the room spun. She drew an unsteady breath; the planets had just realigned. A Varisey was promising fidelity. “What brought this on?”

 

What on earth had proved strong enough to bring him to this?

 

He didn’t immediately answer, but his eyes remained steady on hers.

 

Eventually he said, “I’ve seen over the years what Rupert, Miles, and Gerald have found with Rose, Eleanor, and Alice. I’ve spent more time in their households than in this one—and what they have is what I want. I’ve more recently seen my ex-colleagues find their brides—and they, too, found wives and marriages that offered far more than convenience and dynastic advance.”

 

He shifted slightly beneath her, for the first time glanced beyond her, but then he brought his gaze back to her face—forced it back. His jaw tightened. “Then the grandes dames came and made clear what they expected—and not one thought that I would want, much less deserved, anything better than the customary Varisey marriage.” His voice hardened. “But they were wrong. I want
you
—and I want more.”

 

She inwardly shivered. She would have sworn she didn’t outwardly, but his hands, until then warm and strong about her waist, left her, and he reached for the counterpane, drew it up to drape around and over her shoulders. She caught the edges, drew them closer. She wasn’t cold; she was emotionally shaken.

 

To her toes.

 

“I…” She refocused on him.

 

He was looking at his hands adjusting the counterpane around her. “Before you say anything…when I went to see Hamish today, I asked his advice about what I might say to you to convince you to accept my suit.” His eyes lifted and met hers. “He told me I should tell you that I loved you.”

 

She couldn’t breathe; she was trapped in the unfathomable darkness of his eyes.

 

They remained locked with hers. “He told me that you would want me to say that—to claim I loved you.” He drew breath, went on, “I will never lie to you—if I could tell you I loved you, I would. I will do
anything
I need to to make you mine, to have you as my duchess—
except
lie to you.”

 

He seemed to have as much trouble breathing as she did;
the next breath he drew shuddered. He let it out as his eyes searched hers. “I care for you, in a way and to a depth that I care for no one else. But we both know I can’t say I love you. We both know why. As a Varisey I don’t know the first thing about love, much less how to make it happen. I don’t even know if the emotion exists within me. But what I can—and will—promise, is that I will try. For
you
, I will try—I will give you everything I have in me, but I can’t promise it’ll be enough. I can promise to try, but I can’t promise I’ll succeed.” He held her gaze unflinchingly. “I can’t promise to love you because I don’t know if I can.”

 

Moments passed; she remained immersed in his eyes, seeing, hearing, knowing. Finally she drew in a long, slow breath, refocused on his face, looked again into those dark, tempestuous eyes. “
If
I agree to marry you, will you promise me that? Promise you’ll remain faithful, and that you’ll try?”

 

The answer was immediate, uncompromising. “Yes. For you, I’ll promise that, in whatever way, whatever words, you wish.”

 

She felt strung tight, emotionally tense—poised on a wire above an abyss. Assessing her tension made her aware of his; beneath her thighs, her bottom, his muscles were all steel—he otherwise hid it well, his uncertainty.

 

Gazes locked, they were both teetering. She drew breath, and pulled back. “I need to think.” She swiftly replayed his words, arched a brow. “You haven’t actually proposed.”

 

He was silent for a moment, then succinctly stated, “I’ll propose when you’re ready to accept.”

 

“I’m not ready yet.”

 

“I know.”

 

She studied him, sensed his uncertainty, but even more his unwavering determination. “You’ve surprised me.” She’d thought of marrying him, fantasized and dreamed of it, but she’d never thought it might come to be—any more than she’d thought she would share his bed, let alone on a regular
basis, yet here she was—a warning in itself. “A large part of me wants to say yes, please ask, but becoming your duchess isn’t something I can decide on impulse.”

 

He’d offered her everything her heart could desire—
short
of promising her his. In one arrogant sweep, he’d moved them into a landscape she’d never imagined might exist—and in which there were no familiar landmarks.

 

“You’ve thrown me into complete mental turmoil.” Her thoughts were chaotic, her emotions more so; her mind was a seething cauldron in which well-known fears battled unexpected hopes, uncataloged desires, unsuspected needs.

 

Still he said nothing, too wise to press.

 

Indeed. She couldn’t let him, or her wilder self, rush her into this—a marriage that, if it went wrong, guaranteed emotional obliteration. “You’re going to have to give me time. I need to think.”

 

He didn’t protest.

 

She dragged in a breath, threw him a warning look, then slid off him, back to her side of the bed; turning onto her side, facing away from him, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders and snuggled down.

 

After a moment of regarding her through the dark, Royce turned and slid down in the bed, spooning his body around hers. Sliding his arm over her waist, he eased her back against him.

 

She humphed softly, but wriggled back, setting her hips against his abdomen. With a small sigh, she relaxed slightly.

 

He was still tense, his gut still churning. So much of his life, his future, was now riding on this, on her; he’d just placed his life in her hands—at least she hadn’t handed it straight back.

 

Which, realistically, was all he could ask of her at that point.

 

Lifting her hair aside, he pressed a kiss to her nape. “Go to sleep. You can take whatever time you need to think.”

 

After a moment, he murmured, “But when Lady Osbaldestone comes back up here and demands who I’ve chosen as my bride, I’ll have to tell her.”

 

Minerva snorted. Her lips curved, then, against every last expectation, she did as he’d bid her and fell fast asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seventeen

 

 

 

 

H
amish O’Loughlin, you mangy Scot, how
dare
you tell
Royce to tell me he loves me!”

 

“Huh?” Hamish looked up from the sheep he was examining.

 

Folding her arms, Minerva fell to pacing alongside the pen.