Mastered By Love (46 page)

unless
he loves me.”

 

Clarice blew out a breath. “Well, there is one thing you might try. If you’re game…”

 

 

Later that night, after a final consultation with her mentors, Minerva hurried back to her bedroom. The rest of the company had retired some time ago; she was late—Royce would be wondering where she was.

 

If he asked where she’d been, she could hardly tell him she’d been receiving instruction in the subtle art of how to lead a nobleman to reveal his heart.

 

Reaching her door, she opened it and rushed inside—and came up hard against his chest.

 

His hands closed on her shoulders and steadied her as the door swung shut behind her. He frowned down at her. “Where—”

 

She held up a hand. “If you must know, I’ve been dealing with your friends’ wives.” She whisked out of his hold and backed away, already unbuttoning her gown. “Go to your room—I’ll follow as soon as I’ve changed.”

 

He hesitated.

 

She got the impression he wanted to help her with her gown, but wasn’t sure he trusted himself. She waved him off. “Go! I’ll get there sooner if you do.”

 

“All right.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be waiting.”

 

The door shut soundlessly behind him just as she recalled she should have warned him not to undress.

 

“Damn!” Wrestling with her laces, she hurried even faster.

 

 

He was
not
happy. The last weeks had crawled by without any real satisfaction.

 

It had taken Lady Ashton longer than he’d expected to get here, and then, instead of creating any difficulty for Royce—not even the slightest scene—the damned woman had, so it appeared, accepted her congé without even a tantrum—not even a decent sulk!

 

That was one thing. Her rejection of
him
was quite another.

 

Seething, he stalked out of the west wing into the deeper shadows of the keep’s gallery. He’d gone to her room assuming that, as Royce had declined to share her bed—a fact she’d made light of when, at his subtle prod, Susannah had asked—then the delectable Lady Ashton would be amenable to entertaining him. She had a mouth he’d fantasized about using ever since Royce’s interest had focused his attention on her.

 

Instead, the lovely countess hadn’t let him past her door. She’d pleaded a migraine and stated her intention of leaving the next day as necessitating a good night’s sleep.

 

He ground his teeth. To be fobbed off with such transparent and paltry excuses made his blood boil. He’d intended to return to his room for a stiff brandy, but he needed something more potent than alcohol to burn away the memory of Lady Ashton’s blank politeness.

 

She’d looked at him, and coolly dismissed him as unworthy to take Royce’s place.

 

To rid himself of the vision, he needed something to replace it. Something like the image of Susannah—Royce’s favorite sister—on her knees before him. With him looking down at her, first from the front, then from the rear, as she serviced him,

 

If he pushed her hard, she might just be able to make him forget the countess.

 

Imagining doing to Royce’s sister what he’d planned to do to Royce’s mistress, he crossed the gallery. Susannah’s room was in the east wing.

 

He was passing one of the deep embrasures slotted into the keep’s walls when the sound of a door hurriedly opening had him instinctively sidestepping into the deeper shadows and halting.

 

Silently he waited for whoever it was to pass.

 

Light footsteps came pattering along the runner—a woman, hurrying.

 

She passed the opening of the embrasure; a glint of moonlight tangled in her hair. Minerva.

 

Seeing her hurrying about wasn’t surprising, even late at night. Seeing her rush off in her nightgown, swinging a light cloak about her shoulders, was.

 

He’d been walking back from the countess’s rooms for some minutes; in the pervasive silence he would have heard if any of the staff had knocked on Minerva’s door.

 

He slipped out of the embrasure and followed at a distance, stopped breathing when she turned down the short corridor that led to the ducal apartments. He reached the corner in time to peer around and see her open the door leading into Royce’s sitting room.

 

It shut silently behind her.

 

Despite the obvious implications, he couldn’t quite believe it. So he waited. Waited for her to emerge with Royce, having summoned him to deal with some emergency…

 

In her nightgown?

 

Barging into Royce’s bedroom?

 

A clock somewhere tolled the quarter hour; he’d been standing there watching the door for over fifteen minutes. Minerva wasn’t coming out.

 

She
was the reason Royce had dismissed the countess.

 

“Well, well, well, well, well.” Lips curving, he slowly turned and walked on to Susannah’s room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eighteen

 

 

 

 

M
inerva paused just inside Royce’s sitting room to drag
in a breath and steady her nerves.

 

A shadow across the room shifted. Her senses flared.

 

He emerged from the dimness, the shadows sliding away; he’d dispensed with his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and was barefoot, but still had his shirt and trousers on. He set down the empty glass he carried on a side table. He didn’t actually growl, “About time,” but the sentiment invested every stride as he stalked toward her.

 

“Ah…” She grabbed her sliding wits and hauled them back, raised her hands to ward him off.

 

He reached for her, but not as she expected. His hands clamped about her head, angled it as he swooped and captured her lips with his.

 

The searing kiss overwhelmed all thought, submerged every last vestige of rationality beneath a scorching tide of desire. Of passion unleashed; the flames licked about them, crackling and hungry.

 

She was, as always, drawn into the sheer wonder of being wanted so blatantly, in this way, to this degree. His hands locked about her head, with his mouth, lips, and tongue, he
claimed, possessed—and poured so much raw need, unfettered passion, and unrestrained desire into her, through her, that, swamped, submerged, instantly aroused, she swayed.

 

Her hands flattened on his chest; through the fine linen of his shirt she felt his heat and hardness. Unrelenting, demanding, commanding—she felt all he was beckon and lure. Sensed through her touch and the grip of his hands that amazing though it seemed he wanted her with an even greater passion than he had the night before.

 

Far from waning, a hunger gradually sated, his appetite—and hers—only grew. Escalated, deepened.

 

Fingers curling in his shirt, she kissed him back—an equal participant in the outrageously explicit kiss. If he never seemed able to get enough of her, she felt the same about him.

 

The thought reminded her of what she needed from the night. What more she wanted of him. The others had given her directions, not instructions. She knew what she had to achieve, had known she would have to improvise.

 

So how?

 

Before she could think, he released her head and drew his hands outward, letting her hair flow through his long fingers. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders, sliding down to puddle in a heap behind her. He broke from the kiss, reached for her body—and she’d run out of planning time.

 

“No!” Stepping back, palm braced on his chest, she tried to hold him off.

 

He halted, looked at her.

 

“I want to lead. For this dance, I want you to let me lead.”

 

That was the critical point—he had to let her. Had to accept the passive role instead of the dominant, had to willingly relinquish the reins and let her drive.

 

He’d never shared the reins—not truly. He’d allowed her to explore, but it had always been a permission granted, time and duration limited, all subject to his rule. He was a marcher lord, a king in his domains; she’d never expected anything else from him.

 

But tonight she was asking—demanding—that he not just share, but cede her his crown. For tonight, in his room, in his bed.

 

Royce understood very well what she was asking. Something he’d never granted to any other—and never would grant, not even to her, if he had a choice. But it wasn’t hard to guess from whom she’d got the idea, nor what, in her mind and theirs, it meant. What they thought his capitulation would mean.

 

And they were right.

 

Which meant he had no choice. Not if he wanted her to wear his duchess’s coronet.

 

Desire had already locked his features; he felt them grow harder, felt his jaw tighten as he held her gaze—and forced himself to nod. “All right.”

 

She blinked—he had to stop himself from scooping her up anyway and carrying her to his bed. He could rip away her wits, and her determination, but that way lay failure. This was a test—one he had to take. Easing back, he stretched his arms to either side. “So what now?”

 

A more cerebral part of him was intrigued to see what she would do.

 

Sensing his underlying challenge, she narrowed her eyes, then grabbed one hand, swung on her heel, and towed him into his bedroom.

 

His gaze locked on her hips, swaying naked beneath the near translucent poplin of an amazingly prim white nightgown. None of her nightgowns rated as provocative, but this one, with its long, gathered sleeves and high collar, closed all the way up to her chin with tiny buttons, seemed extreme—and erotic.

 

Because he knew the body inside the gown so well, the nunlike outer casing only spurred his imagination in picturing what it concealed.

 

She led him to the foot of his bed.

 

Releasing him, wordlessly she pushed until he stood with his back to the bed, his thighs against the mattress’s edge.
She positioned him in the center of the four-poster, then grasped one arm, raised and slapped his palm to the ornately carved post on that side.

 

“Hold that. Don’t let go.”

 

She did the same with his other arm, setting that hand, too, level with his shoulder, against the other carved post. The bed was wide, but his shoulders were broad, his arms long; he could reach both posts easily.

 

She stepped back, assessed, nodded. “Good. That will do.”

 

For what?
He was utterly intrigued over what she was planning. For all his experience, he’d never considered anything from a woman’s perspective; it was a novel, and unexpectedly arousing experience, arousing in an unusual way.

 

He’d been aroused from the moment he’d closed his hands about her head, painfully so once his lips had found hers; he would have taken her against the door in his sitting room if she hadn’t stopped him. Although she had, courtesy of her peculiar direction, the fire in his blood hadn’t died.

 

She trapped his eyes. “Under no circumstance are you to let go of the posts—not until I give you leave.”

 

Turning, she walked away from him, and the fires inside him burned brighter.

 

He tracked her across the room, aware of his hunger growing. Curiosity balanced it to some degree, let him wait with some semblance of patience.

 

Crossing to where he’d slung his clothes on a chair, she shifted things, then straightened; because of the sharp contrast between the shadows cloaking the room and the brilliance of the shaft of moonlight beaming like a searchlight on him, he couldn’t make out what she held in her hands until she drew near.

 

His cravat. Two yards of white linen. Instinctively he shifted his weight to his toes, about to step away from the bed.

 

She halted, caught his eye—waited.

 

He eased back, gripped the posts more firmly.

 

She uttered a small “humph,” and walked down the side of the bed. The covers rustled as she climbed up, then came
silence. She was on the bed a little way behind him, doing something; her gaze wasn’t on him. “I forgot to mention—you aren’t allowed to speak. No words. This is my script, and there are no lines for you.”

 

He inwardly snorted. He rarely used words in this arena; actions spoke louder.

 

Then she moved closer behind him. He sensed her rising high on her knees; her breath brushed his ear when she murmured, “I think this might be easier if you.” He sensed her arms rising over his head. “Can’t.” His cravat, folded to a narrow band, appeared before his face. “See.”

 

She settled the band over his eyes, then wound the long strip multiple times around his head before tying it off at the back.

 

A cravat made a damned fine blindfold. The material sank across his eyes; he couldn’t lift his lids at all.

 

Effectively blind, his other senses instinctively expanded, heightened.

 

She spoke by his ear. “Remember—no speaking, and no releasing the posts.”

 

Her scent. The brush of her breath across his earlobe. Inwardly he smiled cynically. How was she going to remove his shirt?

 

She slid from the bed, and came to stand before him. The subtle beckoning heat of her. Her light perfume. The more primitive, more evocative, infinitely more arousing fragrance of her—the one scent he hungered for most strongly, that of his woman aroused and ready for him.

 

He’d had that taste on his tongue; it was imprinted on his brain.

 

Every muscle hardened. His erection grew even more rigid.

 

She was two feet away. With his hands locked on the posts, she was out of his reach.

 

“Hmm. Where to start?”

 

At his waistband, then head down.

 

“Perhaps with the most obvious.” She stepped into him,
plastered her body against his, drew his head down, and kissed him.

 

She hadn’t told him he couldn’t kiss her back. He ravaged her mouth, seized a first taste of what he ached for.

 

For one heady moment, she clung, caught, helpless, in the passion he’d unleashed, her body instinctively sinking against his, yielding, promising to ease the ache in his groin, offering pleasure and earthly delight…