Mastered By Love

Nine

D espite the physical frustrations of the night, Royce was in an equable mood as, the next morning, he worked through his correspondence with Handley in the study.

While he had no experience seducing unwilling or uncertain ladies, his chatelaine, thank God, was neither. Convincing her to lie in his bed would require no sweet talk, cajoling, or longing looks, no playing to her sensitivities; last night, he’d simply been the man, the marcher lord, she already knew him to be, and had succeeded. Admirably.

She might not yet have lain in his bed, but he’d wager the dukedom that by now she’d thought of it. Considered it.

His way forward was now crystal clear, and once he’d bedded her thoroughly, once she knew she was his to the depths of her soul, he’d inform her that she was to be his duchess. He would couch his offer as a request for her hand, but he was adamant that by then there would be no real question, most especially not in her mind.

The more he dwelled on his plan, the more he liked it; with a female like her, the more strings he had linking her to him before he mentioned marriage, the better, the less likely she was to even quibble. The grandes dames might be certain that any of the ladies on their list would unhesitatingly accept his offer, but Minerva’s name wasn’t on that list, and-despite her comment to the contrary-he wasn’t so conceited, so arrogant, that he was, even now, taking her agreement for granted.

But he had no intention of letting her refuse.

“That’s all you have to deal with today.” Handley, a quiet, determined man, an orphan recommended to Royce by the principal of Winchester Grammar School, who had subsequently proved to be entirely worthy of the considerable trust Royce placed in him, collected the various letters, notes, and documents they’d been dealing with. He glanced at Royce. “You wanted me to remind you about Hamilton and the Cleveland Row house.”

“Ah, yes.” He had to decide what to do with his town house now he’d inherited the family mansion in Grosvenor Square. “Tell Jeffers to fetch Miss Chesterton. And you’d better stay. There’ll be letters and instructions to be sent south, no doubt.”

After sending Jeffers for Minerva, Handley returned to the straight-backed chair he preferred, angled to one end of Royce’s desk.

Minerva entered. Seeing Handley, she favored him with a smile, then looked at Royce.

No one else would have seen anything unusual in that look, but Royce knew she was wary, watching for any hint of sexual aggression from him.

He returned her look blandly, and waved her to her customary chair. “We need to discuss the Wolverstone House staff, and how best to merge the staff from my London house into the ducal households.”

Minerva sat, noting that Handley, settled in his chair, a fresh sheet of paper on top of his pile, a pencil in his hand, was listening attentively. She switched her gaze to Royce. “You mentioned a butler.”

He nodded. “Hamilton. He’s been with me for sixteen years, and I wouldn’t want to lose him.”

“How old is he?”

Royce cocked a brow at Handley. “Forty-five?”

Handley nodded. “About that.”

“In that case-”

She provided information on the existing Wolverstone households, while Royce, with Handley’s additional observations, gave her an overview of the small staff he’d accumulated over his years of exile. Given he had no wish to keep the Cleveland Row house, she suggested that most of the staff be sent to Wolverstone House.

“Once you’re married and take your seat in the Lords, you and your wife will entertain a great deal more there than has been the case in the last decade-you’ll need the extra staff.”

“Indeed.” Royce’s lips curved as if something amused him, but then he saw her noticing and glanced at his jottings. “That leaves only Hamilton’s fate unresolved. I’m inclined to assign him to Wolverstone House in a supportive capacity to old Bridgethorpe. In time, Hamilton can take over there, but until Bridgethorpe is ready to retire, depending on how much I need to travel between the various estates, I may use Hamilton as a personal butler.”

She raised her brows. “One who travels with you?”

“He knows my preferences better than anyone else.”

She inclined her head. “True. And that will allow all the other butlers to remain in their roles without causing tension.”

He nodded and looked at Handley. “Is there anything else?”

Handley shook his head and glanced at Minerva.

“Nothing more about the households,” she said, “but I wondered if you’d thought further about the mill.”

Royce frowned. “I’ll have to speak with Falwell, and I suppose Kelso, too, before I make any decision.” He glanced at Handley. “Send a message that I wish to see them tomorrow morning.”

Handley nodded, making a note.

In the distance, a gong sounded.

“Luncheon.” Minerva stood, surprised and relieved that she’d survived two full hours of Royce’s company without blushing once. Then again, other than that initial assessing look, he’d been entirely neutral when interacting with her.

She smiled at Handley as he and Royce rose to their feet.

Handley smiled back. Gathering his papers, he nodded to Royce. “I’ll have those letters ready for you to sign later this afternoon.”

“Leave them on the desk-I’ll be in and out.” Royce looked at Minerva, waved her to the door. “Go ahead-I’ll join you at the table.”

She inclined her head and left-feeling very like Little Red Riding Hood; avoiding walking alone through the keep’s corridors with the big, bad wolf was obviously a wise idea.

She had to own to further surprise when Royce chose to sit between Lady Courtney and Susannah at the luncheon table. The meal was strictly informal, a cold collation laid out on a sideboard from which guests helped themselves, assisted by footmen and watched over by Retford, before taking what seats they wished at the long table.

Flanked by Gordon and Rohan Varisey, with the startlingly handsome Gregory Debraigh opposite, she had distraction enough without wondering about Royce and his machinations. Presumably during the day, while he was Wolverstone and she was his chatelaine, he intended to behave with circumspection.

The meal had ended, and she was strolling with the others through the front hall, when Royce walked up behind her. “Minerva.”

When she halted and turned, brows rising, he said, “If you’re free, I’d like to take a look at the mill. It would help if I have a better understanding of the problem before I see Falwell and Kelso tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course.” She was the one urging the matter be dealt with immediately. “Now?”

He nodded and waved her toward the west wing.

They walked through the corridors, the voices of the others fading as they turned into the north wing. A side hall at the north end led them to a door that gave onto the gardens beyond.

Lawns and shrub borders fell away to more rolling expanses hosting larger, mature trees. The ornamental stream burbled beside them as they followed the gravel path along its bank. Ahead, the mill sat built over the stream; partially screened by a stand of willows, it was far enough from the house to be unobtrusive, yet was within walking distance.

As they approached, Royce studied the building, part stone, part timber. It sat squarely across the deep race, at that point only a few yards wide, through which the diverted waters of the Coquet rushed with sufficient force to spin the heavy waterwheel that turned the massive grinding stone.

The ground sloped upward, away from the castle toward the hills to the northwest, so the west bank of the race was significantly higher than the east bank. Spanning the race, the mill therefore was built on two levels. The higher and larger western section contained the grinding stone and the beams, levers, and gears that connected it to the waterwheel in the race.

The narrower, lower, eastern side through which he and Minerva entered contained beams and pulleys that raised and lowered the huge waterwheel; because of the bores that surged down the Coquet when the snows melted, it was essential the wheel could be lifted entirely free of the race. The eastern section also contained bins and storage cupboards set against the wooden railing that ran along the edge of the race.

The first crop of corn had already been ground; the second crop was yet to be harvested. For the moment, the mill stood silent and empty, with the wheel raised and braced above the race on massive beams.

“The problem’s not hard to see.” Minerva led the way into the soft shadows. The building had no windows, but light streamed in through the three open doorways-the one through which they’d entered, as well as the two at either end of the upper, western section.

Royce followed her along the continuation of the path, now paved; bins and cupboards formed a row on his left, the wood-and-stone outer wall to his right. The noise of rushing water was amplified inside, filling his ears. The cupboards were shoulder-height; when he looked over their tops, his eyes were level with the timber floor of the western section.

Ahead, beyond where the cupboards ended, Minerva had paused at the foot of a slanting gangplank connecting the two sections of the mill.

He nodded at the gangplank. “That’s new.” There’d always been a plank, but the ones he remembered had been literally planks, not this substantial timber board with cleats and a sturdy rail on one side. Halting beside Minerva, he studied the hinges, ropes, and pulleys attached to the plank, connecting it to the western section’s floor and railing. “And it even swings out of the way.”

In order for the waterwheel to be lowered and raised, the plank used to have to be removed altogether.

“After he’d replaced the old plank three times-you know how frequently they drop it in the race when they try to lift it away-Hancock designed this.” Minerva started across the narrow platform. “He hasn’t had to even repair it since.”

“An estimable improvement.” Royce followed her.

“Which is what we could do with up here.” Stepping off the gangplank’s upper end, Minerva swept her arms wide, encompassing the whole timber-floored western section in the middle of which sat the massive circular grinding stone supported by a stone plinth; the plinth continued through the floor into the earth beneath.

Letting his gaze travel around the otherwise empty area, Royce walked to the millstone, then cocked a brow at her.

“As I explained,” she continued, “because we have to keep the doors open all the time, summer and winter, it’s impos sible to store anything here. The corn is ground, collected, and bagged-and then, each day, has to be moved, either to the castle cellars or back to farmers’ holdings. If we close the doors to keep the animals out, the corn starts to mold by the next day. Bad enough, but preserving the millstone through winter is a never-ending battle. No matter what we’ve tried, it takes weeks of preparation every spring before we can use it without risking the corn.”

“Mold again?” He walked back to the railing along the race.

“Mold, fungus, mildew-we’ve even had mushrooms growing on it.”

Running a hand along the wide top rail, he grimaced. “Too damp.”

“If we shut the doors, it sometimes gets so bad it drips.”

He looked at her. “So what’s your solution?”

“Hancock agrees that if we put up a timber wall all along the race, we can tar it and make it waterproof. We’d also need to fill the gaps in the outer walls and roof, and around the plinth, and put extra strips on the doors, to stop damp air getting in. And Hancock strongly recommends, as do I, putting in glass panes above the southern doors, so sun can shine in and help keep what’s inside warm and dry.”

Royce glanced around. “Shut those doors.” He waved at the pair at the north end of the building, then walked to the larger set at the southern end. He waited until Minerva, frowning, shut both north doors, cutting off the light from that direction.

Sunshine coming through the doors in the eastern section didn’t reach the western side. Royce swung one of the southern doors closed, blocking off half the sunshine that had been streaming in, then, more slowly, closed the other door, watching as the band of sunshine narrowed until it was a thin beam.

Shutting the door completely, he walked back along the line the sunshine had traced to where it had ended just before the millstone. Halting, he turned to look back toward the doors, at the wall above them reaching to the roof.

Minerva came to stand beside him.

“How much glass was Hancock thinking of?”

Glass was expensive. “He was thinking of at least two panes, one above each door, at least half the width of each door.”

She watched as Royce studied the wall, then turned and looked at the millstone. “We’d be better off glazing as much of that wall as possible.”

She blinked.

He glanced at her, arched a brow.

Quickly, she nodded. “That would definitely be best.” She hadn’t suggested it because she hadn’t thought he would agree.

A subtle curving of his lips suggested he’d guessed as much, but all he said was, “Good.” Turning, he looked at the millstone, then prowled around her, examining the stone.

She looked up at the area above the door, estimating the size, then deciding she might as well reopen the north doors, swung around and walked-into Royce.

Into his arms.

She was surprised.

He wasn’t.

That last registered-along with the wicked glint in his eyes, the subtly triumphant lift to his lips, and that they were alone in the mill, acres from the castle, and the doors were closed-

He kissed her. Despite her racing thoughts, she had less than an instant’s warning. She tried to resist-the intention formed; she tried to make herself stiffen as his arms slid around her, tried to make her hands, instinctively splayed on his chest, push him away…

Nothing happened. Or rather, for long moments she simply stood there and let him kiss her-savored again the pressure of his lips on hers, the subtle heat of them, and of his body so near, hard, and fascinating as he gathered her in, closer to that beckoning heat…she almost couldn’t believe it was happening again. That he was kissing her again.

In a burst of startling clarity, she realized she hadn’t truly believed what had happened the previous night. She’d been cautious, wary and watchful today, but she hadn’t truly let herself acknowledge, not consciously, all that had happened in the morning room last night.

So it was going to happen again.

Before panic could gather wit and will, grab them back from where they’d wandered enough to mount any effective resistance, his lips firmed, hard and commanding, and hers parted. In the instant he surged, conquerorlike, into her mouth, she sensed his full intention-realized with absolute certainty that she had no hope of stopping him when fully half of her didn’t want to.

When too much of her wanted. Wanted to know, to experience, to savor him and all he would show her, to embrace the moment, and the pleasure and delight it might bring.

To open herself to that, and him, to explore the possibilities she’d sensed last night-to follow the lingering urging of her infatuation-obsession and all the fanciful dreams she’d ever had…of just such an illicit moment as this.

With him.

Even as the thought resonated through her, she felt the dark silk of his hair sliding over and under her fingers, realized that, once again, she was kissing him back-that he’d succeeded once again in luring her-the inner wanton only he had ever touched-into coming out and playing with him.

And it was a game. A sudden sense of exhilaration gripped her and she shifted against him, then, utterly blatant, stroked her tongue boldly along his.

She felt his deep chuckle, then he returned the favor, his mouth, lips, and tongue doing things to hers that she felt perfectly certain ought to be banned. His arms tightened, steely bands closing to bring her body flush against his, then his hands went wandering, tracing, then evocatively sculpting her curves, sweeping over her hips and down, then drawing her closer, molding her hips against his hard thighs, the rigid rod of his erection impressing itself on her much softer belly.

Already lost in the kiss, to his embrace, she felt her inner flames leap from a smolder to a crackling blaze. Felt herself heat, then melt into them, become part of them as they spread and consumed her.

She felt like a fey creature as she let herself spin, senses alert, attuned, as she let the fiery, gathering vortex he was orchestrating draw her in.

At some point, his arms eased from her; hands gripping her waist, he turned with her, then drew her down to the millstone.

The next thing she knew-the next moment her senses surfaced from the firestorm of pleasure he wrought enough to know-she was lying on her back, the rough stone beneath her shoulders, hips, and thighs, her bodice wide open, and he was feasting on her naked breasts even more evocatively-more intently and expertly-than he had the previous night.

It was only because he’d drawn back to look down on the flesh he’d so thoroughly possessed that she’d been able to rise above the pleasured haze he’d wrapped her in. Trapped her in-yet she couldn’t deny she was a very willing prisoner.

She was panting, gasping; she knew she’d moaned. Her hands lay lax on his upper arms; they’d lost all strength, after all he’d wrung from her. His dark eyes were tracing; she could feel the heat of his gaze, so much hotter on her bare skin.

But it was his face that, in that moment, held her, the sharp angles and planes, the long hollows of his lean cheeks, the square chin and wide brow, the blade of his nose, the intent line of his lips-the expression that, for that one unchecked instant, screamed with possessive lust.

It was that, it had to be; recognition made her wantonly writhe inside. Beneath his hand, she shifted restlessly.

His gaze flicked up; his eyes met hers for an instant, then he looked back at her breasts, lowered his head-and with calculated intensity swept her back into the flames.

She was far beyond any protest when he drew her skirts and petticoats up-all the way up to her waist. The touch of air on her skin should have felt cool, but instead she was already burning.

Already yearning for the touch of his hand between her thighs; when it came, she sighed. But she couldn’t relax, caught her breath on an urgent half sob, her fingers gripping his sleeve as her body arched, helplessly wantonly begged as he stroked, caressed, teased…

She wanted his fingers inside her again. That or…she’d always wondered why, how, women could be persuaded to accommodate the hard, heavy reality of a man’s erection, what madness possessed them to permit, let alone invite, such a thing to penetrate them there…now she knew.

She definitely knew, definitely burned with a want she’d never thought to feel.

Breathless, her voice no longer hers to command, she was struggling to find a way to communicate that burning, increasingly urgent desire when he released the tortured nipple he’d been suckling, lifted his head, slid down alongside her, ducked his head below the ridge of her rucked skirts-she gasped, shivered, as she felt his hot lips caress her navel.

Then she felt his tongue touch, caress, probe, then settle to a languid thrust and retreat; she shuddered and, eyes tightly closed, sank one hand in his hair, clinging to her whirling senses as between her thighs his fingers stroked in the same, evocative rhythm.

She was so deeply ensnared in the web of hot delight, of heated pleasure he sent coursing down her veins, that she was only dimly aware of him drawing back, of him easing her thighs wider apart.

What broke through the haze was the touch of his gaze, when, sensing it, faintly disbelieving, she cracked open her eyes and from beneath her lashes watched him studying, examining, the wet, swollen flesh his fingertips were tracing.

Her eyes locked on his face, captured by what she saw, sensed in the harsh, arrogant lines-the absolute drive, the all-consuming intent to possess her, all of her, that was engraved so clearly on his features.

The sight stole what little breath she had left, locked her lungs, left her giddy.

“Are you ready to scream?”

He hadn’t looked up, hadn’t met her eyes. She frowned; she hadn’t screamed yet, or only in her mind.

He glanced up, met her gaze for a fleeting instant, then lowered his head. And replaced his fingers with his lips.

She gasped, arched, would have jerked away but he had her well anchored, her hips held immobile so he could lap, lick, and savor.

And taste her. The realization brought a moan to her lips. Lids falling, head back, she tried to breathe, tried to cope, had no other option but to, fists clenching in his hair, ride the wave of sharp delight he sent surging through her.

That with an expert’s skill he crafted into a powerful, thunderous force that swept her into a fierce tempest of pleasure.

She battled to stifle a shriek as the tip of his tongue circled and stroked the tight bud of her desire, only partially succeeded. Her thighs trembled as his tongue continued to stroke…

Her spine arched helplessly as he eased it into her.

She shrieked, then screamed as he thrust it deep, then again more deeply into her.

Came apart in shuddering, sobbing waves as his mouth worked at her, on her, over her.

As the storm passed on and through her, leaving her utterly wracked and spent, Royce continued to lap at the nectar he’d drawn forth, savoring the gradual easing of her muscles, the slow roll of release as it swept through her.

Eventually, he drew back, looked at her face-that of a madonna pleasured to her toes-and smiled.

He reached for the buttons of her bodice and carefully did them up. A flick of his hand sent her skirts rustling down, covering her long, lithe legs. There was no sense in torment ing himself; this wasn’t his bed.

Tactics, strategy, and above all else, winning the war.

He rose, and opened the northern doors, then, once he’d ensured her skirts were fully down, opened the big southern doors as well. The afternoon sun slanted in; he stood there for a moment, ignoring the persistent ache in his groin, and looked back at the castle. He could see the keep’s battlements, private and out of bounds to all guests, but all the lower windows were screened by trees. Returning to the castle, they’d be safe from any even mildly interested eyes until they got much nearer the walls.

Given he wanted her to agree to their wedding solely because she desired him as much as he desired her, keeping their liaison a secret was imperative; he was determined that no social pressure of any stripe would work its way into their equation. Reassured, he returned to her.

The instant she blinked back to life, he took her hand and drew her to her feet, steadying her until, her arm tucked in his, she could walk beside him.

He led her out into the sunshine, heading back to the castle via the path along the western bank of the race.

Minerva felt…detached. Light, floating, glowing. Her limbs felt deliciously relaxed.

If nothing else, she now knew beyond question that Royce was expert at this game-which left her wondering why he hadn’t taken advantage of what he had to have known was her acquiescence, and sought his own release in her wantonly willing body.

The body he’d reduced to wanton willingness with caresses that, for the rest of her life, would make her blush.

As heat rose in her cheeks, she inwardly frowned; her features were still too lax to manage the expression.

“Because I intend to have you naked-not a stitch on-in my ducal bed.” He made the statement in an even, matter-of-fact voice as he strolled beside her, his gaze on the castle. “That’s where I intend to sink into you, to fill you and have my fill of you, for the first time.”

A spurt of irritation gave her strength enough to turn her head and narrow her eyes on his profile, until he, lips faintly curved, glanced her way.

She looked into his eyes, dark as sin and still far too molten, and discovered she had nothing to say. They’d reached a footbridge spanning the race, now a wider, burbling stream; drawing her arm from his, she reached for the railing and started across. She needed to put space between them.

“At the risk of sounding arrogantly smug, I got the impression you haven’t been accustomed to…life’s little subtleties.”

His tone made it clear to what he was referring; life’s little subtleties, indeed! “Of course not. I’ve been your mother’s confidante and your father’s chatelaine for the past eleven years. Why would I know of such things?”

She glanced his way, and saw a faintly puzzled, somewhat quizzical look on his face.

The same qualities resonated in his voice when he replied, “Strangely, those same criteria gave rise to my question.”

She looked ahead, felt his gaze on her face.

“I take it your past lovers weren’t…shall we say, imaginative?”

Her past lovers were nonexistent, but she wasn’t going to tell him that-he who had known more women than he could count. Literally.

That he, expert that he was, hadn’t detected her inexperience left her feeling faintly chuffed. She cast about in her mind for a suitable retort. As she stepped off the bridge and set off down the path, with every step closer to the castle feeling more like herself, she inclined her head in his direction. “I suspect few men are as imaginative as you.”

She felt certain that was nothing more than the truth, and if it caused him to preen and think he’d advanced his cause, so much the better.

After the afternoon’s debacle, she was going to have to give avoiding him much more serious thought. He thought she’d had lovers.

Then again, Variseys were sneaky, underhanded, and utterly untrustworthy when it came to something they wanted; he was quite capable of paying her a roundabout compliment like that in the hopes of further softening her brain.

Which, where he was concerned, was already soft enough.

Late that night, so late the moon was riding an inky sky over the Cheviots, casting a pearlescent sheen over every tree and rock, Minerva stood at her bedroom window and, arms folded, stared unseeing at the evocative landscape.

The door was locked; she suspected Royce could pick locks, so she’d left the key in the hole and turned it fully, then wedged a handkerchief around it, just to be sure.

She’d spent the evening with the other ladies, metaphorically clinging to their skirts. Although her bedroom was in the keep proper, opposite the duchess’s morning room, not all that far from the ducal apartments and Royce’s ducal bed, by steering the guests up the main keep stairs, she’d been able to tag along, stopping at her door while the ladies with rooms in the east wing walked on.

Royce had noticed her strategy, but other than an appreciative quirk to his lips, had made nothing of it.

She, however, was clearly going to have to take a stand against him.

The speculation the assembled ladies had indulged in after dinner, in the drawing room before the men had rejoined them, had underscored what she shouldn’t have needed to be reminded of; they were all waiting to learn who he’d chosen as his bride.

Any day now, they would hear.

And then where would she be?

“Damn all Variseys-especially him!” The muttered sentiment relieved a little of her ire, but the major part was self-directed. She’d known what he was like all along; what she hadn’t known, hadn’t realized, was that he could take her idiotic infatuation-obsession and with a few lustful kisses, a few illicit caresses, convert it into outright desire.

Flaming desire-the sort that burned.

She felt like she was smoldering, just waiting to ignite. If he touched her, kissed her, she would-and she knew where that would lead. He’d even told her-to his ducal bed.

“Humph!” Despite wanting-now, thanks to him and his expertise, wanting quite desperately-to experience in the flesh all that her fanciful imagination had ever dreamed, despite her smoldering desire to lie beneath him, there was one equally powerful consideration that, no matter that damning desire, had her holding adamantly, unwaveringly, to her original decision never to grace his bed.

If she did…would infatuation-obsession-smoldering desire convert to something more?

If it did…

If she ever did anything so foolish as to fall in love with a Varisey-and with him in particular-she would deserve every iota of the emotional devastation that was guaranteed to follow.

Variseys did not love. The entire ton knew that.

In Royce’s case it was widely known that his lovers never lasted long, that he inevitably moved on to another, then another, with no lingering attachment of any kind. He was a Varisey to his toes, and he’d never pretended otherwise.

To fall in love with such a man would be unjustifiably stupid. She strongly suspected that, for her, it would be akin to emotional self-immolation.

So she wasn’t going to-could not allow herself to-take the risk of falling in with his seduction, if it even could be called that-his highly charged sexual game.

And while she might be crossing swords with a master, she had a very good idea how to avoid his thrust-indeed, he’d told her himself.

Somewhat grimly, she considered ways and means. She wasn’t, when she dwelled on it, as short of defenses as she’d thought.