Mastered By Love

Ten

T he next morning, she commenced her campaign to protect her heart from the temptation of falling in love with Royce Varisey.

Her strategy was simple; she had to keep as far as possible from his ducal bed.

She knew him; he was stubborn, not to say muleheaded, to a fault. Given he’d declared that he would first have her in the huge four-poster-even to denying himself over the point-as long as she kept clear of his bedroom and that bed, she would be safe.

After breakfasting with the other guests rather than in the keep’s private parlor, she sent a message to the stables for the gig, went down to the kitchens and filled a basket with a selection of preserves made from fruit from the castle’s orchards, then strolled out to the stables.

She was waiting for the gig’s harness to be tightened when Sword came thundering in, Royce on his back.

Bringing the stallion under control, he raked her with his gaze. “Wither away?”

“There are some crofter families I need to call on.”

“Where?”

“Up Blindburn way.”

His gaze lowered to Sword. He’d ridden the stallion hard, and would need another mount if he chose to come with her; the gig couldn’t hold the basket and them both.

He glanced at her. “If you’ll wait while they fetch my curricle, I’ll drive us there. I should meet these crofters.”

She considered, then nodded. “All right.”

He dismounted, with a few orders dispatched Henry and two grooms to harness his blacks to his curricle, while others unharnessed the old cob from the gig.

When the curricle was ready, she let him take her basket and stow it beneath the seat, then hand her up; she’d remembered his demon-bred horses-with them between the shafts, he wouldn’t be able to devote any attention to her.

To seducing her.

He climbed up beside her, and with a flick of his wrist, sent the blacks surging; the curricle rattled out of the stable yard and down the drive, then he headed the flighty pair up Clennell Street.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a group of low stone cottages huddled against a hillside. Royce was quietly relieved that his expensive pair had, once they’d accepted that he wasn’t going to let them run, managed the less-than-even climb without breaking any legs.

He drew the horses to a halt at the edge of a flattened area between the three cottages. Children instantly appeared from every aperture, some literally tumbling out of windows. All were wide-eyed with wonder. They quickly gathered around, staring at the blacks.

“Coo-oo!” one boy reverently breathed. “Bet they go like the clappers.”

Minerva climbed down, then reached in for her basket. She caught his eye. “I won’t be too long.”

A sudden feeling-it might have been panic-assailed him at the notion of being left at the mercy of a pack of children for hours. “How long is ‘too long’?”

“Perhaps half an hour-no more.” With a smile, she headed for the cottages. All the children chorused a polite “Good morning, Miss Chesterton,” which Minerva answered with a smile, but the brats immediately returned their attention to him-or rather, his horses.

He eyed the motley crew gradually inching closer; they ranged from just walking to almost old enough to work in the fields-whatever ages those descriptions translated to. He’d had very little to do with children of any sort, not since he’d been one himself; he didn’t know what to say, or do.

Their bright, eager gazes flicked from the horses to him, but the instant they saw him watching, they looked back at the horses. He revised his earlier conclusion; they were interested in him, but the horses were easier to approach.

He was their duke; they were his future workers.

Mentally girding his loins, moving slowly and deliberately, he tied off the reins, then stepped down and strolled to the horses’ heads. Some of the children were quite small, and the blacks, although temporarily quiet, were completely untrustworthy.

The crowd drew back a step or two, the older boys and girls bobbing bows and curtsies. The younger ones weren’t sure what to do or why. One girl hissed to her recalcitrant little brother, “He’s the new dook, stoopid.”

Royce pretended he hadn’t heard. He nodded amiably-a general nod that included them all-then, catching his leader’s bridle, reached up and smoothed a hand down the long arched neck.

An instant passed, then-

“Do you ride ’em, Y’r Grace? Or are they just for hauling th’ carriage?”

“Have you won any races with ’em, Y’r Grace?”

“Is this here a curricle, or one of them phaetons, Y’r Grace?”

“How fast can they go, Y’r Grace?”

He very nearly told them to stop “Y’r Grace”-ing him, but realized it might sound like a reprimand. Instead, he set himself to answering their questions in a calm, unruffled manner.

Somewhat to his surprise, the approach he used with horses worked with children, too. They relaxed, and he had the chance to turn the tables enough to learn a little about the small settlement. Minerva had told him five families lived in the three cottages. The children confirmed that only the older women were at home; all the other adults and youths were in the fields, or working in the forge a little way farther along the track. They themselves weren’t at school because there was no school nearby; they learned their letters and numbers from the older women.

After a few such exchanges, the children clearly felt the ice had been broken and their bona fides sufficiently established to ask about him.

“We did hear tell,” the lad he thought was the oldest said, “that you was working in London for the government-that you were a spy!”

That surprised him; he’d thought his father would have ensured his occupation had remained a dim, dark secret.

“No, silly!” The oldest girl blushed when Royce and the others looked her way, but gamely went on, “Ma said as you were the chief spy-the one in charge-and that you were responsible for bringing down Boney.”

“Well…not by myself. The men I organized did very dangerous things, and yes, they contributed to Napoleon’s downfall, but it took Wellington and the whole army, and Blucher and the others, too, to finally get the deed done.”

Naturally, they took that as an invitation to pepper him with questions about his men’s missions; borrowing freely from otherwise classified exploits, it was easy enough to keep the expectant horde satisfied, although they were rather put out to learn he hadn’t actually seen Napoleon dragged away in chains.

After delivering the preserves she’d brought, and being introduced to the latest addition to the combined households by its grandmother, juggling the swaddled infant in her arms, cooing while it batted at her hair, Minerva went to the window the better to see the child’s eyes, glanced out-and tensed to hand the babe back so she could rush out and rescue its siblings.

Or Royce, whichever applied…but after an instant of looking, taking in the tableau centered on the black horses, the curricle-and the most powerful duke in England, who appeared to be telling some tale-she relaxed and, smiling, turned back to the baby and cooed some more.

The baby’s grandmother came to the window; she, too, took in the scene outside. Her brows rose. After a moment, she said, “Looking at that, if I couldn’t see with my own eyes that he’s the last lord’s get, I’d be thinking some cuckoo had got into the ducal nest.”

Minerva’s smile deepened; the idea of Royce as a cuckoo…“He’s definitely a Varisey, born and bred.”

The old woman humphed. “Aye, we’ll all be locking up our daughters, no doubt. Still…” She turned from the window and headed back to her work. “If that had been his father out there, he would have snarled at the brats and sent them scurrying-just because he could.”

Minerva couldn’t disagree, yet old Henry would never have even considered coming out with her on her rounds.

Nevertheless, she didn’t tempt fate; handing the baby back to its grandmother, she collected her basket, and was saying her farewells when a large presence darkened the doorway. Royce had to duck low to enter.

The three women immediately bobbed curtsies; Minerva introduced them before he could make any abrupt demand that they leave.

He acknowledged the women smoothly, then his gaze flicked over her, taking in the empty basket in her hand. But again, before he could say anything, the matriarch, who’d seized the moment to size him up, came forward to show him her grandchild.

Minerva held her breath, sensed him tense to step back- retreating from the baby-but then he stiffened and held his ground. He nodded formally at the matriarch’s words, then, about to turn and leave, hesitated.

He reached out and touched the back of one long finger to the baby’s downy cheek. The baby gurgled and batted with tiny fists. The grandmother’s face was wreathed in smiles.

She saw Royce notice, saw him take in the way the other women softened, too. Then he glanced at her.

She gestured with her basket. “We should be going.”

He nodded, inclined his head to the women. “Ladies.” Turning, he ducked out of the cottage.

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.

The play began. In such situations, it was accepted practice for the audience to call comments, suggestions, and directions to the players-who might or might not respond. Whatever the true tone of the play, the result was always a comedy, something the abbreviated scripts were designed to enhance; the players were expected to overplay the parts to the top of their bent.

While most in the audience called their comments loud enough for all to hear, Royce made his to her alone. His observations, especially on Mercutio, played to the hilt and beyond by his cousin Rohan, were so dry, so acerbic and cuttingly witty, that he reduced her to helpless giggles in short order-something he observed with transparently genuine approval, and what looked very like self-congratulation.

When Susannah appeared as Juliet, waltzing through her family’s ball, she returned the favor, making him smile, eventually surprising a laugh from him; she discovered she felt chuffed about that, too.

The balcony scene had them trying to outdo each other, just as Susannah and Phillip vied for the histrionic honors on stage.

When the curtain finally swished closed and the audience thundered their applause for a job well done, Royce discovered he had, entirely unexpectedly, enjoyed himself.

Unfortunately, as he looked around as footmen hurried in to light more candles, he realized the whole company had enjoyed themselves hugely-which augured very badly for him. They’d want to do a play every night until the fair; it took him only an instant to realize he’d have no hope of altering that.

He would have to find some way around his chatelaine’s latest hurdle.

Both he and Minerva rose with the others, chatting and exchanging comments. Along with the other players, Susannah reappeared, stepping down from the stage to rejoin the company. Slowly, he made his way to her side.

She turned as he approached, arched one dark brow. “Did you enjoy my performance?”

He arched a brow back. “Was it all performance?”

Susannah opened her eyes wide.

Minerva had drifted from Royce’s side. She’d been complimenting Rohan on his execution of Mercutio; she was standing only feet away from Susannah when Royce approached.

Close enough to see and hear as he complimented his sister, then more quietly said, “I take it Phillip is the latest to catch your eye. I wouldn’t have thought him your type.”

Susannah smiled archly and tapped his cheek. “Clearly, brother mine, you either don’t know my type, or you don’t know Phillip.” She looked across to where Phillip was laughing with various others. “Indeed,” Susannah continued, “we suit each other admirably well.” She glanced up at Royce, smiled. “Well, at least for the moment.”

Minerva inwardly frowned; she hadn’t picked up any connection between Phillip and Susannah-indeed, she’d thought Susannah’s interest lay elsewhere.

With a widening smile, Susannah waggled her fingers at Royce, then left him.

Royce watched her go, and inwardly shrugged; after his years in social exile, she was right-he couldn’t know her adult tastes that well.

He was about to look around for his chatelaine when Margaret raised her voice, directing everyone back to the drawing room. He would have preferred to adjourn elsewhere, but seeing Minerva go ahead on Rohan’s arm, fell in at the rear of the crowd.

The gathering in the drawing room was as uneventful as usual; rather than remind his chatelaine of his intentions, he bided his time, chatted with his cousins, and kept an eye on her from across the room.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t lulled. She clung to the group of females, Susannah included, who had rooms in the east wing; she left with them, deftly steering them up the wide main stairs-he didn’t bother following. He would have no chance of laying hands on her and diverting her to his room before she reached hers.

He retired soon after, considering his choices as he climbed the main stairs. He could join Minerva in her bed. She’d fuss, and try to order him out, shoo him away, but once he had her in his arms, all denial would be over.

There was a certain attraction in such a direct approach. However…he walked straight to his apartments, opened the door, went in, and closed it firmly behind him.

He walked into his bedroom, and looked at his bed.

And accepted that this time, she’d triumphed.

She’d won the battle, but it was hardly the war.

Walking into his dressing room, he shrugged out of his coat, and set it aside. Slowly undressing, he turned the reason he hadn’t gone to her room over in his mind.

In London, he’d always gone to his lovers’ beds. He’d never brought any lady home to his. Minerva, however, he wanted in his bed and no other.

Naked, he walked back into the bedroom, looked again at the bed. Yes, that bed. Lifting the luxurious covers, he slid between the silken sheets, lay back on the plump pillows, and stared up at the canopied ceiling.

This was where he wanted her, lying beside him, sunk in the down mattress within easy reach.

That was his vision, his goal, his dream.

Despite lust, desire, and all such weaknesses of the flesh, he wasn’t going to settle for anything less.