Mastered By Love

Fifteen

T wo nights later, Minerva slipped into Royce’s rooms, and gave thanks that Trevor was never there waiting. As per her recent habit, she’d left Royce and the rest of the company downstairs and slipped away-to come here, to his rooms, to his bed.

Walking into the now familiar bedroom, she found herself quietly amazed at how easy their liaison had become, how comfortable she’d grown over such a short time with the daily and nightly rhythms.

The last days had passed in a whirl of preparations, both for the house party and for the fair itself. As the major house in the district, the castle was always first in donating and participating, an association the household staff maintained regardless of the interest of their masters.

She’d always made time for the fair. Run under the auspices of the local church, the fair raised funds both for the upkeep of the church as well as for numerous projects for the betterment of the local flock. A flock the castle would always have a vested interest in, a fact she used to justify the expenditure of time and goods involved.

Stripping off her gown, she was aware of an unexpected contentment. Given Margaret’s, Aurelia’s, and Susannah’s involvement this year, matters might have been much worse, but all was progressing smoothly on both the house party and the fair fronts.

Naked, her hair down around her shoulders, she lifted the crimson sheets and slid beneath the cool silk. If she was honest, her contentment, the depth of it, had a nearer, deeper, more powerful source. She knew their liaison would last for only a short while-in reality her time with him had to be more than half over-but rather than making her wary and reticent, rather than making her draw back from their engagements, the knowledge that her chance to experience all she might with him was strictly limited had served to spur her on. She was determined to live, whole and complete, to embrace the moment and seize the chance to be all the woman she could be, for however long his interest lasted. For however long he gave her.

It wouldn’t be long enough for her to fall in love with him, for her to get trapped by unrequited emotion, and if she felt an unwelcome pang because she would never have the chance to know love in all its glory, she could accept and live with that.

She heard the sitting room door open, and close, heard his step on the floor-then he was there, powerful and dominant, literally darkening the doorway in the unlit room. He met her gaze; she sensed rather than saw his smile, his liking for the sight of her lying naked in his bed.

He moved forward, heading for his tallboy to undress; she literally licked her lips and waited. It was one of many individual moments she savored, watching him disrobe, watching his powerful body be revealed element by element to her hungry gaze.

Offered up, for her delectation.

He knew. She knew he did. Although he never gave any overt sign-never made any too obvious gesture or glanced at her to see how she was reacting-he artfully drew the moments out until, by the time he was naked and joined her in the bed, she was beyond desperate to get her hands on him.

To feel him against her, all that glorious muscle, all those heavy bones, to sense and feel the power inherent in his large frame.

To have that possess her, shatter her, and bring her unbounded, unfettered delight. Unrestricted, unrestrained pleasure.

She knew that was what would come to her as, finally naked, he crossed the room and lifted the sheets. She waited, breath bated, nerves taut, for that moment when the mattress sagged beneath his weight, and he reached for her, gathered her in, and their bodies met.

Skin to skin, heat to heat, desire to passion, wanting to yearning.

She came to him, and Royce drew her to him, half beneath him as he leaned over her. Her hand touched the side of his face, welcoming, encouraging, mirroring the messages her body gave as she sank against him, her softness molding instinctively to his hardness, giving against his heavier weight, cushioning and beckoning with sirenlike allure.

Without hesitation, without thought, he dove into her mouth, and found her waiting there, too. Waiting to engage, to meet and satisfy his every demand-to challenge him, did she but know it, with the ease with which she so effortlessly sated him.

Even after having her for more times than he’d ever had any woman, he still couldn’t get enough of her-any more than he could solve the riddle of how having her had become such a bliss-filled act.

Why it so soothed his soul, both that of the man and that of the beast, the primitive being that lurked deep within him.

She embraced him all, and gave him surcease; in her arms he found an earthly heaven.

In search of it again, he drew his hand from her breast, reached down, caught her knee, and lifted it. Angling his hips, he nudged into her, then thrust deep. Seated fully within her, he rolled and settled fully upon her; wrapped in her arms and the billows of his bed, he savored her mouth as he savored her body, rocking them both with slow, deep thrusts, taking them both on a slow ride to paradise.

At the last, she clutched, arched beneath him as his name ripped from her throat; he buried his head in the sweet curve of her shoulder and gave himself to her in a long, intense climax that rolled on and on.

Afterward, once he’d regained possession of sufficient wit to move, he lifted from her, settled beside her, and gathered her close, and she came, snuggling against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, spread over his heart.

He didn’t know if she knew she did that every night, that she slept with her hand just there. With her warmth against him and all tension released, he sank deeper into the mattress, and let the quiet joy he always found with her seep slowly to his bones. To his soul.

And wondered, again, why. Why what he found with her was so different. And why he felt as he now did about her.

She was the woman he wanted as his wife-so he’d let her close, closer than he’d ever let anyone else, and therefore she meant more than anyone else to him. He shouldn’t be surprised that she awakened, called to, drew forth emotions no other ever had.

He’d never felt as possessive of any woman as he felt about her. Never felt as consumed by, as focused on, as connected to anyone as he did to her. She was rapidly becoming-had already become-someone he needed and wanted in his life forever…

What he felt for her, how he felt about her, mirrored how his friends felt about their wives.

Given he was a Varisey through and through-knew that to his bones-he didn’t understand how that could be, yet it was. In his Varisey heart, he didn’t approve of it-his feelings for her-any more than he approved of any other vulnerability; a vulnerability was a weakness, a chink in his armor-a sin for such as he. But…deep within was a yearning he’d only recently recognized.

His father’s death had been the catalyst, the message he’d left with Minerva an unintended revelation. If he didn’t need to be like his father in running the dukedom, perhaps he didn’t need to be like him in other ways. Then his friends had arrived to comfort him, and had reminded him of what they’d found, what they had. And he’d seen his sisters and their Varisey marriages-and that hadn’t been what he’d wanted, not anymore.

He now wanted a marriage like his friends had. Like his ex-colleagues of the Bastion Club had forged. That want, that need, had burgeoned and grown over the past nights, even more over the past days, until it was an ache-like a stomach-ache-lodged in his chest.

And in the dark of his bed in the depths of the night, he could admit that that want scared him.

He didn’t know if he could achieve it-that if he reached for what he wanted, he could in fact secure it.

There were few arenas in life in which he doubted himself, but this newfound battleground was one.

Yet the one thing he now yearned for above all else was for the woman in his arms to love him. He wanted what his friends had found-lusted after her gentle affection if anything more intensely than he lusted after her body.

But if he asked for her love, and she gave it, she would ask for, and expect, his love in return. That’s how love worked; that much he knew.

But he didn’t know if he could love.

He could see that far, but no further.

If somewhere deep in his Varisey soul, so deep no other Varisey had ever found it, love lurked, a nascent possibility…

His problem was he didn’t believe that was so.

“Ma’am?”

Minerva looked up from her desk in the duchess’s morning room. “Yes, Retford?” The butler had entered and stood just inside the door.

“The Countess Ashton has arrived, ma’am-one of Lady Susannah’s guests. Unfortunately, Lady Susannah is out riding.”

Minerva inwardly grimaced. “I’ll come down.” Laying aside her pen, she rose. Royce had ridden over the border to visit Hamish, presumably to discuss sheep and the required breeders; she’d hoped to use the time to catch up with her correspondence, which she’d neglected of late.

But duty called.

She consulted the list lying on one side of her desk, then turned to the door. “We’ve put the countess in the west wing-I’m sure Cranny will have the room ready. Please ask her to send up a maid, or has the countess brought one?”

“No, ma’am.” Retford retreated into the corridor. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Cranshaw.”

Retford followed at Minerva’s heels as she went down the corridor and descended the main stairs. In the huge hall below, a lady, curvaceous and dark-haired, turned from examining her reflection in one of the large mirrors.

An extremely modish hat sat atop Lady Ashton’s sleek head. Her carriage gown was the latest in fashionable luxury, beautifully cut from ivory silk twill with magenta silk trimming; the skirts swished as, an easy smile curving delicately tinted lips, her ladyship came forward to meet Minerva.

Stepping down from the last step, Minerva smiled. “Lady Ashton? I’m Miss Chesterton-I act as chatelaine here. Welcome to Wolverstone Castle.”

“Thank you.” Of similar height to Minerva, Lady Ashton possessed classical features, a porcelain complexion, and a pleasant, confident demeanor. “I gather Susannah is out gadding about, leaving me to impose on you.”

Minerva’s smile deepened. “It’s no imposition, I assure you. It’s been some years since the castle hosted a house party-the household is quite looking forward to the challenge.”

The countess tilted her head. “House party?”

Minerva hesitated. “Yes-didn’t Susannah mention it?”

A faint smile on her lips, the countess glanced down. “No, but there was no reason she should. She invited me to another end.”

“Oh.” Minerva wasn’t sure what was going on. “I’m sure Susannah will tell you about the party when she returns. Meanwhile, if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your room.”

The countess consented to climb the stairs beside her. Halfway up, she grew aware of Lady Ashton’s sideways glance, and turned her head to meet it.

Her ladyship pulled a wry face. “I didn’t like to ask the butler, but is Royce-I suppose I should call him Wolverstone, shouldn’t I? Is he about?”

“I believe he’s out riding at present.”

“Ah.” The countess looked ahead, then shrugged. “He’ll have to cope with us meeting again with others about, then-or if you see him, you might mention I’m here. Susannah sent for me well over a week ago, but I wasn’t in London, so it’s taken a while for me to arrive.”

Minerva wasn’t sure what to make of that. She fastened on the most pertinent fact. “You know Royce.”

The countess smiled, her face transforming into that of a stunning seductress. “Yes, indeed.” Her voice lowered to a purr. “Royce and I know each other very well.” She glanced at Minerva. “I’m sure that’s no real surprise to you, my dear-you must know what he’s like. And while it was Susannah who penned the invitation to me, she made it clear it was for Royce that she summoned me.”

A cold, iron fist gripped Minerva’s heart; her head spun. “I…see.” The countess must be the lady Royce had chosen. Yet Susannah had asked if Minerva knew…but perhaps that was before he’d had Susannah write to the countess.

But why Susannah, rather than Handley?

And surely the countess was married…no, she wasn’t; Minerva recalled hearing that the Earl of Ashton had died several years ago.

They’d strolled past the short corridor to the ducal apartments and into the west wing. Halting before the door of the room the countess had been assigned, Minerva dragged in a breath past the constriction banding her chest, and turned to her ladyship. “If you would like tea, I can have a tray brought up. Otherwise, the luncheon gong will ring in about an hour.”

“I’ll wait, I think. I take it Wolverstone will return for lunch?”

“I really can’t say.”

“No matter-I’ll wait and see.”

“The footmen will bring up your trunk. A maid will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.” With an inclination of her head and a perfectly gracious smile, the countess opened the door and went inside.

Minerva turned away. Her head was spinning, but that was the least of it. She literally felt ill…because her heart was chilled and aching-and it wasn’t supposed to be.

Neither Royce nor Susannah nor the rest of the company returned for luncheon, leaving Minerva to entertain the countess by herself.

Not that that was a difficult task; Lady Ashton-Helen as she asked to be called-was an extremely beautiful, sophisticated lady with an even temperament, gracious manners, and a ready smile.

No matter the circumstances, no matter the sudden agonies of her foolish, foolish heart, no matter her instinctive inclination, Minerva found it difficult to dislike Helen; she was, in the very essence of the word, charming.

Leaving the dining room, Helen smiled rather wistfully. “I wonder, Minerva, if I may truly impose on you and ask for a quick tour-or as quick a tour as can be-of this enormous pile?” She looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the front hall as it opened before them. “It’s rather daunting to consider…”

She trailed off, shot a look at Minerva, then sighed. “I’ve never been much of a hand at subterfuge, so I may as well be plain. I have no idea where I stand with Royce, and I freely admit to a certain nervousness-which is really not my style.”

Minerva frowned. “I thought…” She wasn’t at all sure what to think. She led the way to the principal drawing room.

The countess strolled beside her. As they paused inside the long formal room, Helen continued, “I assume you know of his inviolable rule-that he never spends more than five nights with any lady?”

Expressionless, Minerva shook her head. “I hadn’t heard.”

“I assure you it’s true-there are any number of ladies within the ton who can attest to his refusal to bend on that score, no matter the inducement. Five nights are all he allows any woman.” The countess grimaced. “I suppose it was one way to ensure none of us ever got any ideas, as one might say, above our station.”

Surreptitiously, Minerva counted on her fingers; last night had been her fifth-and therefore last-night. She hadn’t even known. Inwardly reeling, she stepped back into the hall, then led the way toward the formal dining room.

Helen kept pace. “I was his lover before he left London-for just four nights. I hoped for a fifth, but then he disappeared from town. Later I heard about his father’s death, and so believed our liaison was over-until I received Susannah’s note. She seemed to think…and then I heard about the grandes dames and their decree, but no announcement came…” She glanced at Minerva. “Well, I did wonder.” She shrugged. “So here I am, come to throw my hat in the ring, if there is a ring, that is. But he does have to marry, and we get along well enough…and I do want to marry again. Ashton and I weren’t in love, but we liked each other. There’s a great deal to be said for companionship I’ve discovered, now I no longer have it.”

Helen gave a cynical laugh. “Of course, all depends on the whim of one Royce Varisey, but I thought he should know that he does have alternatives to the giddy young misses.”

Thrusting her reeling emotions deep and slamming a mental door on them, Minerva forced herself to consider Helen’s words. And who was she to answer for Royce? For all she knew, he might feel some real connection to Helen; it wasn’t hard to picture her on his arm, as his duchess.

Dragging in a breath, she held it, then managed a mild smile. “If you like, I can show you around the main areas of the castle.” As Royce had to marry someone, she’d rather it was Helen than some witless miss.

Later that evening, Minerva sat midway down the long dining table, conversing blithely with those around her while surreptitiously watching Helen sparkle, effervesce, and charm from her position at Royce’s left.

The lovely countess had usurped her place there, and, it seemed, had displaced her in other ways, too. Royce hadn’t spared so much as a glance for her since he’d walked into the drawing room and laid eyes on Helen, a stunning vision in rose-pink silk.

Feeling dull and drab in her weeds, she’d stood by the wall and watched, no longer sure of where she stood with Royce, and utterly unsure what to do.

She’d started her tour with Helen imagining there was, in the matter of Royce’s bride, no worse candidate than a giddy young miss. After an hour of listening to Helen’s views on the castle and the estate, and most importantly its people, she’d revised that opinion.

Helen would never rule as Royce’s duchess at Wolverstone. Quite aside from all else, she didn’t want to. She’d assumed Royce would spend most of his time in London, but he’d already declared he would follow in his father’s and grandfather’s-and even great-grandfather’s-footsteps. His home would be here, not in the capital.

When she’d mentioned that, Helen had shrugged, smiled, and said, “We’ll see.” Helen couldn’t imagine she would change Royce’s mind, which had left Minerva wondering just what sort of marriage Helen envisioned-quite possibly one that might well suit Royce.

Which would compound the more serious problem, namely that Helen had absolutely no feeling for, no empathy with, the estate in general, much less the people on it. She’d already hinted that she assumed Minerva would stay on as chatelaine. Minerva couldn’t, wouldn’t, but she’d always imagined handing her keys to some woman with a heart, with compassion and interest in her staff and the wider community of which the castle was the hub.

Glancing up the table again, she saw Royce, lips subtly curving, incline his head to the countess in response to some sally. Forcing her gaze to Rohan, seated opposite her, she smiled and nodded; she hadn’t heard a word of his latest tale. She had to stop torturing herself; she had to be realistic-as realistic as the countess. But what did reality demand?

On a purely worldly level, she ought to step quietly aside and let Helen claim Royce, if he was willing. She’d already had her five nights with him, and, unlike her, Helen would make him an excellent wife within the parameters he’d set for his marriage.

On another level, however, one based on the emotional promptings of her witless heart, she’d like to haul Helen away and send her packing; she was wrong-all wrong-for the position of Royce’s bride.

Yet when she rose and, with the other ladies, filed behind Margaret to the door, she let her senses open wide…and knew Royce didn’t even glance at her. In the doorway, she glanced swiftly back, and saw the countess very prettily taking her leave of him; his dark eyes were all for her.

Minerva had had her five nights; he’d already forgotten her existence.

In that instant, she knew that no matter how much of a fool she would think him if he accepted Helen’s transparent invitation and offered her his duchess’s coronet, she wouldn’t say a word against his decision.

On that subject, she could no longer claim to hold an un biased opinion.

Turning away, she wondered how long she would have to endure in the drawing room until the tea tray arrived.

The answer was, a lot longer than she wanted. More than long enough to dwell on Royce’s iniquities; from his continuing obliviousness, her time with him had come to an absolute end-he’d just forgotten to tell her. The fiend.

She was in no good mood, but clung to the knots of others as they chatted about this and that, and hid her reaction as best she could; there was no value in letting anyone else sense or suspect. She wished she didn’t have to think about it herself, that she could somehow distance herself from the source of her distress, but she could hardly cut out her own heart. Contrary to her misguided hopes and beliefs, she could no longer pretend it had escaped involvement.

There was no other explanation for the deadening feeling deep in her chest, no other cause for the leaden lump that unruly organ had become.

Her own fault, of course, not that that made the dull twisting pain any less. She’d known from the start the dangers of falling in love-even a little bit in love-with him; she just hadn’t thought it could happen so quickly, hadn’t even realized it had.

“I say, Minerva.”

She focused on Henry Varisey as he leaned conspiratorially close.

His gaze was fixed across the room. “Do you think the beautiful countess has any chance of learning what no one else yet has?”

It took a moment to realize he was alluding to the name of Royce’s bride. She followed Henry’s gaze to where Helen all but hung on Royce’s arm. “I wish her luck-on that subject he’s been as close-mouthed as an oyster.”

Henry glanced at her, arched a brow. “You haven’t heard anything?”

“Not a hint-no clue at all.”

“Well.” Straightening, Henry looked back across the room. “It appears our best hopes lie with Lady Ashton.”

Assuming Lady Ashton’s wasn’t the name in question…Minerva frowned; Henry, at least, didn’t see Helen as even a possibility as Royce’s chosen bride.

Across the room, Royce forced himself to keep his gaze on Helen Ashton, or whoever else was near, and not allow his eyes to deflect to Minerva, as they constantly wanted to. He’d walked into the drawing room before dinner, anticipating another delightful evening of enjoying his chatelaine, only to find himself faced with Helen. The very last woman he’d expected to see.

He’d inwardly sworn, plastered on an unruffled expression, and battled not to seek help from the one person in the room he’d actually wanted to see. He had to deal with Helen first. An unwanted, uninvited irritation; he hadn’t understood why the hell she was there until he’d heard her story.

Susannah. What the hell his sister had been thinking of he had no clue. He’d find out later. For that evening, however, he had to toe a fine line; Helen and too many others-all those who knew she’d been his recent mistress-expected him to pay attention to her now she was there.

Because as far as they knew, he hadn’t had a woman in weeks. He didn’t have a mistress at Wolverstone. True, and yet not.

With everyone watching him and Helen, if he so much as glanced at Minerva, someone would see-and someone would wonder. While he was working toward making their connection public through getting her to convince herself to accept his suit, he wasn’t yet sure of success, and had no intention of risking his future with her because of his ex-mistress.

So he had to bide his time until he could confirm Helen’s status directly with her. As she was the senior lady present, he’d had no choice but to escort her into dinner and seat her at his left-in some ways a boon, for that had kept Minerva at a distance.

He hoped-prayed-she would understand. At least once he explained…

He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, but then again, Minerva knew him very well. She would hardly be shocked to learn that Helen had been his mistress, and was now his ex-mistress. In their world, it was the ex- that counted.

Even with his outward attention elsewhere, he knew when Minerva left the room. A quick glance confirmed it, and sharpened the inner spur that impelled him to follow her.

But he had to settle matters with Helen first.

And Susannah. His sister swanned past beyond Helen; she caught his eye-no difficulty as it was fixed on her-and winked. Hiding his reaction behind an easy expression, he left Helen to her conversation with Caroline Courtney; reaching out he closed his fingers about Susannah’s elbow and drew her with him as he strolled a few paces.

Once they were sufficiently apart to speak privately, he released her and looked down as she looked up at him.

She smiled with childlike-childish-delight. “Well, brother dear, are you happier now?”

He read her sincerity in her eyes. Inwardly sighed. “Actually, no. Helen and I parted when I left London.”

Susannah’s face fell almost comically. “Oh.” She looked thoroughly disconcerted. “I had no idea.” She glanced at Helen. “I thought…”

“If I might ask, what, exactly, did you tell her?”

“Well, that you were here and alone, and having to make this dreadful decision of who to wed, and that if she came up, perhaps she might make your life easier, and, well…those sort of things.”

Royce inwardly groaned, then sighed through his teeth. “Never mind. I’ll speak with her and straighten things out.”

At least he now knew his instincts had been right; Helen wasn’t there to share just a night of passion. Thanks to Susannah’s poor phrasing, Helen now harbored higher aspira tions.

He let Susannah, rather subdued, go and returned to Helen’s side, but had to wait until everyone else finally decided to retire to take her to a place where they could speak privately.

Leaving the drawing room at the rear of the crowd, he touched Helen’s arm, and indicated the corridor leading away from the hall. “This way.”

He led her to the library.

She passed through the door he held open for her, and came to a momentary halt; she was too experienced not to realize the significance of the venue. But then her spine straightened, and she walked further into the room. He followed and closed the door.

A candelabra on the mantelpiece was alight; a small fire blazed cheerily in the hearth. He waved Helen to the wingchair to one side of the hearth. She walked ahead of him to the fireplace, but then swung to face him, hands clasped before her, fingers twining.

She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, staying her words.

“First, let me say that I was surprised to see you here-I had no idea Susannah had written to you.” Halting on the other side of the hearth, he held Helen’s blue gaze. “However, courtesy of what my sister wrote, I accept that you may be laboring under a misapprehension. To clarify matters-” He broke off, then let his lips twist cynically. “To be brutally frank, I’m currently negotiating for the hand of the lady I’ve chosen as my duchess, and am entirely uninterested in any dalliance.”

And if she’d thought she had any chance at a more permanent connection, she now knew better.

To give her her due, and as he’d expected, Helen absorbed the reality well. She was a natural survivor in their world. Her eyes on his face, she drew a long breath as she digested his words, then she inclined her head, her lips twisting in a rueful grimace. “Good Lord-how very…awkward.”

“Only as awkward as we wish to make it. No one will be surprised if we amicably part and move on.”

She thought, then nodded. “True.”

“I will, naturally, do everything within my power to ensure you’re not made uncomfortable while here, and I hope, in the future, you will continue to regard me as a friend.” He continued to hold her gaze, entirely confident she would understand the offer behind his words, and value it accordingly.

She didn’t disappoint him. She was far from stupid, and if she couldn’t have him as either lover or husband, then having him as a powerful, well-disposed acquaintance was the next best thing. Again she inclined her head, this time in a deeper obeisance. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She hesitated, then lifted her head. “If it would not inconvenience you, I believe I’ll remain for a few days-perhaps for the house party.”

He knew about saving face. “By all means.”

Their interview was at an end; he waved her to the door, falling in beside her as she walked down the room.

He halted before the door, waited until she looked at him. “If I might ask, was it purely distraction you came up to Northumberland to offer, or…?”

She smiled. “Susannah apparently believed I had some chance of becoming your duchess.” She met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think it likely.”

“I apologize for Susannah-she’s younger than I, and doesn’t, in fact, know me as well as she thinks she does.”

Helen laughed. “No one knows you as well as they think they do.” She paused, then smiled-one of her gloriously charming smiles. “Good night, Royce. And good luck with your negotiations.”

Opening the door, she went out.

Royce watched the door close behind her; he stood staring at the panels, his mind immediately refocusing on the one burning issue dominating his current existence-his nego tiations with the lady he’d chosen as his duchess.

His campaign to ensure Minerva said yes.

Minerva lay alone in her bed-a perfectly good bed she’d slept comfortably in for years and years, but which now seemed entirely lacking.

She knew what was missing, what lack it was that somehow made it impossible to fall asleep, but why the simple presence of a male body over a handful of days should have made such a deep impression on her psyche to the extent she-her body-fretted at his absence, she simply could not comprehend.

If her body was restless, her mind was even more so. She had to stop thinking about all she’d learned-had to stop wondering if Helen had actually meant five interludes, or five intimacies; on both counts she and Royce had exceeded the limit. Yet perhaps he, being male, simply counted nights?

The deadening truth she had to accept was that according to his immutable rule-and she could see why he, heir to a massively wealthy and powerful dukedom, had instituted such a rule and stuck by it-her time with him had come to an end.

It was just as well Helen had arrived and explained; at least now she knew.

Sitting up, she pummeled her pillow, then slumped down and pulled the covers over her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She had to get some sleep.

She tried to compose her features, but they wouldn’t relax. Her frown refused to smooth away.

In her heart, her gut, everything felt wrong. So utterly wrong.

The click of her door latch had her opening her eyes. The door swung inward-rather violently-then Royce was in the room, shutting the door forcefully, but silently.

He stalked to the bed. Halting beside it, he looked down at her; all she could see of his expression was that his lips were set in a grim line.

“I suppose I should have expected this.” He shook his head, and reached for the covers.

He tugged. She clutched them tighter. “Wh-”

“Of course, I’d hoped my edict that you’re supposed to be in my bed might have been strong enough to hold, but apparently not.” His accents were clipped, a sure indication of strained temper. He jerked the covers from her grip and flung them off her.

He stopped and stared down at her. “Heaven preserve me, we’re back to nightgowns.”

The disgust in his voice would, in other circumstances, have made her laugh. She narrowed her eyes at him, then dove to scramble off the other side of the bed-but he was too fast.

He caught her, hauled her to him, then hoisted her in his arms.

He started for the door.

“Royce!”

“Shut up. I’m not in a good mood. First Susannah, then Helen, now you. Misogyny beckons.”

She glanced at his face, at his adamantine expression, and shut her lips. As she couldn’t prevent him from carrying her to his room, she would argue once they got there.

He paused by the coat rack. “Grab your cloak.”

She did and quickly flicked the folds over her; at least he’d remembered that.

He juggled her, opened her door, softly shut it behind them, then carried her swiftly through the shadows to his apartments, and on into his bedroom. All the way to his bed.

She pinned him with a stony glare. “What about the countess?”

Halting beside the bed, he met her gaze, his own hard. “What about her?”

“She’s your mistress.”

“Ex-mistress. The ex- is important-it defines that relationship.”

“Does she know that?”

“Yes, she does. She knew it before she came here, and I’ve just confirmed for her that the situation hasn’t changed.” He’d held her gaze throughout. “Any more questions on that subject?”

She blinked. “No. Not at the moment.”

“Good.” He tossed her on the bed.

She bounced once. Before she could grab it, he whipped her cloak off and flung it across the room.

He paused, then stepped back. His hands going to his coat buttons, he toed off his shoes; his eyes on her, he shrugged out of his tight-fitting evening coat, then pointed at her nightgown. “Take that off. If I do, it won’t survive.”

She hesitated. If she was naked, and so was he, rational discussion wouldn’t be high on his agenda. “First-”

“Minerva-take off the gown.”