Mastered By Love

Nineteen

A t a smidgen before dawn, Minerva floated back to her room, flopped into her bed, and sighed. She couldn’t stop smiling. Royce had more than passed her test with flying colors; even if he couldn’t promise love, what he had promised had more than reassured. He’d given her everything she’d asked for.

So what now? What next?

She still had no assurance that at some point what presently flared so hotly between them wouldn’t die…Could she risk accepting his offer?

Could she risk not?

She blinked, felt a cold chill wash through her. Frowned as, for the first time, the alternative to accepting-refusing him, turning her back on all that might be and walking away-formed in her mind.

The truth dawned.

“Damn that mangy Scot.” She slumped back on her pillows. “He’s right!” Why had it taken her so long to see it?

“Because I’ve been looking at Royce, not me. I love him.” To the depths of her soul. “No matter how many symptoms of love he has, my heart won’t change.”

Infatuation-obsession had grown to something a great deal more-more powerful, deeper, impossible to deny, and immutable, set in stone. Whatever trials she staged, even when he passed with flying colors, were no more than reassurance. Comforting, enlightening, and supportive, yes, but in the end, beside the point. She loved him, and as Penny had said, love was not a passive emotion.

Love would never allow her to turn her back on him and walk away, would never allow her to be so cowardly as not to risk her heart.

Love would-and did-demand her heart.

If she wanted love, she had to risk it. Had to give it. Had to surrender it.

Her way forward was suddenly crystal clear.

“Your Grace, I will be honored to accept your offer.”

Her heart literally soared at the sound of the words-words she’d never thought to say. Her lips curved, and curved; she smiled gloriously.

The door opened; Lucy breezed in. “Good morning, ma’am. Ready for the big day? Everyone’s already bustling below stairs.”

“Oh. Yes.” Her smile waned. She inwardly swore; it was the day before the fair. The one day of the year in which she would have not a moment to call her own.

Or Royce’s.

She swore again, and got up.

And plunged into the day-into a whirlpool of frenetic activity and concerted organization.

Breakfast for her was rushed. Royce, wisely, had come down early, and already ridden out. All the guests had arrived; the parlor was a sea of chatter and greetings. Of course, her three mentors were agog to hear her news; given the company, the best she could do was reconjure her radiant smile.

They saw it, interpreted it accurately-and beamed back.

Letitia patted her arm. “That’s wonderful! You can tell us the details later.”

Later it would have to be. It had been too many years since the staff had coped with a house party and the fair simultaneously; panic threatened on more than one front.

Tea and toast downed, Minerva rushed up to the morning room. She and Cranny spent a frantic hour making sure their days’ schedules included all that needed doing. The housekeeper had just left when a tap on the door heralded Letitia, Penny, and Clarice.

“Oh.” Meeting Letitia’s bright gaze, Minerva tried to refocus her mind.

“No, no.” Grinning, Letitia waved aside her efforts. “Much as we’d like to hear all-in salacious detail-now is clearly not the time. Apropos of which, we’ve come to offer our services.”

Minerva blinked; as Letitia sat, she glanced at Penny and Clarice.

“There is nothing worse,” Penny declared, “than idly waiting, kicking one’s heels, with nothing to do.”

“Especially,” Clarice added, “when there’s obvious employment in which our particular talents might assist-namely, your fair.” She sank onto the sofa. “So share-what’s on your list that we can help with?”

Minerva took in their patently eager expressions, then looked down at her lists. “There’s the archery contests, and…”

They divided up the tasks, then she ordered the landau to be brought around. While the others fetched bonnets and shawls, she grabbed hers and rushed down to speak with Retford. He and she discussed entertainments for the castle’s guests, most of whom would remain about the castle that day, then she hurried to join the others in the front hall.

On the way to the fairground-the field beyond the church-they went over the details of the tasks each would pursue. Reaching the field, already a sea of activity, they exchanged glances, and determinedly plunged in.

Even delegating as she had, getting through her list of activities to be checked, organized or discussed took hours. The Alwinton Fair was the largest in the region; crofters came from miles around, out of the hills and dales of the Borders, and travelers, tradesmen, and craftsmen came from as far afield as Edinburgh to sell their wares.

On top of that, the agricultural side was extensive. Although Penny was overseeing the preparations for the animal contests, Minerva had kept the produce section under her purview; there were too many locals involved, too many local rivalries to navigate.

And then there was the handfasting; the fair was one of the events at which the Border folk traditionally made their declarations before a priest, then jumped over a broomstick, signaling their intention of sharing an abode for the next year. She came upon Reverend Cribthorn in the melee.

“Nine couples this year.” He beamed. “Always a delight to see the beginnings of new families. I regard it as one of my most pleasurable duties, even if the church pretends not to know.”

After confirming time and place for the ceremonies, she turned away-and through a gap in the milling throng, spotted Royce. He was surrounded by a bevy of children, all chattering up at him.

He’d been about all day, directing and, to their astonishment, often assisting various groups of males engaged in setting up booths and tents, stages and holding pens. Although he and she had exchanged numerous glances, he’d refrained from approaching her-from distracting her.

She’d still felt his gaze, had known that at times he’d passed close by in the crowd.

Given he was absorbed, she allowed herself to stare, to drink in the sight of him dealing with what she’d come to realize he saw as his youngest responsibilities. He hadn’t forgotten the footbridge, and therefore the aldermen of Harbottle hadn’t forgotten, either. Hancock, the castle carpenter, had been dispatched to oversee the reconstruction, and reported daily to Royce.

Every local, on first setting eyes on him-a tall, commanding figure in his well-cut coat, buckskin breeches, and top boots-stopped and stared. As she watched, Mrs. Critch-ley from beyond Alwinton halted in her tracks, and all but gawped.

His father hadn’t attended the fair in living memory, but even more telling, his father would never, ever have assisted-have counted himself as one of this community. He’d been their ruler, but never one of them.

Royce would rule as his ancestors had before him, but not distantly, aloofly; he was one with the noisy horde around him. She no longer needed to think to know his views; his sense of duty toward those he ruled-to his people-infused all he did. It was a fundamental part of who he was.

Confident, arrogant, assured to his toes, he was Wolverstone, marcher lord incarnate-and using that power that by birth was his to wield, he’d rescripted the role, far more thoroughly, more fundamentally and progressively, than she’d dared hope.

Watching him with the children, seeing him turn his head and exchange a laughing comment with Mr. Cribthorn, she felt her heart grow wings.

That was the man she loved.

He was who he was, he still had his flaws, but she loved him with all her heart.

She had to turn away, had to battle to suppress the emotion welling inside so she could smile and function and do what needed doing. Irrepressibly smiling, she lifted her head, drew breath, and plunged back into the crowd, immersed herself in all she’d come there to do.

Later.

Later she would speak with him, accept his offer-and offer him her heart, without reservation.

“It’s entirely thanks to you three that I’m heading home before dusk, let alone in time for afternoon tea.” At ease in the landau, Minerva smiled at Letitia, Clarice, and Penny, all, like her, exhausted, but satisfied with their day.

“It was our pleasure,” Penny returned. “Indeed, I think I’ll suggest Charles investigates getting some ewes from that breeder, O’Loughlin.”

She grinned, but didn’t get to mention Hamish’s background, distracted instead by Clarice’s account of what she’d discovered among the craft stalls. By the time they reached the castle, she’d been amply reassured that her friends hadn’t found their assumed duties too onerous. Alighting, they went indoors to join the company for afternoon tea.

All the ladies were present, but only a handful of the gentlemen, most having taken out rods or guns and disappeared for the day.

“It seemed wise to encourage them,” Margaret said. “Especially as we want them to dance attendance on us tomorrow at the fair.”

Smiling to herself, Minerva quit the gathering and climbed the main stairs. She wasn’t sure she’d dealt with everything within the castle itself; she’d left those lists in the morning room.

She was reaching for the knob of the morning room door when it opened.

Royce stood framed in the doorway. “There you are.”

“I’ve just got back. Or rather”-she tipped her head downward-“just finished afternoon tea. Everything seems to be proceeding smoothly.”

“As, under your guidance, things always do.” Taking her arm, he moved her back, joining her and pulling the door closed behind him. “That being the case…come walk with me.”

He wound her arm in his, setting his hand over hers. She glanced at his face-uninformative as ever-as she strolled beside him. “Where to?”

“I thought…” He’d led her back into the keep; now he turned down the short corridor to his apartments-not entirely to her surprise.

But he halted a few paces along, looked at the wall, then put out his hand, depressed a catch; the door to the keep’s battlements sprang open. “I thought,” he repeated, meeting her gaze as he held the door wide, “that the view from the battlements might entice.”

She laughed, and readily went through. “Along with the peace up there, plus the fact it’s entirely private?”

Perhaps she could tell him her decision up there?

“Indeed.” Royce followed her into the stairway built into the keep’s wall. Once she’d climbed to the top of the steep flight and pushed open the door, letting light flood down, he closed the corridor door, then took the stairs three at a time, emerging to join her on the open battlements.

They were the original battlements, the highest part of the castle. The view was spectacular, but by long tradition was enjoyed by only the family, more particularly those residing within the keep; guests had never been permitted up there, on the walks where, over the centuries, the family’s most trusted guards had kept watch for their enemies.

The breeze was brisker than in the fields below; it tugged and flirted with Minerva’s hair as she stood in one of the gaps in the crenellations, looking north, over the gardens, the bridge, the mill, and the gorge.

As he neared, she lifted her face, shook back her hair. “I’d forgotten how fresh it is up here.”

“Are you cold?” He closed his hands about her shoulders.

She glanced into his face, smiled. “No, not really.”

“Good. Nevertheless…” He slid his arms around her and drew her back against him, settling her back to his chest, enveloping her in his greater warmth. She sighed and relaxed into his embrace, leaning against him, crossing her arms, her hands curving over his as she looked out. His chin beside her topknot, he, too, gazed out over his fields.

The unfulfilled impulse that had prompted him to take her to Lord’s Seat lookout weeks before had prodded him to bring her here-for the same reason.

“All you can see,” he said, “as far as you can see, all the lands beneath your gaze are mine. All that lies beneath our feet-that, too, is mine. My heritage, under my rule, under my absolute authority. The people are mine, too-mine to protect, to watch over-their welfare my responsibility, all part of the same whole.” He drew breath, then went on, “What you see before you is the greater part of what my life will be. What it will encompass. And you’re already an integral part of it. The day I took you to Lord’s Seat, this is what I wanted to show you-all that I want to share with you.”

He glanced at her profile. “I want to share all of my life with you, not just the customary parts. Not just the social and familial arenas, but all this, too.” Tightening his arms, laying his jaw against her hair, he found the words he’d been searching for. “I want you by my side in everything, not just my duchess, but my helpmate, my partner, my guide. I will welcome you gladly into whatever spheres of my life you wish to grace.

“If you consent to be my wife, I will willingly give to you not just my affection, not just my protection, but the right to stand beside me in everything I do. As my duchess, you will not be an adjunct, but an integral part of all that, together, we will be.”

Minerva couldn’t keep the smile from her face. He was who he was, manipulative to his toes; he’d eloquently laid before her what he knew to be the most potent inducement he could offer-but he was sincere. Totally, unquestionably, speaking from his heart.

If she’d needed further convincing that she could have faith and go forward, that she should accept his suit and become his duchess, he’d just supplied it; all he’d said was predicated on, based on, built upon an “affection” he believed was sound, solid, as unshakable as the foundations of his keep.

She already knew the counter to that emotion lived, strong and vital, in her. To have such a fate, such a challenge, such a destiny offered her so freely…that was more than she’d ever dared dream.

Turning in his arms, she looked into his face, met his dark eyes. They were as unreadable as ever, but his lips twisted wryly.

“I know I shouldn’t push-shouldn’t press.” He held her gaze. “I know you still need time to assimilate all I’ve said, all that’s happened between us, but I wanted you to know how much you mean to me, so your deliberations will be…fully informed.”

She smiled at his phrasing; despite his undoubted intelligence, he hadn’t yet realized that love didn’t need that much thought.

He smiled back. “And now I’m going to give you all the time you want to decide. I won’t say more, not until you tell me I should.”

Lowering his head, he brushed her lips lightly in an undemanding caress.

It wasn’t something he meant to do, but there was enough in his tone to remind her that, from a man like him, granting her time was a gift.

Her declaration hovered in the forefront of her mind, yet his unstated boon-unneeded though it might be-deserved some acknowledgment; as their lips parted, she rose on her toes, pressed her lips to his, parted them-invited. They were alone, private; no one could see.

Lifting her arms, she wound them about his neck, pressed herself to him. His hands fastened about her waist, held her for an instant, then he laughed softly, angled his head, and took the kiss deeper.

Took her deeper, into the familiar richness of their mutual desire.

For long moments, they savored-each other, the warmth of the exchange, the inherent comfort.

Then the fire took hold.

Neither had summoned it; the flames were suddenly simply there, greedily licking all around them, tempting, luring…

Both hesitated, sensing, seeking the other’s direction…

Both surrendered. Grasped. Seized.

His hands, spread, moved over her back, his touch posses sive and sure. She sank her hands into his hair, held him to the suddenly rapacious kiss, and flagrantly demanded more.

Kneading her breasts, kissing her with slow, relentless promise, he backed her against the ungiving stone of his battlements.

Mutual need fired their blood, had her reaching for his waistband, had him raising her skirts.

Mutual passion had them gasping, hungry and greedy as he lifted her, braced her against the stone, sank into her, then thrust deep.

Mutual pleasure caught them; panting, chests heaving, they froze, forehead to forehead, breaths mingling, heated gazes touching, and drank in the exquisite sensation of their joining. Let it sink to their respective bones.

Then he closed his eyes and groaned, she moaned, and each sought the others’ lips.

And let mutual surrender have them, take them.

A click was all the warning they had.

“Oh, my God!”

The shrill exclamation fell like a bucket of icy water over them.

It was followed by a chorus of gasps, and more muted expressions of shock.

Head up, spine rigid, Royce thought faster than he ever had in his life.

Women, ladies, an untold number, stood clustered in the doorway five yards behind his back.

Someone had brought them up here, but who had wasn’t his first concern.

Locked in his arms, supported by his hand beneath her bottom and braced by his body sunk deeply in hers, Minerva was rigid. Hands fisted in his lapels, she’d ducked her head to his chest.

He felt like he’d been clouted with a battle mace.

His shoulders were broad; the women behind him couldn’t see her, at least not her face or body. They would be able to see her topknot, telltale wheat-gold, over his shoulder, and even more damningly her stocking-clad legs clasped about his hips.

There was not a hope in hell of disguising their occupation.

A kiss would have been bad enough, but this…

There was only one course of action open to him.

Easing Minerva from him, he withdrew from her; given his size, that necessitated a maneuver that even viewed from behind was impossible to mistake. Her knees slid from his hips, he lowered her until her feet touched the ground. Her skirts tumbled straight of their own accord.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, quickly doing up the placket of his breeches. “Don’t say a word.”

She looked at him through wide, utterly stunned eyes.

Uncaring of the crowd, he bent his head and kissed her, a swift, reassuring kiss, then he straightened and turned to face their fate.

His expression aloof and cold, his gaze pure ice, he regarded the knot of ladies, round-eyed, hands at their breasts, their expressions as stunned as Minerva’s…except for Susannah’s. She stood at the rear, peering past the others.

Refocusing on those in the front of the group-a cluster of his sisters’ London friends-he drew breath, then said the words he had to say. “Ladies. Miss Chesterton has just done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

“Well! It’s Miss Chesterton! Whoever would have thought!” Caroline Courtney, all agog, broke the news as he circled the billiard table. With the other men present, most Royce’s cousins, he halted and listened as Caroline blurted out the juicy details of how Royce and his chatelaine had been caught in flagrante delicto on the battlements.

“There was absolutely no doubt about it,” she assured them. “We all saw.”

He frowned. “Was she who Royce intended to marry all along?”

Caroline shrugged. “Who can say? Regardless, she’s the one he’ll have to marry now.”

Frowning, Gordon stated, “I can’t imagine Royce letting himself be trapped like that.” Then he realized what he’d said, and colored. “Not that Minerva won’t make a perfectly acceptable duchess.”

Inwardly smiling, he mentally thanked Susannah; outwardly calm, he turned back to the table, savoring his victory.

The news would reach London as fast as the mail coach could carry it; he wouldn’t need to lift so much as a finger.

So Royce would now have to marry his chatelaine-be forced to marry her, and that he wouldn’t like.

Even worse would be the whispers traded behind scented hands, the sniggers, the unsavory speculation directed at his duchess.

Unavoidable within the ton.

And Royce wouldn’t like that at all.

Smiling, he leaned over the table and sent one ball neatly into a pocket, then he straightened and, slowly circling the table, surveyed the possibilities.

In the duchess’s morning room, Letitia watched Minerva pace. “I appreciate that it’s the very last thing you would have wished to happen, but believe me, in the circumstances, there was nothing else he could have done.”

“I know.” Her tone clipped, Minerva swung on her heel. “I was there. It was awful.”

“Here.” Penny held out a glass containing at least three fingers of brandy. “Charles swears it always helps.” She took a sip from her own glass. “And he’s right.”

Minerva seized the glass, took a healthy swallow, and felt the fiery liquid sear her throat, but then the warmth spread lower, loosening some of her icy rage. “I felt so damned helpless! I couldn’t even think.”

“Take it from a Vaux, that scene would have taxed my histrionic capabilities.” Letitia, too, was sipping brandy. She shook her head. “There wasn’t anything you could have done to change the outcome.”

Rendered more furious than she’d ever been in her life, Minerva could barely recall descending from the battlements. In a voice that dripped icicles, Royce had, entirely unsubtly, informed the importunate ladies that the battlements, like the keep itself, were private; they’d all but tripped over each other fleeing back down the stairs. Once they were gone, he’d turned, taken her hand, led her down, and brought her here.

She’d been trembling-with rage.

He’d been incandescent with fury, but, as usual, very little showed. He’d kissed her lightly, squeezed her hand, said, “Wait here.” Then he’d left.

Minutes later, Letitia had arrived, fired with concern, ready to offer comfort and support; she’d lent a sympathetic ear while Minerva had ranted, literally raved over being denied her declaration, her supreme moment when she accepted Royce and pledged her love.

Penny had joined them a few minutes ago, bearing a tray with the brandy decanter and four glasses. She’d listened for a moment, then set down the tray and poured.

The door opened, and Clarice came in. Penny held out the fourth glass; Clarice thanked her with a nod as she took it, sipped, then sank down onto the sofa opposite Letitia. She met their gazes. “Between us-Royce, Penny, Jack, and me-and surprisingly enough, Susannah-I think we’ve got everything smoothed over. Our story is that the three of us knew of the engagement-which, given your state this morning and what would naturally have followed from that, is the truth. And, indeed, that’s why we’re here, to witness the announcement for the grandes dames.”

Minerva scowled, sipped. “I vaguely recall Royce muttering something about wringing Susannah’s neck. Wasn’t she the one who brought the ladies up to the battlements? If she was, and he hasn’t, I will.”

“She was.” Penny sat beside Clarice. “But believe it or not, she thought she was helping. Being Cupid’s assistant, so to speak. She’d learned, somehow, that you were Royce’s lover, and decided she much preferred you as her sister-in-law over any other, so…” Penny shrugged. “Of course, she thought it was Royce dragging his heels.”

Minerva grimaced. “She and I were much closer when we were young-we’ve always been friendly, although recently, of course, the connection’s been more distant.” She sighed, and dropped onto the sofa beside Letitia. “I suppose that explains it.”

Penny’s Charles was right; the brandy helped, but anger still coursed her veins. Thanks to Susannah, she and even more Royce had lost what should have been a treasured moment. “Damn!” She took another sip.

Luckily, the incident on the battlements and its outcome had changed nothing beyond that; she literally thanked heaven that she’d already made up her mind. If she hadn’t…

Letitia stood. “I must go and speak with Royce.”

“You know,” Clarice said, “I always thought our husbands treated him with a respect that was somewhat overstated-as if they credited him with more power, more ability, than he or any man could possibly have.” She raised her brows. “After seeing him in action downstairs, I’ve revised my opinion.”

“Was he diabolical?” Letitia asked.

Clarice considered. “Mildly so. It was more a case of everyone being suddenly reminded of the Wolverstone family emblem-that it has teeth.”

“Well,” Penny said, “for my money, he has every right to feel savage.”

“Be that as it may,” Letitia said, “I have to go and bait the wolf.”

“He’s shut up in his study,” Clarice told her. “ ’Ware the snarls.”

“He might snarl, but he won’t bite. At least, not me.” Le titia paused at the door. “I hope.”

On that note, she left.

Minerva frowned into her glass, now less than half full-then set it aside. After a moment, she rose and tugged the bellpull; when a footman arrived, she said, “Please inform Lady Margaret, Lady Aurelia, and Lady Susannah that I wish to speak with them. Here. Immediately.”

The footman bowed-lower than normal; clearly the household already knew of her impending change in station-and withdrew.

Meeting Clarice’s inquiring glance, Minerva smiled-intently. “I believe it’s time I clarified matters. Aside from all else, with a ducal wedding to organize, the house party ends tomorrow night.”

Royce was standing at the window when Jeffers entered to announce Letitia; he turned as she came in. “How is she?”

Letitia arched a brow. “Upset, of course.”

The fury he’d been holding at bay-clamped tight inside-rose up at the thought, the confirmation. He turned back to look blindly out at his fields. After a long moment, during which Letitia wisely remained silent and still, he bit off, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Every word was invested with cold, hard rage.

The same words that had rung in his head as he’d driven back to Wolverstone after so many years away.

When he’d driven home to bury his father.

This time, the rage was even greater. “I can’t believe-can’t understand why-Susannah would do such a thing, even if, as she claims, she was trying to help.” That was the other element that was eating at him. He raked a hand through his hair. “What help is this-essentially forcing us into marriage?”

Letitia saw the tremble in his hand, didn’t mistake it for weakness; it was pure rage distilled. But he wouldn’t be so angry, so close to true rage, if he didn’t care-deeply- about Minerva’s feelings. If he didn’t have deep feelings of his own.

She was a Vaux-an expert in emotional scenes, in reading the undercurrents, the real passions beneath. Yet if she told him how pleased she was to see him so distraught, he’d bite her head off.

Besides, she had another role to fill. Lifting her head, she imperiously asked, “The announcement-have you written it?”

She hoped her tone would refocus his attention.

He continued to stare out. A minute ticked by. She waited.

“No.” After a moment, he added, “I will.”

“Just do it.” She softened her voice. “You know it has to be done, and urgently.” Realizing that he was at sea-on a storm-tossed emotional ocean he, of all men, was poorly equipped to navigate-she went on, “Get your secretary to pen it, then show it to Minerva and get her consent. Regardless, it must be on the mail coach to London tonight.”

He didn’t immediately respond, but then he nodded. Curtly. “It will be.”

“Good.” She bobbed a curtsy, turned, and walked to the door.

He stirred, glanced at her. “Can you tell Margaret she’s hostess tonight?”

Her hand on the doorknob, she looked at him. “Yes, of course.”

His chest swelled; for the first time he met her eyes. “Tell Minerva I’ll come and see her in a little while-once I’ve got the announcement drafted.”

Once he had his temper in hand. As a Vaux, Letitia knew all about temper-and she could see his roiling in his eyes.

He went on, “We’ll dine in my apartments.”

“I’ll keep her company until then. Clarice, Jack, and Penny are going to mingle, to make sure there’s no…uninformed talk.” She smiled, anticipating doing the same herself-and putting a not-so-tiny flea in Susannah’s ear. “I’ll join them once you come for Minerva.”

“Thank you. All of you.”

Turning to the door, she smiled rather more delightedly, knowing he couldn’t see. “Believe me, it’s our pleasure.” She paused, hand on the knob. “We can discuss the wedding tomorrow.”

He grunted.

At least it wasn’t a snarl. She let herself out, closing the door behind her. Glancing at Royce’s footman standing utterly blank-faced along the wall, she smiled gloriously. “Despite all, this is going to work out very well.”

With that, she hurried back to the morning room, to relate to Minerva all she’d seen, heard-and deduced.

Minerva had assuaged a great deal of her anger by the time Royce joined her in the morning room. Having successfully dealt first with his sisters, and then the assembled ladies, having ensured all knew precisely how unamused she was over Susannah’s misplaced meddling, and having made her expectations, as the soon-to-be Duchess of Wolverstone, of their behavior over the matter abundantly plain, she was feeling much more settled as she stood looking out of the window, idly surveying his domain.

Royce’s gaze locked on her the instant he opened the door, but she didn’t turn around.

Seated on the sofa facing the door, Letitia rose. “I was about to go down.” She glided forward.

Royce held the door open for her. She touched his arm, glanced back at Minerva. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Without looking around, Minerva nodded-a tense, brief nod.

With a pat for him, Letitia left. He closed the door, hesitated-sent a prayer winging to any god that might be listening that Minerva wouldn’t cry. Feminine tears usually left him unaffected, but her tears would shred his control, rupture his tenuous hold on his temper-and the gods alone knew who he’d strike out at, or how. Not her, of course, but…

Breathing in, mentally shoring up his defenses, emotional ones he rarely used, he walked to her side.

It was early evening; beyond the window, the shadows were lengthening, laying a purple wash over his lands. Spine poker straight, arms crossed, she was looking out, but he’d swear not seeing.

Halting beside her, he angled his head the better to see her features. She turned her head and met his gaze.

Her expression was controlled, composed, more so than he’d expected; her eyes…were unusually hard, and more unreadable than he’d ever seen, but…he could detect not a hint of tears.

Chin firm, she tipped her head toward the door. “They’re really quite remarkable-Letitia, Penny, Clarice, and Jack. I’m sure between them they’ll have the entire company in well-rehearsed order come morning.”

Her tone was crisp, briskly businesslike. Determined. Steady assurance shone through her composed faзade.

Confusion swamped him. Didn’t she feel…betrayed? By fate, by his sister, by circumstance? By him? He drew in a breath. “I’m sorry.” He felt his jaw harden. “It wasn’t supposed to have been like this.”

Her eyes locked on his. “No, it wasn’t, but what happened was neither my fault nor yours. Regardless, however much we may wish matters otherwise, we’re faced with the situation as is, and we need to deal with it-to make the best of it. To take control and make it work for us, not against us.”

He mentally blinked. She was behaving as if what had occurred was some minor hiccup along their road. A challenge they’d deal with, vanquish, and leave behind.

She couldn’t be that understanding. She had to feel forced…had to resent the situation as much as he. He was missing something here; he didn’t try to hide his frown. “You’re a lot less upset than I expected.”

The look she returned was all cold, hard steel. Her features tightened; her diction grew more precise. “I am not pleased- I’m angry, nay furious, but I am not of a mind to allow Susannah to play fast and loose with our lives.” Strength of a kind he’d assumed was there but had never before encountered in her-the kind he associated with Lady Osbaldestone-radiated from her. “I am not going to let Susannah steal from us what we, both you and I, deserve. I know you don’t understand, but I’ll explain later.” Alight with purpose, her eyes lowered. “Is that our announcement?”

He glanced down at the sheet of paper he’d forgotten he held. “Yes.”

She held out her hand, fingers wiggling.

He handed over the excruciatingly generically worded statement he and Handley had labored over.

Turning, she held it so light from the window washed over it. “Royce Henry Varisey, tenth Duke of Wolverstone, son of the late Henry Varisey, ninth Duke of Wolverstone and the late Lady Catherine Debraigh, daughter of the fourth Earl of Catersham, announces his betrothal to Miss Minerva Miranda Chesterton, daughter of the late Lieutenant Michael Chesterton and the late Marjorie Dalkeith.”

She frowned. “A lot of lates, but…” Face clearing, she handed the announcement back, met his eyes. “That will do.”

“So why, exactly, are you nothing more than ‘not pleased’? What is it I don’t understand?”

Halting before the wide window in Royce’s bedroom, facing the night-shrouded hills, Minerva let her watchful tension ease. Finally.

Finally they were alone; finally she could tell him on her own terms, as she’d intended.

At his decree, they’d dined privately in his sitting room; she’d come into the bedroom to allow Jeffers to clear the table and set the room to rights. Royce had followed; closing the door on the clink of cutlery and plates, he’d prowled to halt just behind her.

She drew a deep breath. “I know you thought, by remaining apart, to spare me the ordeal of facing the undoubtedly avidly curious company downstairs-I agreed not because I felt fragile or distressed, but because your temper was so aroused that I had no faith whatever that your sisters or one of their friends wouldn’t have said something to make you lash out-and that wouldn’t have aided our cause.” She swung to face him. “Our cause. From this morning on, it’s been our cause.”

She tilted her head, considered him. When he’d joined her in the morning room, his rage had been palpable, resonating in the words he’d ground out: It wasn’t supposed to have been like this. “I understand why you were so angry. Being forced, trapped, into marriage shouldn’t have mattered to you, but it did. Because you knew it mattered to me. You were enraged on my behalf-yours, too, but less directly.”

The incident had delivered to him exactly what he’d wanted and had been working to gain-her agreement to their wedding. Yet instead of being pleased, he, a nobleman who rarely if ever apologized, had abjectly apologized for something that hadn’t been his fault.

Because it was something she hadn’t wanted, and so something the protector in him felt he should have prevented, but hadn’t.

All day, in him, she’d been viewing love in action. Since that moment on the battlements, she’d watched love reduce a man accustomed to commanding all in his life to a wounded, potentially vicious beast.

While some intensely female part of her had gloated over such violent championing, she’d had to defuse his temper rather than encourage it. She’d been waiting for it to cool to have a better chance of him believing the truth of what she was about to say.

She locked her eyes on his, as always too dark to read. “I’d planned to speak now-this evening, once we were alone.” She glanced around. “Here-in your room.” She brought her gaze back to his face. “In your ducal apartments.”

Stepping forward, eyes locked with his, she placed one hand over his heart. “I was going to tell you, just like this. Tell you that, as of this morning, I’d decided to accept your offer-when you make it. That you could feel free to offer, knowing I’ll accept.”

A long moment passed. He remained very still. “This morning?”

Hope warred with skepticism, but hope was winning. She smiled. “You can ask Letitia, Clarice, or Penny for confirmation-they knew. But that’s why I’m not overwrought, distraught, unhappy. I’m none of those things-I’m angry, yes, but against that…” She let her smile deepen, let him see the depth of her understanding, and the sheer certainty and joy that was in her heart. “I’m thrilled, ecstatic, delighted. No matter Susannah’s actions, no matter their outcome, in reality, between us, nothing has changed.”

His hands slid about her waist. She raised hers, framed his face, looked deep into his fathomless eyes. “The only thing we might have lost was this moment, but I wasn’t of a mind to let that go, to let it be taken from us. From this morning, for me, it’s been us-our cause-and from this moment on, now that you know, there will be only one cause for us both-ours. It’s the right cause for both of us to give our lives to-we both know that. From this moment on, we’ll devote ourselves to it, work at it, if necessary fight for it-our joint life.” Lost in his eyes, she let a heartbeat pass. “I wanted-needed-to tell you if that’s what you want-if that’s what your offer can and will encompass-then I’ll accept. That’s what I want, too.”

A long moment passed, then his chest swelled as he drew in a huge breath. “You truly are happy to put this…hiccup behind us, consign it to history, and go forward?”

“Yes. Exactly as we would have.”

He held her gaze for another long moment, then his lips, his features, eased. Her hands fell to his shoulders; he caught one of them, carried it to his lips. Eyes locked with hers, he kissed her fingertips.

Slowly.

In that instant he truly was mesmerizing; she couldn’t have torn her gaze from his had flames leapt about them.

“Minerva, my lover. My lady. My heart. Will you marry me?”

She blinked once, twice, felt her heart literally swell. “Yes.”

Such a little word, and although she’d poured every ounce of her certainty, resolution, and joy into it, there was more she had to say. Raising her other hand, she laid her fingers against his lean cheek, lightly traced the angular planes that gave so little away, even now.

Felt her heart overflow as she looked into his eyes, smiled. “I’ll marry you, Royce Varisey, and fill the place by your side. I’ll bear your children, and with my hand in yours, face whatever the future might bring, and make the most of it that, together, we can…for Wolverstone-and you.”

He was Wolverstone, but that wasn’t all he was. Underneath was a man who deserved her love. So she gave it, let him see it in her eyes.

Royce studied the autumn hues, the brilliant golds, the passionate browns, the mysterious agate-green, knew to his soul how much she meant to him-and knew he was the luckiest man alive. Slowly bending his head, he waited until she tipped her face up to his, then lowered his lips to hers.

And let a simple kiss seal their pact.

The loving that followed mirrored that kiss-simple, uncomplicated, undisguised. And she was right-nothing had changed. The passion, the heat, the fervor were the same. If anything deeper, broader, more intense, brought to burgeoning richness by acceptance, by the simple declarations that had committed them both, minds, bodies, hearts, and souls, to facing their future together.

That pledged them to the adventure of forging something new, something never before known in his family. To forging a marriage founded on, anchored in, held together by love.

Spread naked beneath him on his crimson silk sheets, she wrapped her arms about him and arched in welcome; poised above her, as heated and urgent as she, he slid into the haven of her body, and felt her clasp him tightly, embracing him, holding him. On a soundless gasp, head rising, he closed his eyes-held still, muscles bunched and quivering as he fought to give them that moment, that instant of indescribable sensation as their bodies locked, that instant of flagrant intimacy before the dance began.

Sensing the reins slipping, sliding from his grasp, he hauled in a breath and looked down. Saw her eyes glint gold from beneath her lashes.

I love you. He wanted to say the words, they hovered on his tongue, yet he didn’t know, even now, if they were true. He wanted them to be, but…

Her lips curved as if she understood; reaching up with one hand, she cupped his nape, drew his lips to hers.

And kissed him-a blatant invitation to abandon.

He accepted and let go, let passion take and fuse them. Let their bodies surge, merge, surrendering to need, hunger, and wanting.

Opening his eyes, he looked down at her face, glowing with passion, rapturous in surrender, the face of his woman, his lady, soon his wife, utterly and unreservedly his.

Given to him.

He put aside the torment of the day, let their joint passion swamp it, drown it, wash it away. Let himself free and sealed their pact.

And gave himself unreservedly to her.