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 com
pany 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.
Eleven
By lunchtime the next day, Royce was hot, flushed, sweaty—and leaning against a railing with a group of men, all estate workers, in a field on one of his tenant farms, sharing ale, bread, and bits of crumbly local cheese.
The men around him had almost forgotten he was their duke; he’d almost forgotten, too. With his hacking jacket and neckerchief off, and his sleeves rolled up, his dark hair and all else covered in the inevitable detritus of cutting and baling hay, except for the quality of his clothes and his features, he could have been a farmer who’d stopped by to help.
Instead, he was the ducal landowner lured there by his chatelaine.
He’d wondered what she’d planned for the day—what her chosen path to avoid him would be. He’d missed her at breakfast, but while pacing before the study window dictating to Handley, he’d seen her riding off across his fields.
After finishing with Handley, he’d followed.
Of course, she hadn’t expected him to turn up at the haymaking, let alone that their day would evolve as it had, due to the impulse that had prompted him to offer to help.
 
; He’d cut hay before, long ago, sneaking out of the castle and, against his father’s wishes, rubbing shoulders with the estate workers. His father had been a stickler for protocol and propriety, but he had never felt the need to adhere to and insist on every single privilege at every turn.
Some of the men remembered him from long ago, and hadn’t been backward over accepting his help—tendered, he had to admit, more to see how Minerva would react than anything else.
She’d met his gaze, then turned and offered to help the women. They’d worked alongside those they normally directed for the past several hours, he swinging a scythe in line with the men, she following with the women, gathering the hay and deftly binding it into sheaves.
What had started out as an unvoiced contest had evolved into a day of exhausting but satisfying labor. He’d never worked so physically hard in his life, but he, and his body, felt unexpectedly relaxed.
From where the women had gathered, Minerva watched Royce leaning against the fence enclosing the field they’d almost finished cutting, watched his throat—the long column bare—work as he swallowed ale from a mug topped up from a jug the men were passing around—and quietly marveled.
He was so unlike his father on so many different counts.
He stood among the men, sharing the camaraderie induced by joint labor, not the least concerned that his shirt, damp with honest sweat, clung to his chest, outlining the powerful muscles of his torso, flexing and shifting with every movement. His dark hair was not just rumpled, but dusty, his skin faintly flushed from the sun. His long, lean legs, encased in boots his precious Trevor would no doubt screech over later, were stretched out before him; as she watched he shifted, cocking one hard thigh against the fence behind.
With no coat and his shirt sticking, she could see his body clearly—could better appreciate the broad shoulders, the wide, sleekly muscled chest tapering to narrow hips and those long, strong, rider’s legs.