Which was the point he’d been bent on illustrating.
He might tie her to him with passion, but to be sure of holding her he needed more. A lady like her needed occupation—an ability to achieve. As his wife, she’d be able to achieve even more than she currently could; when the time came, he wasn’t going to be backward in pointing that out.
She smiled, lifted her glass, and touched the rim to his. “Indeed.”
He watched her sip, then swallow, felt something in him tighten. “Incidentally…” He waited until her gaze returned to his eyes. “It’s customary when a gentleman gives a lady a token of his appreciation, for that lady to show her appreciation in return.”
Her brows rose, but she didn’t look away. Instead, a faint—distinctly arousing—smile flirted about the corners of her lips. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Do.”
Their gazes touched, locked; the connection deepened. Around them the company was in full voice, the bustle of the footmen serving, the clink of cutlery and the clatter of china a cacophony of sound and a sea of colorful movement swirling all about them, yet it all faded, grew distant, while between them that indefinable connection grew taut, gripped and held.
Expectation and anticipation flickered and sparked.
Her breasts swelled as she drew in a breath, then she looked away.
He glanced down, at his fingers curved about the bowl of the wineglass; setting it down, he shifted in his chair.
At least the company had tired of amateur theatricals; he inwardly gave thanks. The meal ended and Minerva left his side; he kept the passing of the port to the barest minimum, then led the gentlemen to rejoin the ladies in the drawing room.
After exchanging one look, he made no attempt to join her; with heightened passion all but arcing between them, it was simply too dangerous—not even this company were that blind. Outwardly idly amiable, he chatted to some of his sisters’ friends, yet he knew the instant Minerva slipped from the room.
She didn’t return. He gave her half an hour, then left the garrulous gathering and followed her up the stairs into the keep. Slowing, he glanced at the shadows wreathing the corridor to her room, wondered, but then continued on. To his apartments, to his bedroom.
She was there, lying in his bed.
Halting in the doorway, he smiled, the gesture laden with every ounce of the predatory impulses coursing his veins.
She’d left no candles burning, but the moonlight streamed in, burnishing her hair as it rippled across his pillows, gilding the curves of her bare shoulders with a pearlescent sheen.
No nightgown, he noted.
She lay propped high amid the pillows; she’d been looking out at the moon-drenched night, but had turned her head to watch him. Through the dark, he felt her gaze slide over him—sensed anticipation heighten, tighten.
He remained where he was and let it build.
Let it grow and strengthen until, when he finally stirred and walked forward, it felt as if some invisible silken rope had looped around him and drew him on.
The sight of her lying there, a willing gift, a reward, racked the hunger within him up another notch, set a primitive thrum in his blood.
She was his for the taking. In whatever manner his ducal self decreed.
Her willing surrender was implicit in her silent waiting.
He walked to the tallboy by the wall. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it on a nearby chair, unbuttoned his waistcoat as he planned how best to use the opportunity to further his aim.
To advance his campaign.
Undressing casually was an obvious first step; deliberately drawing out the moments before he joined her with an activity that underscored his intent would increase her already heightened awareness, of him and all he and she would shortly do.
Drawing the diamond pin from his cravat, he laid it on the tallboy, then unhurriedly unwound the linen band.
When he drew his shirt off, he heard her shift beneath the sheets.
When he tossed his trousers aside and turned, she stopped breathing.
His stride slow and deliberate, he walked to her side of the bed. For an instant, he stood looking down at her; her gaze slowly rose from his groin to his chest, then eventually to his face. Trapping her wide eyes, he reached for the covers, lifted them as he held out his hand. “Come. Get up.”
Anticipation flashed through her, a sharp, fiery wave spreading beneath her skin. Her mouth dry, Minerva searched his face, all hard angles and shadowed planes, the unyielding, uninformative expression that simply stated: primitive male. She licked her lips, saw his eyes follow the small movement. “Why?”
His eyes returned to hers. He didn’t answer, simply held the covers up, implacably held out his hand, and waited.
Cool air slipped beneath the raised sheets and found her skin. He, she knew, would be radiating heat; all she had to do to quell the shivers threatening was to stand and let him draw her near.
And then what?
An even bigger shiver of anticipation—a telltale sign he wouldn’t miss—threatened to overwhelm her. Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his, and let him draw her out of the bed, off it and onto her feet.
He walked backward, drawing her with him, until they both stood within the shaft of silvery moonlight, until they were both bathed by the pale glow. Her breath suspended, trapped in her chest, she couldn’t drag her eyes from him—a magnificent male animal, powerful and strong, every muscled curve, every ridge and line, etched in molten silver.
His fingers tightening on hers, he tugged her to him, drew her inexorably, irresistibly, into his arms. Into an embrace that was both cool and heated; his hands slid knowingly over her skin, assessing, caressing, as his arms slowly closed and trapped her, then cinched further, easing her against him, against the hot hardness of his utterly male frame.
His hands spread on her back, molded her to him; his dark eyes watched, drank in her expression as their bodies met, bare breasts to naked chest, her hips to his thighs…she closed her eyes and shivered.
The hard ridge of his erection seared like a branding rod against her taut belly.
She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes, only to find him closing the distance. His lips found hers, covered them, possessed them, not with any conquering force but with a languid passion, one all the more evocative, all the more compelling, for being so unhurried—a statement of intent he had no reason to make more stridently; she would be his however he wished—they both knew it.
The knowledge seeped into her even as she gave him her lips, then her mouth, then engaged in a hot, but undriven duel of tongues; she’d come to his room with the thought of rewarding him high in her mind. Rewarding him required no active action from her; she could simply let him take all he wished, follow his lead, and he’d be satisfied.
But would she?
Passivity wasn’t her style, and she wanted this, tonight, to be a gift from her—something she gave him, not something she surrendered.
Because he wasn’t whipping them along, the reins fast in his grasp, opportunity was hers for the taking. So she took—slid one hand between them and closed it firmly about the rod of his erection. Felt certainty bloom when he stilled, as if her touch held the power to completely distract him.
Taking advantage of the momentary hiatus, she eased her other hand down to join the first, linking them about his rigid member in tactile homage—and through the fading kiss sensed every last particle of his awareness center on where she held him.
Slowly breaking from the kiss, she moved her palms—watched his face, confirming that her touch, her caresses, possessed the power to capture him. His arms eased as his attention shifted; his hold on her weakened enough for her to ease back.
Far enough to look down, so she could see what she was doing and better experiment.
He’d let her touch him before, but then she’d been all but overwhelmed—there’d been so much of him to explore. Now, more familiar with his body, more comfortable stan
ding naked before him, less distracted by the wonder of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the long powerful columns of his thighs, no longer held in thrall by his lips, she could extend her explorations to what she most wanted to learn—what pleased him.
She stroked, then let her fingers wander; his chest swelled as he drew in a tight breath.
Glancing at his face, she saw his eyes, dark desire burning, glinting from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Took in his clenched jaw, the muscles taut with a tension that was slowly spreading through his body.
Knew he wouldn’t let her play for long.
In a flash of recollection, she remembered a long-ago afternoon in London, and the illicit secrets shared by her wilder peers.
She smiled—and saw his gaze sharpen on her lips. Felt the rod between her hands jerk faintly.
Looking into those dark eyes lit by smoldering passion, she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Knew exactly what she wanted to do, needed to do, to balance the scales of give and take between them.
She took half a step back, lowered her gaze from his eyes to his lips, then ran it down the column of his throat and the long length of his chest, all the way down to where her palms and fingers were firmly locked about him, one hand above the other, one thumb cruising the sensitive edge of the broad bulbous head.
Before he could stop her, she sank to her knees.
Sensed his shock—compounded it by angling the stiff rod to her face, parting her lips, and sliding them over the luscious, delicate flesh, slowly taking him into the warm welcome of her mouth.
She’d heard enough of the theory to know what she should do; the practice was a trifle harder—he was large, long, and thick, but she was determined.
Royce finally managed to get his lungs to work, to haul in a desperate breath, but he couldn’t drag his eyes from her, from the sight of her golden head bent to his groin as she worked her mouth over his straining erection.
The ache in his loins, in his balls and his shaft, intensified with every sweet lap of her tongue, every long, slow suck.
He felt he should stop her, bring the moment to a swift halt. It wasn’t that he didn’t like what she was doing—he loved every second of tactile delight, loved the sight of her on her knees before him, his shaft buried between her luscious lips—but…he neither expected nor generally had ladies service him in this way.
They were usually too exhausted after he’d had his way with them—and his way always came first.
He should, but wasn’t going to, stop her. Instead, he accepted—accepted the pleasure she lavished on him, let his hands—hovering about her head—close, let his fingers tunnel through her silky hair and grip, gently guide…
She eased him deeper, then deeper still, until his engorged head was in her throat. Her tongue wrapped around his length and slowly rasped.
Chest swelling, eyes closing, he let his head tip back, fought to stifle a groan—fought to let her go on, to let her have her way.
To let her have him.
But there was only so far he could go. Only so much of the wet heaven of her mouth he could endure.
Her hands about the base of his shaft, she’d found her rhythm; her confidence had grown, and with it her dedication. Lungs screaming, nerves beyond taut, he fought to give her one more moment—then he forced himself to slip a thumb between her lips and draw his throbbing length from her mouth.
She looked up, licked her lips—started to frown.
He bent, gripped her waist, and lifted her—up and to him. “Wrap your legs about my waist.”
She already was. He slid his hands down to grip her hips, positioned her so the heated head of his erection parted the scalding slickness of her folds and pressed against her entrance.
He looked at her face, caught her wide, desire-darkened eyes—watched as he drew her down, as he steadily, inexorably, impaled her. Watched her features ease, then blank, as her awareness turned inward to where he stretched her and filled her. Her lids lowered and she quivered in his arms, caught on the knife edge of surrender. He gripped more firmly, ruthlessly pulled her hips into his, tilting her so he could thrust the last inch and fill her completely.
Possess her completely.
He saw, felt, heard the breath shudder from her lungs. Shifting his grip, he took her weight on one arm, lifted his other hand to her face, framed her jaw, and kissed her.
Hungrily.
She surrendered her mouth, opened to his onslaught, and gave him, ceded to him, all he desired. For long moments, sunk in her body, he simply devoured, then she tried to move, tried to ease up and use her body to satisfy the rampant demand of his—and discovered she couldn’t.
That she couldn’t move at all unless he permitted it, that impaled as she was, she was wholly in his power.
That the rest of this script was entirely his to write—and hers to experience, to endure.
He showed her—showed her how he could lift her as little or as much as he wished, then lower her, as slowly or as rapidly as he wanted. That the power and depth of his penetration of her body was wholly his to decree.
That their journey to the top of the peak would be at his command.
She’d given herself to him, now he intended to take—all and everything he could from her.
He lifted her, and brought her down, one hand still at her nape, that arm wrapped about her body, pressing it to his so the movement of their joining made her breasts ride against his chest. With one arm about her hips, that hand spread beneath her bottom, her legs wrapped, now tight, about his waist, her arms slung around his shoulders, her hands spread on his back, he could feel her all around him, and she was wholly locked within his embrace.
A naked, primitive embrace that suited him well. That would deliver her to him—make her surrender to him—at an even deeper, more primal level.
Minerva drew back from the kiss on a gasping sob, head rising as, breasts swelling, she struggled to find breath.
He let her, then, hand firming at her nape, drew her back.
Kissed her again.
Took, seized, and devoured again.
His hands were suddenly much more demanding, their grip like fire, just this side of painful, elementally commanding as he moved her on him, against him, flayed her senses in every possible way inside and out until she wrenched back from the kiss, let her head fall back, and gave herself up to him.
To the fires that raged between them, building and growing, then erupting in molten passion so hot it seared and scalded, branded and marked.
Flames, hungry and greedy, rose up and washed over them, through them, spreading beneath their skins and consuming as the insistent, persistent, tempo of his possession escalated and claimed her anew.
Made her burn anew, made her fragment and scream, made her cling and sob as he joined her.
As, at the last, she felt him, hard and hot and undeniably real, undeniably him, buried deep within her, deeper than he’d ever been.
Deep enough to touch her heart.
Deep enough to lay claim to that, too.
The thought drifted through her mind, but she let it go, let it fade as he carried her to his bed, and collapsed with her across it.
Holding her against his heart.
At the very last, she heard him groan, “Especially in this, we make an excellent team.”
Fifteen
Two 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 parti
cipating, 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.