Mastered by Love

  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 t
ell 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 t
orturing 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 unbiased 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.