Mastered by Love

  “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.” Letitia 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 façade.

  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 wh
at 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; reac
hing 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.

  Twenty

  The next morning, Minerva stood beside Royce as, with the cheers of the crowd for the nine handfasted couples gradually fading, he stepped to the front of the dais from which, earlier, he’d opened the fair.

  Quietening, the crowd regarded him expectantly. He let his gaze roam the upturned faces, then said, “Wolverstone, too, has an announcement to make.” He glanced at her, with his gaze drew her closer. His smile was all she would ever hope to see; the undisguised warmth in his eyes held her as, capturing her hand, he raised it to his lips, and in full view of the assembled company, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Miss Chesterton has done me the honor of agreeing to be my duchess.”

  He hadn’t spoken loudly, yet his voice carried clearly over the hushed crowd…

  The crowd erupted. Cheers, huzzahs, triumphant yells, whoops, and shrieks; noise rose in a wave of unalloyed happiness and washed over the scene. Minerva looked, and saw Hamish and Molly, who they’d found and told earlier, beaming up at them. The castle’s staff were all there—Retford, Cranny, Cook, Jeffers, Milbourne, Lucy, Trevor, and all the rest—all looking fit to burst with pride and joy. Looking further, she saw the faces of many of Wolverstone’s people, all delighted, all thrilled. Saw happy, joyous, pleased expressions, clapping hands, laughter, happy tears. Even those from the house party, scattered here and there among the throng, looked pleased to be part of the upwelling gladness.