The hard thrust of his tongue, the heavy, steely weight of him as he shifted closer and at last leaned in and pinned her body to the wall, was everything and more her witless senses wanted. Her tongue met his in a flagrant mating; her body strained, not to push him away but, every sense alive, to press against him.
To meet his hunger with hers.
To feed his desire with hers.
To meld the two, entwine them, until the power became too much for either of them to withstand.
This, now, was her only option; the rational part of her surrendered, and set her free to grasp the moment, and take from it all she could.
Wring from it every iota of pleasure.
He gave her no choice.
She left him with even less.
For long moments, mentally cursing, Royce kept both his hands locked about hers, safely pressed to the wall on either side of her head, for the simple reason that he didn’t trust himself. And with her as she was, all but drunk on passion, he trusted her even less.
Her body was a heated feminine cushion pressed the length of his, her breasts firm against his chest, her long limbs riding against his, tempting and luring, the soft tautness of her belly caressing his already engorged shaft as if to urge him on.
He hadn’t known she would respond as she had—instantly plunging them both into the fire. He recognized the flames well enough, but with her the conflagration threatened to run amok, to cinder his control.
That realization had been shocking enough to snap the hold combined lust and desire had gained—enough to allow him to reassert that essential element. Control, his control, was vital—not just for him, but even more for her.
So he held on, battled the temptation she wantonly lavished on him, until his mind rose above the fog of his wracked and wholly engaged senses.
Then, at last, he knew what he had to do.
He didn’t abate the passion, the possessiveness, in his kisses—not in the least. He angled his head and deliberately pushed her harder, further. Gave no quarter, accepted no appeasement.
Wasn’t entirely surprised when, instead of retreating to safety, she met him, took all his passion, absorbed it, and then turned it back on him.
This time he was ready. Shifting against her, he used his hips to trap her against the wall; releasing her hands, he lowered his arms, and set his fingers to the tiny jet buttons running from her scooped neckline to the raised waist of her black gown.
She was so engrossed in the kiss, in inciting and taunting him, she didn’t notice as he opened her bodice, then eased the halves apart. A flick here, there, and the ribbon ties of her chemise were undone. He set both palms to her shoulders, pressing the bodice wide, pushing the fine fabric of her chemise down as he ran his hands down, over and around, then filled them with her breasts. She gasped, literally quaked as he blatantly possessed—as he took charge of the kiss again, filled her mouth again, then let his attention shift to the warm, firm mounds in his hands.
To doing as he willed with them, tactilely savoring the fine skin, using one blunt fingertip to trace the ring of each puckered aureola, arousing her even more.
Then he closed his hands again, felt her drag in a breath and hold it as he played, possessed, kneaded. She shifted, tentative, restless; he sensed something within her—in the tautness of her slender frame—ease, change. Her hands fluttered, one on either side of his head, then closed, settled, one sliding to his nape, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping convulsively as he closed finger and thumb about her nipples and squeezed. Her other hand gently touched, traced, then cradled his cheek, his jaw.
Gently holding him.
First surrender, but he wanted much more, even though, tonight, he wouldn’t take all he wanted from her.
He broke the kiss. Before she could react, with his head he nudged hers to the side, set his lips to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, then traced down the long line of her throat, paused to lave the point at its base where her pulse thudded frantically, then swept lower, to with his lips and mouth, with tongue and teeth, claim what his hands already had.
Head back against the wall, eyes closed, Minerva gasped, shuddered, felt her mind and her senses fragment under the assault he waged upon them. The sweep of his hard lips over her skin, the wet heat of his mouth applied to her aching nipples, the rough rasp of his tongue, the hot torment when he suckled her, ripped what wits she’d retained away, scattered them far and wide, and effectively routed any will she might have summoned against him.
His teeth nipped; pain and pleasure briefly combined, flaring hotly.
She was panting, wanton and abandoned, unable to think, her senses awash in a flood of heat; need, desire and passion were a growling, gnawing hunger in her belly.
He drew back, raised his head. His hands reclaimed her breasts, his fingers replacing his lips, continuing to play, to distract her as through the heated dimness he studied her face, assessed…
She felt the weight of his gaze, sensed his command, but she didn’t want to open her eyes…she raised the heavy lids just enough to, through the fringe of her lashes, see him looking at her.
His face was harder, harsher than she’d ever seen it, lust and desire etching the edges of the already sharp angles and planes.
He saw her looking, caught her gaze.
A heartbeat passed, then one of his hands left her breast and, palm pressed to her body, skated slowly down. He held her gaze as, hand splayed, he paused at her waist to press…then that questing hand slid lower, pressed again as if testing the tautness of her stomach, then slid lower still, the rustle of her gown an evocative warning as he pressed his long fingers into the hollow between her thighs.
She shuddered, bit her lip, had to close her eyes, would have swayed if he hadn’t been holding her against the wall.
His fingers stroked, then pressed further, deeper; her skirts did little to mute the effect of the intimate caress. His hand at her breast continued to idly play, further ruffling her senses, yet most of her awareness had locked on the heat emanating from where he was caressing her between her thighs.
She released her lip, gulped in a desperate breath—felt his fingers probe, and clamped her teeth over her lower lip again as her senses literally spun.
He leaned closer, one hard hip anchoring her while his fingers continued to stroke her soft flesh. He lowered his head, whispered in her ear, “Moan for me, Minerva.”
She was utterly sure she shouldn’t, that that was one surrender he shouldn’t win. Eyes still closed, she shook her head.
Even though she couldn’t see it, she knew his lips curved as he said, “Just wait. You will.”
He was right; she did. And not just once.
He knew far too much, was too expert, too experienced, for her to stand against him. His fingers stroked, teased, probed, languidly caressed until she was utterly and insensibly desperate, for what she didn’t fully comprehend, not until, with her wanton acquiescence, he rucked up her skirts and set his hand, his fingers, skin to skin to her wet, swollen flesh.
Then she learned, then she knew. Then she discovered what could make her moan, what could make her senses stretch tight, taut, to the sensual limit, where, quivering, they waited for release.
He thrust his fingers, one, then another, boldly into her sheath, worked them deep, and gave her what she wanted.
More pleasure, more sensation, more delight; the intimate penetration, his hard fingers slick with her passion, repetitively thrusting deep, filled her, drove her, sent her soaring.
Beyond recall; her senses, her nerves, started to unravel.
He locked his lips over hers, took her breath, gave it back as his fingers stroked deeply inside her—and her world shattered. She came apart, nerves fracturing, heat and sensation fragmenting, flying through her body, rocketing down her veins like shards of molten glass, flaring hot and bright everywhere under her skin, before sinking in, ultimately pooling low in her belly.
Long moments passed before her senses returned. Her
first thought was that, if he hadn’t kissed her at the last, she would have screamed.
Then she realized he’d drawn back, withdrawn his hand from between her thighs, and let her skirts fall. He’d shifted so he was leaning on one shoulder, set beside hers against the wall. His other hand was still idly, languidly caressing her naked breast.
She forced open her lids, turned her head to look into his face. He was watching his hand on her breast, but he felt her gaze and raised his heavy lids to meet her eyes.
She looked into his, and saw…shivered.
Royce didn’t try to hide his intentions; he let them live in his eyes, let her see.
A frown swam over her face. She moistened her swollen lips.
Before she could say anything, he pushed away from the wall, shifting to stand in front of her; drawing his hand from the bounty of her breast, he set his fingers to quickly doing up the buttons he’d earlier undone.
He felt her gaze on his face, but didn’t meet it, knew without looking that her mind was working again—that she would conclude, correctly, that he was playing a long game.
He didn’t just want her beneath him, didn’t simply want to sheath his aching erection in the soft flesh he’d just explored and claimed. He wanted her in his bed, willing and eager. Not because he’d overwhelmed her senses to the point where she didn’t know what she was doing. He wanted to see her sprawled naked on his sheets, wanted her to hold out her arms, spread her long legs and welcome him into her body.
Knowingly. With full knowledge of her actions, and their repercussions.
He wanted that—her complete, absolute, unequivocal, and willing surrender—more than he needed temporary relief. Taking her, storming her castle now, wouldn’t yield him the greater prize.
He was a tactician, a man of strategy first and last, even in this arena.
Her bodice reclosed, he glanced at her face, noted her deepening frown. He felt sure that, come morning, she’d have worked out his tack—much good would it do her.
She’d been a part of this household from the age of six; she was now twenty-nine. There was no chance that, over recent years, she hadn’t taken—indeed, been encouraged by his mother to take—a lover.
Which meant that the interlude they’d just shared should have reawakened her passions.
Women, even those with sexual needs as strong as his own, could go much longer than men without relief. Almost as if they could make their passions lie dormant, put them into hibernation.
But once reawakened, once sexual release was again dangled before their senses…
All he had to do was keep up the pressure and she would come to him of her own accord.
Scripting, planning the interlude that would follow, allowed him to step back, to escort her—still stunned and wondering—from the room and across the corridor to her bedroom door.
He set it swinging wide and stepped back.
Minerva halted, looked him in the eye. “You are not coming in.”
His lips quirked, but he inclined his head. “As you wish. Far be it from me to force myself on you.”
She felt her cheeks heat. In what had just passed, while he might have been the instigator she’d been an equal participant throughout. But she certainly wasn’t going to argue with whatever chivalrous streak had possessed him. As haughtily as she could, she inclined her head. “Good night.”
“Until next time.”
The dark murmur reached her as she went through the door. Clutching the edge, she swung around and looked back. Stated definitively, “There won’t be a next time.”
His soft, dark laugh slid like sin over her flushed skin.
“Good night, Minerva.” He met her eyes. “Sleep well.”
With that, he walked away, toward his apartments.
She shut the door, and leaned back against it.
For just one minute let the sensations he’d sent sweeping through her replay in her mind.
Felt again their power.
Heaven help her—how could she stand against him?
More to the point, how was she going to stand against herself?
Nine
Despite the physical frustrations of the night, Royce was in an equable mood as, the next morning, he worked through his correspondence with Handley in the study.
While he had no experience seducing unwilling or uncertain ladies, his chatelaine, thank God, was neither. Convincing her to lie in his bed would require no sweet talk, cajoling, or longing looks, no playing to her sensitivities; last night, he’d simply been the man, the marcher lord, she already knew him to be, and had succeeded. Admirably.
She might not yet have lain in his bed, but he’d wager the dukedom that by now she’d thought of it. Considered it.
His way forward was now crystal clear, and once he’d bedded her thoroughly, once she knew she was his to the depths of her soul, he’d inform her that she was to be his duchess. He would couch his offer as a request for her hand, but he was adamant that by then there would be no real question, most especially not in her mind.
The more he dwelled on his plan, the more he liked it; with a female like her, the more strings he had linking her to him before he mentioned marriage, the better, the less likely she was to even quibble. The grandes dames might be certain that any of the ladies on their list would unhesitatingly accept his offer, but Minerva’s name wasn’t on that list, and—despite her comment to the contrary—he wasn’t so conceited, so arrogant, that he was, even now, taking her agreement for granted.
But he had no intention of letting her refuse.
“That’s all you have to deal with today.” Handley, a quiet, determined man, an orphan recommended to Royce by the principal of Winchester Grammar School, who had subsequently proved to be entirely worthy of the considerable trust Royce placed in him, collected the various letters, notes, and documents they’d been dealing with. He glanced at Royce. “You wanted me to remind you about Hamilton and the Cleveland Row house.”
“Ah, yes.” He had to decide what to do with his town house now he’d inherited the family mansion in Grosvenor Square. “Tell Jeffers to fetch Miss Chesterton. And you’d better stay. There’ll be letters and instructions to be sent south, no doubt.”
After sending Jeffers for Minerva, Handley returned to the straight-backed chair he preferred, angled to one end of Royce’s desk.
Minerva entered. Seeing Handley, she favored him with a smile, then looked at Royce.
No one else would have seen anything unusual in that look, but Royce knew she was wary, watching for any hint of sexual aggression from him.
He returned her look blandly, and waved her to her customary chair. “We need to discuss the Wolverstone House staff, and how best to merge the staff from my London house into the ducal households.”
Minerva sat, noting that Handley, settled in his chair, a fresh sheet of paper on top of his pile, a pencil in his hand, was listening attentively. She switched her gaze to Royce. “You mentioned a butler.”
He nodded. “Hamilton. He’s been with me for sixteen years, and I wouldn’t want to lose him.”
“How old is he?”
Royce cocked a brow at Handley. “Forty-five?”
Handley nodded. “About that.”
“In that case—”
She provided information on the existing Wolverstone households, while Royce, with Handley’s additional observations, gave her an overview of the small staff he’d accumulated over his years of exile. Given he had no wish to keep the Cleveland Row house, she suggested that most of the staff be sent to Wolverstone House.
“Once you’re married and take your seat in the Lords, you and your wife will entertain a great deal more there than has been the case in the last decade—you’ll need the extra staff.”
“Indeed.” Royce’s lips curved as if something amused him, but then he saw her noticing and glanced at his jottings. “That leaves only Hamilton’s fate unresolved. I’m inclined to assign him to Wolverstone House in a supporti
ve capacity to old Bridgethorpe. In time, Hamilton can take over there, but until Bridgethorpe is ready to retire, depending on how much I need to travel between the various estates, I may use Hamilton as a personal butler.”
She raised her brows. “One who travels with you?”
“He knows my preferences better than anyone else.”
She inclined her head. “True. And that will allow all the other butlers to remain in their roles without causing tension.”
He nodded and looked at Handley. “Is there anything else?”
Handley shook his head and glanced at Minerva.
“Nothing more about the households,” she said, “but I wondered if you’d thought further about the mill.”
Royce frowned. “I’ll have to speak with Falwell, and I suppose Kelso, too, before I make any decision.” He glanced at Handley. “Send a message that I wish to see them tomorrow morning.”
Handley nodded, making a note.
In the distance, a gong sounded.
“Luncheon.” Minerva stood, surprised and relieved that she’d survived two full hours of Royce’s company without blushing once. Then again, other than that initial assessing look, he’d been entirely neutral when interacting with her.
She smiled at Handley as he and Royce rose to their feet.
Handley smiled back. Gathering his papers, he nodded to Royce. “I’ll have those letters ready for you to sign later this afternoon.”
“Leave them on the desk—I’ll be in and out.” Royce looked at Minerva, waved her to the door. “Go ahead—I’ll join you at the table.”
She inclined her head and left—feeling very like Little Red Riding Hood; avoiding walking alone through the keep’s corridors with the big, bad wolf was obviously a wise idea.
She had to own to further surprise when Royce chose to sit between Lady Courtney and Susannah at the luncheon table. The meal was strictly informal, a cold collation laid out on a sideboard from which guests helped themselves, assisted by footmen and watched over by Retford, before taking what seats they wished at the long table.
Flanked by Gordon and Rohan Varisey, with the startlingly handsome Gregory Debraigh opposite, she had distraction enough without wondering about Royce and his machinations. Presumably during the day, while he was Wolverstone and she was his chatelaine, he intended to behave with circumspection.
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