Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Every local, on first setting eyes on him—a tall, commanding figure in his well-cut coat, buckskin breeches, and top boots—stopped and stared. As she watched, Mrs. Critch-ley from beyond Alwinton halted in her tracks, and all but gawped.

  His father hadn’t attended the fair in living memory, but even more telling, his father would never, ever have assisted—have counted himself as one of this community. He’d been their ruler, but never one of them.

  Royce would rule as his ancestors had before him, but not distantly, aloofly; he was one with the noisy horde around him. She no longer needed to think to know his views; his sense of duty toward those he ruled—to his people—infused all he did. It was a fundamental part of who he was.

  Confident, arrogant, assured to his toes, he was Wolverstone, marcher lord incarnate—and using that power that by birth was his to wield, he’d rescripted the role, far more thoroughly, more fundamentally and progressively, than she’d dared hope.

  Watching him with the children, seeing him turn his head and exchange a laughing comment with Mr. Cribthorn, she felt her heart grow wings.

  That was the man she loved.

  He was who he was, he still had his flaws, but she loved him with all her heart.

  She had to turn away, had to battle to suppress the emotion welling inside so she could smile and function and do what needed doing. Irrepressibly smiling, she lifted her head, drew breath, and plunged back into the crowd, immersed herself in all she’d come there to do.

  Later.

  Later she would speak with him, accept his offer—and offer him her heart, without reservation.

  “It’s entirely thanks to you three that I’m heading home before dusk, let alone in time for afternoon tea.” At ease in the landau, Minerva smiled at Letitia, Clarice, and Penny, all, like her, exhausted, but satisfied with their day.

  “It was our pleasure,” Penny returned. “Indeed, I think I’ll suggest Charles investigates getting some ewes from that breeder, O’Loughlin.”

  She grinned, but didn’t get to mention Hamish’s background, distracted instead by Clarice’s account of what she’d discovered among the craft stalls. By the time they reached the castle, she’d been amply reassured that her friends hadn’t found their assumed duties too onerous. Alighting, they went indoors to join the company for afternoon tea.

  All the ladies were present, but only a handful of the gentlemen, most having taken out rods or guns and disappeared for the day.

  “It seemed wise to encourage them,” Margaret said. “Especially as we want them to dance attendance on us tomorrow at the fair.”

  Smiling to herself, Minerva quit the gathering and climbed the main stairs. She wasn’t sure she’d dealt with everything within the castle itself; she’d left those lists in the morning room.

  She was reaching for the knob of the morning room door when it opened.

  Royce stood framed in the doorway. “There you are.”

  “I’ve just got back. Or rather”—she tipped her head downward—“just finished afternoon tea. Everything seems to be proceeding smoothly.”

  “As, under your guidance, things always do.” Taking her arm, he moved her back, joining her and pulling the door closed behind him. “That being the case…come walk with me.”

  He wound her arm in his, setting his hand over hers. She glanced at his face—uninformative as ever—as she strolled beside him. “Where to?”

  “I thought…” He’d led her back into the keep; now he turned down the short corridor to his apartments—not entirely to her surprise.

  But he halted a few paces along, looked at the wall, then put out his hand, depressed a catch; the door to the keep’s battlements sprang open. “I thought,” he repeated, meeting her gaze as he held the door wide, “that the view from the battlements might entice.”

  She laughed, and readily went through. “Along with the peace up there, plus the fact it’s entirely private?”

  Perhaps she could tell him her decision up there?

  “Indeed.” Royce followed her into the stairway built into the keep’s wall. Once she’d climbed to the top of the steep flight and pushed open the door, letting light flood down, he closed the corridor door, then took the stairs three at a time, emerging to join her on the open battlements.

  They were the original battlements, the highest part of the castle. The view was spectacular, but by long tradition was enjoyed by only the family, more particularly those residing within the keep; guests had never been permitted up there, on the walks where, over the centuries, the family’s most trusted guards had kept watch for their enemies.

  The breeze was brisker than in the fields below; it tugged and flirted with Minerva’s hair as she stood in one of the gaps in the crenellations, looking north, over the gardens, the bridge, the mill, and the gorge.

  As he neared, she lifted her face, shook back her hair. “I’d forgotten how fresh it is up here.”

  “Are you cold?” He closed his hands about her shoulders.

  She glanced into his face, smiled. “No, not really.”

  “Good. Nevertheless…” He slid his arms around her and drew her back against him, settling her back to his chest, enveloping her in his greater warmth. She sighed and relaxed into his embrace, leaning against him, crossing her arms, her hands curving over his as she looked out. His chin beside her topknot, he, too, gazed out over his fields.

  The unfulfilled impulse that had prompted him to take her to Lord’s Seat lookout weeks before had prodded him to bring her here—for the same reason.

  “All you can see,” he said, “as far as you can see, all the lands beneath your gaze are mine. All that lies beneath our feet—that, too, is mine. My heritage, under my rule, under my absolute authority. The people are mine, too—mine to protect, to watch over—their welfare my responsibility, all part of the same whole.” He drew breath, then went on, “What you see before you is the greater part of what my life will be. What it will encompass. And you’re already an integral part of it. The day I took you to Lord’s Seat, this is what I wanted to show you—all that I want to share with you.”

  He glanced at her profile. “I want to share all of my life with you, not just the customary parts. Not just the social and familial arenas, but all this, too.” Tightening his arms, laying his jaw against her hair, he found the words he’d been searching for. “I want you by my side in everything, not just my duchess, but my helpmate, my partner, my guide. I will welcome you gladly into whatever spheres of my life you wish to grace.

  “If you consent to be my wife, I will willingly give to you not just my affection, not just my protection, but the right to stand beside me in everything I do. As my duchess, you will not be an adjunct, but an integral part of all that, together, we will be.”

  Minerva couldn’t keep the smile from her face. He was who he was, manipulative to his toes; he’d eloquently laid before her what he knew to be the most potent inducement he could offer—but he was sincere. Totally, unquestionably, speaking from his heart.

  If she’d needed further convincing that she could have faith and go forward, that she should accept his suit and become his duchess, he’d just supplied it; all he’d said was predicated on, based on, built upon an “affection” he believed was sound, solid, as unshakable as the foundations of his keep.

  She already knew the counter to that emotion lived, strong and vital, in her. To have such a fate, such a challenge, such a destiny offered her so freely…that was more than she’d ever dared dream.

  Turning in his arms, she looked into his face, met his dark eyes. They were as unreadable as ever, but his lips twisted wryly.

  “I know I shouldn’t push—shouldn’t press.” He held her gaze. “I know you still need time to assimilate all I’ve said, all that’s happened between us, but I wanted you to know how much you mean to me, so your deliberations will be…fully informed.”

  She smiled at his phrasing; despite his undoubted intelligence, he hadn’t yet realized that lo
ve didn’t need that much thought.

  He smiled back. “And now I’m going to give you all the time you want to decide. I won’t say more, not until you tell me I should.”

  Lowering his head, he brushed her lips lightly in an undemanding caress.

  It wasn’t something he meant to do, but there was enough in his tone to remind her that, from a man like him, granting her time was a gift.

  Her declaration hovered in the forefront of her mind, yet his unstated boon—unneeded though it might be—deserved some acknowledgment; as their lips parted, she rose on her toes, pressed her lips to his, parted them—invited. They were alone, private; no one could see.

  Lifting her arms, she wound them about his neck, pressed herself to him. His hands fastened about her waist, held her for an instant, then he laughed softly, angled his head, and took the kiss deeper.

  Took her deeper, into the familiar richness of their mutual desire.

  For long moments, they savored—each other, the warmth of the exchange, the inherent comfort.

  Then the fire took hold.

  Neither had summoned it; the flames were suddenly simply there, greedily licking all around them, tempting, luring…

  Both hesitated, sensing, seeking the other’s direction…

  Both surrendered. Grasped. Seized.

  His hands, spread, moved over her back, his touch possessive and sure. She sank her hands into his hair, held him to the suddenly rapacious kiss, and flagrantly demanded more.

  Kneading her breasts, kissing her with slow, relentless promise, he backed her against the ungiving stone of his battlements.

  Mutual need fired their blood, had her reaching for his waistband, had him raising her skirts.

  Mutual passion had them gasping, hungry and greedy as he lifted her, braced her against the stone, sank into her, then thrust deep.

  Mutual pleasure caught them; panting, chests heaving, they froze, forehead to forehead, breaths mingling, heated gazes touching, and drank in the exquisite sensation of their joining. Let it sink to their respective bones.

  Then he closed his eyes and groaned, she moaned, and each sought the others’ lips.

  And let mutual surrender have them, take them.

  A click was all the warning they had.

  “Oh, my God!”

  The shrill exclamation fell like a bucket of icy water over them.

  It was followed by a chorus of gasps, and more muted expressions of shock.

  Head up, spine rigid, Royce thought faster than he ever had in his life.

  Women, ladies, an untold number, stood clustered in the doorway five yards behind his back.

  Someone had brought them up here, but who had wasn’t his first concern.

  Locked in his arms, supported by his hand beneath her bottom and braced by his body sunk deeply in hers, Minerva was rigid. Hands fisted in his lapels, she’d ducked her head to his chest.

  He felt like he’d been clouted with a battle mace.

  His shoulders were broad; the women behind him couldn’t see her, at least not her face or body. They would be able to see her topknot, telltale wheat-gold, over his shoulder, and even more damningly her stocking-clad legs clasped about his hips.

  There was not a hope in hell of disguising their occupation.

  A kiss would have been bad enough, but this…

  There was only one course of action open to him.

  Easing Minerva from him, he withdrew from her; given his size, that necessitated a maneuver that even viewed from behind was impossible to mistake. Her knees slid from his hips, he lowered her until her feet touched the ground. Her skirts tumbled straight of their own accord.

  “Don’t move,” he murmured, quickly doing up the placket of his breeches. “Don’t say a word.”

  She looked at him through wide, utterly stunned eyes.

  Uncaring of the crowd, he bent his head and kissed her, a swift, reassuring kiss, then he straightened and turned to face their fate.

  His expression aloof and cold, his gaze pure ice, he regarded the knot of ladies, round-eyed, hands at their breasts, their expressions as stunned as Minerva’s…except for Susannah’s. She stood at the rear, peering past the others.

  Refocusing on those in the front of the group—a cluster of his sisters’ London friends—he drew breath, then said the words he had to say. “Ladies. Miss Chesterton has just done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

  “Well! It’s Miss Chesterton! Whoever would have thought!” Caroline Courtney, all agog, broke the news as he circled the billiard table. With the other men present, most Royce’s cousins, he halted and listened as Caroline blurted out the juicy details of how Royce and his chatelaine had been caught in flagrante delicto on the battlements.

  “There was absolutely no doubt about it,” she assured them. “We all saw.”

  He frowned. “Was she who Royce intended to marry all along?”

  Caroline shrugged. “Who can say? Regardless, she’s the one he’ll have to marry now.”

  Frowning, Gordon stated, “I can’t imagine Royce letting himself be trapped like that.” Then he realized what he’d said, and colored. “Not that Minerva won’t make a perfectly acceptable duchess.”

  Inwardly smiling, he mentally thanked Susannah; outwardly calm, he turned back to the table, savoring his victory.

  The news would reach London as fast as the mail coach could carry it; he wouldn’t need to lift so much as a finger.

  So Royce would now have to marry his chatelaine—be forced to marry her, and that he wouldn’t like.

  Even worse would be the whispers traded behind scented hands, the sniggers, the unsavory speculation directed at his duchess.

  Unavoidable within the ton.

  And Royce wouldn’t like that at all.

  Smiling, he leaned over the table and sent one ball neatly into a pocket, then he straightened and, slowly circling the table, surveyed the possibilities.

  In the duchess’s morning room, Letitia watched Minerva pace. “I appreciate that it’s the very last thing you would have wished to happen, but believe me, in the circumstances, there was nothing else he could have done.”

  “I know.” Her tone clipped, Minerva swung on her heel. “I was there. It was awful.”

  “Here.” Penny held out a glass containing at least three fingers of brandy. “Charles swears it always helps.” She took a sip from her own glass. “And he’s right.”

  Minerva seized the glass, took a healthy swallow, and felt the fiery liquid sear her throat, but then the warmth spread lower, loosening some of her icy rage. “I felt so damned helpless! I couldn’t even think.”

  “Take it from a Vaux, that scene would have taxed my histrionic capabilities.” Letitia, too, was sipping brandy. She shook her head. “There wasn’t anything you could have done to change the outcome.”

  Rendered more furious than she’d ever been in her life, Minerva could barely recall descending from the battlements. In a voice that dripped icicles, Royce had, entirely unsubtly, informed the importunate ladies that the battlements, like the keep itself, were private; they’d all but tripped over each other fleeing back down the stairs. Once they were gone, he’d turned, taken her hand, led her down, and brought her here.

  She’d been trembling—with rage.

  He’d been incandescent with fury, but, as usual, very little showed. He’d kissed her lightly, squeezed her hand, said, “Wait here.” Then he’d left.

  Minutes later, Letitia had arrived, fired with concern, ready to offer comfort and support; she’d lent a sympathetic ear while Minerva had ranted, literally raved over being denied her declaration, her supreme moment when she accepted Royce and pledged her love.

  Penny had joined them a few minutes ago, bearing a tray with the brandy decanter and four glasses. She’d listened for a moment, then set down the tray and poured.

  The door opened, and Clarice came in. Penny held out the fourth glass; Clarice thanked her with a nod as she took it, sipped, then
sank down onto the sofa opposite Letitia. She met their gazes. “Between us—Royce, Penny, Jack, and me—and surprisingly enough, Susannah—I think we’ve got everything smoothed over. Our story is that the three of us knew of the engagement—which, given your state this morning and what would naturally have followed from that, is the truth. And, indeed, that’s why we’re here, to witness the announcement for the grandes dames.”

  Minerva scowled, sipped. “I vaguely recall Royce muttering something about wringing Susannah’s neck. Wasn’t she the one who brought the ladies up to the battlements? If she was, and he hasn’t, I will.”

  “She was.” Penny sat beside Clarice. “But believe it or not, she thought she was helping. Being Cupid’s assistant, so to speak. She’d learned, somehow, that you were Royce’s lover, and decided she much preferred you as her sister-in-law over any other, so…” Penny shrugged. “Of course, she thought it was Royce dragging his heels.”

  Minerva grimaced. “She and I were much closer when we were young—we’ve always been friendly, although recently, of course, the connection’s been more distant.” She sighed, and dropped onto the sofa beside Letitia. “I suppose that explains it.”

  Penny’s Charles was right; the brandy helped, but anger still coursed her veins. Thanks to Susannah, she and even more Royce had lost what should have been a treasured moment. “Damn!” She took another sip.

  Luckily, the incident on the battlements and its outcome had changed nothing beyond that; she literally thanked heaven that she’d already made up her mind. If she hadn’t…

  Letitia stood. “I must go and speak with Royce.”

  “You know,” Clarice said, “I always thought our husbands treated him with a respect that was somewhat overstated—as if they credited him with more power, more ability, than he or any man could possibly have.” She raised her brows. “After seeing him in action downstairs, I’ve revised my opinion.”

  “Was he diabolical?” Letitia asked.

  Clarice considered. “Mildly so. It was more a case of everyone being suddenly reminded of the Wolverstone family emblem—that it has teeth.”