Until he’d headed that way, she hadn’t been sure what he intended, but given his preference for the minor stairs…he was taking her to his rooms.

She chose the small hall at the foot of the turret stairs to make her stand. There were no servants about, no one else about to see, let alone interrupt. When he reached for the newel post, she halted. Held steady when he tried to draw her forward. He looked around, met her gaze-saw her determination. Arched one black brow.

“What you have in mind isn’t going to happen.” She made the statement clearly, evenly. Not a challenge, but a statement of fact. She wanted to draw her hand from his, to lose the sensation of his long, strong fingers locked about hers, but knew better than to trigger his reaction. Instead, she met his gaze with steadfast resolution. “You are not even going to kiss me again.”

His eyes narrowed; turning to face her, he opened his mouth-

“No. You will not. You might lust after me, but that, as we both know, is merely a reaction to being forced to name your bride. It will last for all of a day or two, and then what? It’s possible that the only reason your eye has fixed on me is that I’m one of the few ladies in the house not related to you. But I’m not going to tumble into your bed just because you’ve decided it suits you. I’m your chatelaine, not your lover, not your mistress.” She drew in a breath, held his dark gaze. “So we’re going to pretend, going to behave, as if what just happened on Lord’s Seat…didn’t.”

That was the only way she could think of to survive, heart intact, to get through this time as his chatelaine, fulfill her vows to his parents, and then leave Wolverstone and start a new life.

Somewhere.

Somewhere a very long way from him, so she’d never have to meet him again, not even set eyes on him. Because after what had just happened on Lord’s Seat, she was going to regret not letting matters take their course, to regret not letting him take her to his bed.

And that regret would last forever.

Royce watched her denial form on her lips-lips he’d just kissed, possessed, and now knew beyond question were his. He heard her words, could even make sense of them, but the reactions they called forth left him inwardly reeling. As if she’d picked up a broadsword and clouted him over the head.

She couldn’t be serious-yet he could see she was.

He’d stopped thinking rationally the instant he’d possessed her lips, the instant he’d swept into her mouth and tasted her. Claimed her. He’d spent the ride home anticipating claiming her in a more absolute, biblical way-and now she was refusing.

More, she was insisting that their incendiary kiss should be ignored, as if she hadn’t welcomed him, kissed him back, and clung.

Worse, she’d accused him of seducing her out of lust-that he would take her to his bed with no feeling whatever, that she was merely a convenient female body to him…inwardly he frowned. He felt offended, yet…

He was a Varisey, until now in this sphere archetypically so-she had every reason to believe any female would do.

Except no other would. He knew that to his bones.

He held her gaze. “You want me as much as I want you.”

She lifted her chin. “Perhaps. But remember the reason I haven’t accepted any offers-of any sort-from any gentlemen? Because they didn’t offer anything I wanted.” She looked directly into his eyes. “In this case, anything I want enough.”

Her last word echoed in the stairwell, filling the silence that fell between them.

A clear, unequivocal challenge.

One that called to him on a level he couldn’t deny, but he could see from her eyes, her calmly resolute mien, that she was unaware she’d issued it.

The marcher lord within him purred in anticipation. In wardly he smiled; outwardly he maintained his impassive expression.

Desire, lust, and need still ran rampant through his veins, but he reined the unruly, tempestuous emotions in. He wanted her, and was determined to have her. He’d gone to the lookout already committed to doing whatever it took to convince her to be his-in all the relevant spheres, of which this was one. His first test, apparently, was to convince her that she wanted him enough-to wit, a great deal more than she knew.

The prospect of exerting himself over a woman felt alien, but he shook aside the niggle.

He’d been intending to offer her the dukedom, his duchess’s coronet; he toyed with the idea of asking her if that would prove enough. But the challenge she’d issued had been based on the physical, not the material; he would answer her on the same plane. Time enough once she was gracing his bed to inform her of the permanent position he intended her to fill.

His gaze lowered to her hand, still resting in his. He needed to let her go-for now.

Forcing his fingers to ease, he let her hand, her fingers, slide from his grasp. Saw, because he was watching intently, her release the breath she’d been holding. She didn’t step away; she lowered her arm, but otherwise remained still. Watching him.

Wise; his more primitive side wasn’t happy about letting her go, and was just waiting for any excuse to override her wishes and the counsel of his wiser self.

Too conscious of that primitive self prowling just beneath his skin, he forced himself to turn away, to start up the stairs. He spoke without turning around. “I’ll see you in the study in half an hour to discuss the mill.”


That afternoon, Royce’s last traitor lay naked on his back in Royce’s younger sister’s bed.

Equally naked, Susannah lolled on her stomach beside him. “I sent off that note with the post last evening-it should reach town later today.”

“Good.” Lifting an arm, he trailed his fingers over the quite delectable curve of her derriere. “It’ll be amusing to see if dear Helen avails herself of your kind invitation.”

“Poor Royce, forced by the grandes dames to choose a bride-the least I can do is arrange a little diversion.”

“With luck, the beautiful countess will be here by Sunday.”

“Hmm.” Susannah looked pensive. “I really can’t see him rushing to announce his betrothal, not given it was forced on him. Once she arrives, he might put it off indefinitely.”

“Or even change his mind. Have you really no idea who he’s chosen?”

“No. No one does. Even Minerva has no clue, which, as you might expect, is bothering her greatly.”

“Can’t you wheedle it out of him? You’re his favorite sister, after all.”

Susannah snorted. “This is Royce Varisey we’re talking about. He might look on me more kindly than he does Margaret and Aurelia-and really, who wouldn’t?-but ‘wheedling’ anything out of him would literally be the equivalent of getting blood from a stone.”

“Ah, well-it seems we’ll have to wait with everyone else to hear. A week or so…not that long.”

Susannah sat up. “Wait a minute. He said the week’s delay was to get the lady’s agreement.” She turned to him. “If we knew which lady he contacted…”

It was his turn to snort derisively. “Not even I would suggest you might induce Retford to tell you who his new master is corresponding with.”

Susannah slapped his chest with the back of her hand. “Not me, silly-Minerva. I bet she’s already thought of it.” She grinned, then slid sinuously, sensuously, into his arms. “I’ll ask her…later.”

He pulled her over him, licked her lips, and slid his hand between her thighs. “Indeed. Later.”

Eight

R oyce walked into the drawing room that evening, and calmly surveyed the remaining company. His sisters had stayed, although their husbands had departed; all three had, apparently, decided to indulge themselves with a few weeks’ break, taking advantage of the, for them, freer, less restrictive structure of his essentially bachelor household.

All three were indulging in affairs under his roof-Aurelia and Susannah with two of his cousins, Margaret with the husband of one of her “friends,” who was helpfully otherwise engaged with another of his cousins.

Luckily, he wasn’t, wouldn’t be held to be, responsible in any way for them, their sins, or their marriages. For the moment, at least, they could do as they pleased; they-his sisters, cousins, and their assorted friends-would provide cover for his pursuit of his chatelaine.

For that, he would tolerate them, at least for now. He was easy enough in their company; he could interact with them or ignore them as he chose.

Some had mentioned staying for the Alwinton Fair, a few weeks away. It was a highlight of the local year; their mother had often hosted house parties coinciding with the event. As he glanced around, noting bright eyes, flushed cheeks, and meaningful looks, it seemed his sisters and cousins were intent on recapturing those youthful, more carefree times.

He, in contrast, was intent on capturing Minerva. With luck, the fair and the company would distract his sisters from any further misplaced interest in his affairs.

Despite the frustration he’d recently endured having been to no real purpose, that frustration was still continuing. Not, however, for long. He’d forced himself to toe her line through a few hours of her company, discussing the mill and other estate matters-lulling her into a sense of safety.

Into believing she was safe with him. From him.

Nothing could be further from the truth, at least not with respect to their current point of contention. She was going to land in his bed-naked-sooner or later; he was intent on ensuring it was the former that applied.

He located her at the center of a group by the fireplace; she still wore her weeds, as did his sisters, but the other female guests had switched to gowns of lavender or gray. Minerva still shone like a beacon to him. He prowled through the guests, heading her way.

Minerva saw him coming; continuing to smile at Phillip Debraigh, who was entertaining the group with a tale, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths, and a firmer grip on her composure. Royce had, without argument, behaved precisely as she’d stipulated for the rest of the morning and all the afternoon, adhering to both the letter and intent of her dictate. There was no reason to imagine he’d suddenly change tack…

Except that she couldn’t bring herself to believe that he would meekly accept her dismissal and fall in with her specified line.

Which was why she tensed, lungs tightening, when he neared. Phillip ended his tale and excused himself, drifting off to join another group. The circle shuffled, adjusted, as Royce came to stand by her side.

He greeted the others with his customary, coolly urbane air; last of all, he looked at her-and smiled.

Pure wolf. That he planned something was patently clear from the expression in his dark eyes.

Lips lightly curved, she inclined her head serenely in reply.

One of the other ladies launched into the latest ton story.

Nerves flickering, her lungs too tight, Minerva seized the moment to murmur, “If you’ll excuse me…” She stepped back-

Halted, nerves leaping, as long, hard fingers closed-gently, yet with underlying strength-about her elbow.

Royce turned with her, one dark brow arching. “Whither away?”

Away from him. She looked across the room. “I should see if Margaret needs anything.”

“I thought, as my chatelaine, you’re supposed to remain by my side.”

“If you need me.”

“I definitely need you.”

She didn’t dare look at his face. His tone was bad enough; the tenor of his deep voice sent a shivery tingle skating down her spine. “Well, then, you should probably speak with those cousins you’ve spent least time with. Henry and Arthur, for instance.”

Releasing her, he waved her forward. “Lead on.” He paced beside her as she glided through the guests toward the group with whom the two youngest Variseys present were standing. As they neared, he murmured, “Just don’t try to slip away from me.”

The undisguised warning had her plastering on a smile, engaging Henry and Arthur, and dutifully remaining beside Royce as they conversed.

She quickly realized why he’d appeared in the drawing room the full regulation half hour before dinner-so he could use the time to torture her with a thousand little touches. Nothing more than the polite, unremarkable, customary gestures a gentleman bestowed on a lady-his grip on her elbow, a touch on her arm, the sensation of his hand hovering at the back of her waist…then touching, lightly steering-burning.