She spent most of the meal mentally enumerating Royce’s symptoms, but while indicative, neither singly nor collectively were they conclusive.

Retford waylaid her on her way back to the morning room; the others went ahead while she detoured to assess the spirits store. After conferring with Retford, Cranny, and Cook, on impulse she asked after Trevor.

Fate smiled, and she found him alone in the ironing room, busily ironing his master’s cravats. He saw her as she entered, quickly set the iron down, and turned.

“No, no.” She waved him back to the board. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Hesitantly, he picked up the iron from the stand perched above a fire in the small hearth. “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

This could be supremely embarrassing, but she had to ask, had to know. She drew breath, and plunged in. “Trevor-you’ve been with His Grace for some time, have you not?”

“Over seventeen years, ma’am.”

“Indeed. Just so. So you would know if there’s anything in the way in which he behaves toward me that differs from how he’s behaved in the past with other ladies.”

The iron froze in midair. Trevor looked at her, and blinked.

Embarrassment clutched at her chest; she hurried to add, “Of course, I will understand completely if you feel your duty to His Grace precludes you from answering.”

“No, no-I can answer.” Trevor blinked again, and his expression eased. “My answer, ma’am, is that I really can’t say.”

“Oh.” She deflated; all that whipping up her courage for nothing.

But Trevor hadn’t finished. “I’ve never known about any other ladies, you see. He never brought any home.”

“He didn’t?”

His attention on the strip of linen he was carefully flattening, Trevor shook his head. “Never. Cardinal rule. Always their beds, never his.”

Minerva stared at the valet for a long moment, then she nodded and turned away. “Thank you, Trevor.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”


“Well! That’s encouraging.” Perched on the arm of one of the sofas, Clarice watched her pace. “Especially if he’s been so adamant over using his bed, not yours.”

Letitia and Penny, seated on the other sofa, nodded in agreement.

“Yes, but,” Minerva said, “who’s to say that it’s not just him viewing me as his duchess. He’d made up his mind I should marry him before he seduced me, so it’s entirely in character for him to insist on treating me as if I already were what he wants me to be-his wife.”

Letitia made a rude sound. “If Royce decided to ignore your wishes and roll over you, horse, foot, and guns, he’d have simply sent a notice to the Gazette-and then informed you of your impending change in station. That really would be in character. No, this news is definitely encouraging, but”-she held up a hand to stay Minerva’s protest-“I agree that, for your purpose, you need something more definite.”

Penny nodded. “Something more cut and dried.”

“Something,” Minerva stated, “that’s more than just indicative, or suggestive. Something that’s not open to other interpretations.” Halting, she threw up her hands. “At present, this is the equivalent of reading tea leaves. I need something he absolutely wouldn’t do unless he loves me.”

Clarice blew out a breath. “Well, there is one thing you might try. If you’re game…”


Later that night, after a final consultation with her mentors, Minerva hurried back to her bedroom. The rest of the company had retired some time ago; she was late-Royce would be wondering where she was.

If he asked where she’d been, she could hardly tell him she’d been receiving instruction in the subtle art of how to lead a nobleman to reveal his heart.

Reaching her door, she opened it and rushed inside-and came up hard against his chest.

His hands closed on her shoulders and steadied her as the door swung shut behind her. He frowned down at her. “Where-”

She held up a hand. “If you must know, I’ve been dealing with your friends’ wives.” She whisked out of his hold and backed away, already unbuttoning her gown. “Go to your room-I’ll follow as soon as I’ve changed.”

He hesitated.

She got the impression he wanted to help her with her gown, but wasn’t sure he trusted himself. She waved him off. “Go! I’ll get there sooner if you do.”

“All right.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be waiting.”

The door shut soundlessly behind him just as she recalled she should have warned him not to undress.

“Damn!” Wrestling with her laces, she hurried even faster.


He was not happy. The last weeks had crawled by without any real satisfaction.

It had taken Lady Ashton longer than he’d expected to get here, and then, instead of creating any difficulty for Royce-not even the slightest scene-the damned woman had, so it appeared, accepted her congй without even a tantrum-not even a decent sulk!

That was one thing. Her rejection of him was quite another.

Seething, he stalked out of the west wing into the deeper shadows of the keep’s gallery. He’d gone to her room assuming that, as Royce had declined to share her bed-a fact she’d made light of when, at his subtle prod, Susannah had asked-then the delectable Lady Ashton would be amenable to entertaining him. She had a mouth he’d fantasized about using ever since Royce’s interest had focused his attention on her.

Instead, the lovely countess hadn’t let him past her door. She’d pleaded a migraine and stated her intention of leaving the next day as necessitating a good night’s sleep.

He ground his teeth. To be fobbed off with such transparent and paltry excuses made his blood boil. He’d intended to return to his room for a stiff brandy, but he needed something more potent than alcohol to burn away the memory of Lady Ashton’s blank politeness.

She’d looked at him, and coolly dismissed him as unworthy to take Royce’s place.

To rid himself of the vision, he needed something to replace it. Something like the image of Susannah-Royce’s favorite sister-on her knees before him. With him looking down at her, first from the front, then from the rear, as she serviced him,

If he pushed her hard, she might just be able to make him forget the countess.

Imagining doing to Royce’s sister what he’d planned to do to Royce’s mistress, he crossed the gallery. Susannah’s room was in the east wing.

He was passing one of the deep embrasures slotted into the keep’s walls when the sound of a door hurriedly opening had him instinctively sidestepping into the deeper shadows and halting.

Silently he waited for whoever it was to pass.

Light footsteps came pattering along the runner-a woman, hurrying.

She passed the opening of the embrasure; a glint of moonlight tangled in her hair. Minerva.

Seeing her hurrying about wasn’t surprising, even late at night. Seeing her rush off in her nightgown, swinging a light cloak about her shoulders, was.

He’d been walking back from the countess’s rooms for some minutes; in the pervasive silence he would have heard if any of the staff had knocked on Minerva’s door.

He slipped out of the embrasure and followed at a distance, stopped breathing when she turned down the short corridor that led to the ducal apartments. He reached the corner in time to peer around and see her open the door leading into Royce’s sitting room.

It shut silently behind her.

Despite the obvious implications, he couldn’t quite believe it. So he waited. Waited for her to emerge with Royce, having summoned him to deal with some emergency…

In her nightgown?

Barging into Royce’s bedroom?

A clock somewhere tolled the quarter hour; he’d been standing there watching the door for over fifteen minutes. Minerva wasn’t coming out.

She was the reason Royce had dismissed the countess.

“Well, well, well, well, well.” Lips curving, he slowly turned and walked on to Susannah’s room.

Eighteen

M inerva paused just inside Royce’s sitting room to drag in a breath and steady her nerves.

A shadow across the room shifted. Her senses flared.

He emerged from the dimness, the shadows sliding away; he’d dispensed with his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and was barefoot, but still had his shirt and trousers on. He set down the empty glass he carried on a side table. He didn’t actually growl, “About time,” but the sentiment invested every stride as he stalked toward her.

“Ah…” She grabbed her sliding wits and hauled them back, raised her hands to ward him off.

He reached for her, but not as she expected. His hands clamped about her head, angled it as he swooped and captured her lips with his.

The searing kiss overwhelmed all thought, submerged every last vestige of rationality beneath a scorching tide of desire. Of passion unleashed; the flames licked about them, crackling and hungry.

She was, as always, drawn into the sheer wonder of being wanted so blatantly, in this way, to this degree. His hands locked about her head, with his mouth, lips, and tongue, he claimed, possessed-and poured so much raw need, unfettered passion, and unrestrained desire into her, through her, that, swamped, submerged, instantly aroused, she swayed.

Her hands flattened on his chest; through the fine linen of his shirt she felt his heat and hardness. Unrelenting, demanding, commanding-she felt all he was beckon and lure. Sensed through her touch and the grip of his hands that amazing though it seemed he wanted her with an even greater passion than he had the night before.

Far from waning, a hunger gradually sated, his appetite-and hers-only grew. Escalated, deepened.

Fingers curling in his shirt, she kissed him back-an equal participant in the outrageously explicit kiss. If he never seemed able to get enough of her, she felt the same about him.

The thought reminded her of what she needed from the night. What more she wanted of him. The others had given her directions, not instructions. She knew what she had to achieve, had known she would have to improvise.

So how?

Before she could think, he released her head and drew his hands outward, letting her hair flow through his long fingers. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders, sliding down to puddle in a heap behind her. He broke from the kiss, reached for her body-and she’d run out of planning time.

“No!” Stepping back, palm braced on his chest, she tried to hold him off.

He halted, looked at her.

“I want to lead. For this dance, I want you to let me lead.”

That was the critical point-he had to let her. Had to accept the passive role instead of the dominant, had to willingly relinquish the reins and let her drive.

He’d never shared the reins-not truly. He’d allowed her to explore, but it had always been a permission granted, time and duration limited, all subject to his rule. He was a marcher lord, a king in his domains; she’d never expected anything else from him.

But tonight she was asking-demanding-that he not just share, but cede her his crown. For tonight, in his room, in his bed.

Royce understood very well what she was asking. Something he’d never granted to any other-and never would grant, not even to her, if he had a choice. But it wasn’t hard to guess from whom she’d got the idea, nor what, in her mind and theirs, it meant. What they thought his capitulation would mean.

And they were right.

Which meant he had no choice. Not if he wanted her to wear his duchess’s coronet.

Desire had already locked his features; he felt them grow harder, felt his jaw tighten as he held her gaze-and forced himself to nod. “All right.”

She blinked-he had to stop himself from scooping her up anyway and carrying her to his bed. He could rip away her wits, and her determination, but that way lay failure. This was a test-one he had to take. Easing back, he stretched his arms to either side. “So what now?”

A more cerebral part of him was intrigued to see what she would do.

Sensing his underlying challenge, she narrowed her eyes, then grabbed one hand, swung on her heel, and towed him into his bedroom.

His gaze locked on her hips, swaying naked beneath the near translucent poplin of an amazingly prim white nightgown. None of her nightgowns rated as provocative, but this one, with its long, gathered sleeves and high collar, closed all the way up to her chin with tiny buttons, seemed extreme-and erotic.