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.”

“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.” Le titia 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.”