Mastered By Love (23 page)

 

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, al
lowed 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

 

 

 

 

D
espite 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 supportive 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.

 

The meal had ended, and she was strolling with the others through the front hall, when Royce walked up behind her. “Minerva.”

 

When she halted and turned, brows rising, he said, “If you’re free, I’d like to take a look at the mill. It would help if I have a better understanding of the problem before I see Falwell and Kelso tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, of course.” She was the one urging the matter be
dealt with immediately. “Now?”

 

He nodded and waved her toward the west wing.

 

They walked through the corridors, the voices of the others fading as they turned into the north wing. A side hall at the north end led them to a door that gave onto the gardens beyond.

 

Lawns and shrub borders fell away to more rolling expanses hosting larger, mature trees. The ornamental stream burbled beside them as they followed the gravel path along its bank. Ahead, the mill sat built over the stream; partially screened by a stand of willows, it was far enough from the house to be unobtrusive, yet was within walking distance.

 

As they approached, Royce studied the building, part stone, part timber. It sat squarely across the deep race, at that point only a few yards wide, through which the diverted waters of the Coquet rushed with sufficient force to spin the heavy waterwheel that turned the massive grinding stone.

 

The ground sloped upward, away from the castle toward the hills to the northwest, so the west bank of the race was significantly higher than the east bank. Spanning the race, the mill therefore was built on two levels. The higher and larger western section contained the grinding stone and the beams, levers, and gears that connected it to the waterwheel in the race.

 

The narrower, lower, eastern side through which he and Minerva entered contained beams and pulleys that raised and lowered the huge waterwheel; because of the bores that surged down the Coquet when the snows melted, it was essential the wheel could be lifted entirely free of the race. The eastern section also contained bins and storage cupboards set against the wooden railing that ran along the edge of the race.

 

The first crop of corn had already been ground; the second crop was yet to be harvested. For the moment, the mill stood silent and empty, with the wheel raised and braced above the race on massive beams.

 

“The problem’s not hard to see.” Minerva led the way
into the soft shadows. The building had no windows, but light streamed in through the three open doorways—the one through which they’d entered, as well as the two at either end of the upper, western section.

 

Royce followed her along the continuation of the path, now paved; bins and cupboards formed a row on his left, the wood-and-stone outer wall to his right. The noise of rushing water was amplified inside, filling his ears. The cupboards were shoulder-height; when he looked over their tops, his eyes were level with the timber floor of the western section.

 

Ahead, beyond where the cupboards ended, Minerva had paused at the foot of a slanting gangplank connecting the two sections of the mill.

 

He nodded at the gangplank. “That’s new.” There’d always been a plank, but the ones he remembered had been literally planks, not this substantial timber board with cleats and a sturdy rail on one side. Halting beside Minerva, he studied the hinges, ropes, and pulleys attached to the plank, connecting it to the western section’s floor and railing. “And it even swings out of the way.”

 

In order for the waterwheel to be lowered and raised, the plank used to have to be removed altogether.

 

“After he’d replaced the old plank three times—you know how frequently they drop it in the race when they try to lift it away—Hancock designed this.” Minerva started across the narrow platform. “He hasn’t had to even repair it since.”

 

“An estimable improvement.” Royce followed her.

 

“Which is what we could do with up here.” Stepping off the gangplank’s upper end, Minerva swept her arms wide, encompassing the whole timber-floored western section in the middle of which sat the massive circular grinding stone supported by a stone plinth; the plinth continued through the floor into the earth beneath.

 

Letting his gaze travel around the otherwise empty area, Royce walked to the millstone, then cocked a brow at her.

 

“As I explained,” she continued, “because we have to keep the doors open all the time, summer and winter, it’s impos
sible to store anything here. The corn is ground, collected, and bagged—and then, each day, has to be moved, either to the castle cellars or back to farmers’ holdings. If we close the doors to keep the animals out, the corn starts to mold by the next day. Bad enough, but preserving the millstone through winter is a never-ending battle. No matter what we’ve tried, it takes weeks of preparation every spring before we can use it without risking the corn.”

 

“Mold again?” He walked back to the railing along the race.

 

“Mold, fungus, mildew—we’ve even had mushrooms growing on it.”

 

Running a hand along the wide top rail, he grimaced. “Too damp.”

 

“If we shut the doors, it sometimes gets so bad it drips.”