Mastered By Love (51 page)

 

Slowly.

 

In that instant he truly was mesmerizing; she couldn’t have torn her gaze from his had flames leapt about them.

 

“Minerva, my lover. My lady. My heart. Will you marry me?”

 

She blinked once, twice, felt her heart literally swell. “Yes.”

 

Such a little word, and although she’d poured every ounce of her certainty, resolution, and joy into it, there was more she had to say. Raising her other hand, she laid her fingers against his lean cheek, lightly traced the angular planes that gave so little away, even now.

 

Felt her heart overflow as she looked into his eyes, smiled. “I’ll marry you, Royce Varisey, and fill the place by your side. I’ll bear your children, and with my hand in yours, face whatever the future might bring, and make the most of it that, together, we can…for Wolverstone—and you.”

 

He was Wolverstone, but that wasn’t all he was. Underneath was a man who deserved her love. So she gave it, let him see it in her eyes.

 

Royce studied the autumn hues, the brilliant golds, the passionate browns, the mysterious agate-green, knew to his soul how much she meant to him—and knew he was the luckiest man alive. Slowly bending his head, he waited until she tipped her face up to his, then lowered his lips to hers.

 

And let a simple kiss seal their pact.

 

The loving that followed mirrored that kiss—simple, uncomplicated, undisguised. And she was right—nothing had changed. The passion, the heat, the fervor were the same. If anything deeper, broader, more intense, brought to burgeoning richness by acceptance, by the simple declarations that had committed them both, minds, bodies, hearts, and souls, to facing their future together.

 

That pledged them to the adventure of forging something new, something never before known in his family. To forging a marriage founded on, anchored in, held together by love.

 

Spread naked beneath him on his crimson silk sheets, she
wrapped her arms about him and arched in welcome; poised above her, as heated and urgent as she, he slid into the haven of her body, and felt her clasp him tightly, embracing him, holding him. On a soundless gasp, head rising, he closed his eyes—held still, muscles bunched and quivering as he fought to give them that moment, that instant of indescribable sensation as their bodies locked, that instant of flagrant intimacy before the dance began.

 

Sensing the reins slipping, sliding from his grasp, he hauled in a breath and looked down. Saw her eyes glint gold from beneath her lashes.

 

I love you.
He wanted to say the words, they hovered on his tongue, yet he didn’t know, even now, if they were true. He wanted them to be, but…

 

Her lips curved as if she understood; reaching up with one hand, she cupped his nape, drew his lips to hers.

 

And kissed him—a blatant invitation to abandon.

 

He accepted and let go, let passion take and fuse them. Let their bodies surge, merge, surrendering to need, hunger, and wanting.

 

Opening his eyes, he looked down at her face, glowing with passion, rapturous in surrender, the face of his woman, his lady, soon his wife, utterly and unreservedly his.

 

Given to him.

 

He put aside the torment of the day, let their joint passion swamp it, drown it, wash it away. Let himself free and sealed their pact.

 

And gave himself unreservedly to her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twenty

 

 

 

 

T
he next morning, Minerva stood beside Royce as, with
the cheers of the crowd for the nine handfasted couples gradually fading, he stepped to the front of the dais from which, earlier, he’d opened the fair.

 

Quietening, the crowd regarded him expectantly. He let his gaze roam the upturned faces, then said, “Wolverstone, too, has an announcement to make.” He glanced at her, with his gaze drew her closer. His smile was all she would ever hope to see; the undisguised warmth in his eyes held her as, capturing her hand, he raised it to his lips, and in full view of the assembled company, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Miss Chesterton has done me the honor of agreeing to be my duchess.”

 

He hadn’t spoken loudly, yet his voice carried clearly over the hushed crowd…

 

The crowd erupted. Cheers, huzzahs, triumphant yells, whoops, and shrieks; noise rose in a wave of unalloyed happiness and washed over the scene. Minerva looked, and saw Hamish and Molly, who they’d found and told earlier, beaming up at them. The castle’s staff were all there—Retford, Cranny, Cook, Jeffers, Milbourne, Lucy, Trevor, and all the
rest—all looking fit to burst with pride and joy. Looking further, she saw the faces of many of Wolverstone’s people, all delighted, all thrilled. Saw happy, joyous, pleased expressions, clapping hands, laughter, happy tears. Even those from the house party, scattered here and there among the throng, looked pleased to be part of the upwelling gladness.

 

Royce held up a hand; the cheers and whistles died. “Our wedding will be held in the church here, in just over three weeks’ time. As many of you know, I returned only recently to take up the reins of the dukedom—in just a few weeks I’ve learned a great deal about what has changed, and what yet needs changing. Just as I’ll make my vows to my duchess, and she to me, together we’ll stand committed to you, to Wolverstone, to forging ahead into our joint future.”

 

“Wolverstone!” With one voice, the crowd roared its approval. “Wolverstone!
Wolverstone!
”

 

Minerva surveyed the sea of happy faces, felt the warmth of their people reaching for them, embracing, buoying; turning her head, she met Royce’s eyes, smiled.

 

His hand tightened about hers and he smiled back, openly, honestly, his customary shields lowered, for once set aside.

 

 

No! No, no, no, no—how could this have happened?

 

Deep in the crowd, surrounded by, jostled by, the raucous, gibbering throng, all transported with delight over the news of Royce’s wedding, he stood stunned, unable to think—unable to drag his eyes from the picture of Royce and Minerva standing on the dais, lost in each other’s eyes.

 

Royce was an excellent actor when he wanted to be—he knew that. Minerva could hold her own, too…

 

He shook his head, wished he could deny what his eyes were telling him. Neither was acting—what he was seeing, what the entire crowd about him was taking in and responding to, was
real
.

 

Royce wanted to marry Minerva.

 

And she wanted to marry him.

 

She was in love with him—nothing else could account for the softness in her face.

 

And while Royce couldn’t possibly love her, he definitely cared for her—in a far warmer way than he’d ever have thought possible.

 

Minerva wasn’t, had never been, just another of Royce’s legion of lovers. She’d been the one, all along—the lady he’d wanted as his wife…

 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He ground the words out through clenched teeth, fighting to keep his face a mask of utter blankness.

 

Their marriage was supposed to be a farce, a travesty—it was supposed to be
painful
. Instead, all his maneuvering had done was hand Royce precisely what he’d wanted.

 

He, through Susannah, had been instrumental in giving Royce the last thing he needed to complete the tapestry of an already rich and satisfying existence. He’d been instrumental in giving Royce something he craved, something he treasured…

 

Suddenly, he knew. Suddenly, he saw.

 

His features eased.

 

Then, slowly, he smiled, too.

 

Increasingly delightedly. He laughed, and clapped Rohan on the back when he passed him in the crowd.

 

Yes, of course. Now he saw it.

 

Royce had been the motive, the cause in bringing him his treasure—only then to take it away.

 

So fitting, then, that he would be the one to give Royce his greatest treasure—so he could return the favor.

 

Royce had taken his treasure.

 

Now he would take Royce’s.

 

 

That evening, Royce, Minerva, Letitia, Clarice, Penny, and Handley met in the duchess’s morning room. In the wake of the hugely successful fair—made even more notable by the news they’d shared—dinner had been an informal affair.
After refreshing themselves, they’d left the relaxed and apparently pleasantly exhausted company downstairs, and retired to address the logistics of a ducal wedding.

 

While the others settled, Royce, subsiding beside Minerva on one of the sofas, considered his wife-to-be. “Did you say something to the others downstairs? They seem strangely unexercised by our betrothal.”

 

“I simply explained that Susannah’s intervention was misjudged, and that as your duchess, I would be severely displeased were anyone to paint our betrothal in anything other than the correct light.”

 

Sinking onto the sofa opposite, Penny chuckled. “It was masterful. She made Susannah’s action appear a childish prank—one of those occurrences that are so excruciatingly awkward that it would be a kindness to Susannah to pretend it never happened.”

 

Joining Penny on the sofa, Letitia added, “She only had to speak to the ladies—Jack reported that as none of the men were on the battlements, they were very ready to pretend it never happened. But turning the event around so it reflected on Susannah was a master stroke. I would never have thought of it, but it served wonderfully well.”

 

“No doubt,” Clarice said, settling on the end of the sofa, “your facility comes from having to deal with Variseys for decades.”

 

“Indeed.” Minerva turned to Royce, met his eyes. “Now, for our wedding.”

 

Very early that morning, he’d suggested as soon as possible, and been informed that wasn’t in his cards. When he’d grumbled, he’d been further informed, at length, why. “Three weeks, I believe you said?”

 

Her eyes lit. “Indeed. Three weeks—and we’ll need every minute from now until then.” She looked at Handley, seated before her desk. “What date are we looking at?”

 

Resigned—and inwardly happier than he’d ever felt in his life—Royce sat back and let them organize; his only task was to approve when applied to, which he duly did. They
were the experts. Letitia knew everything about staging events in the ton. Although in semiretirement, Clarice was renowned as a manipulator of ton sentiments. Penny, like Minerva, understood the dynamics of major estates, of country and county, while Minerva knew everything there was to know about Wolverstone and the Variseys.

 

Together, they made a formidable team. In short order, they had the framework settled.

 

“So”—Minerva caught Handley’s eye—“the banns will be read over the next three Sundays, and we’ll be married the following Thursday.”

 

Handley nodded and made a note. “I’ll ask Mr. Cribthorn to call tomorrow.” He glanced at Royce.

 

“I’ll be here all day. We’ve rather a lot to get into place.” The marriage settlements, among other things. “You’d better summon Montague.”

 

Handley furiously wrote. “And your solicitors?”

 

“Yes—them, too.” Royce glanced at Minerva. “I’ve been racking my brains, but can’t find the answer—who will give you away? And as you keep reminding me, this is a ducal union, so who do you want to act for you?”

 

She blinked. “I’ll have to think about it.” She glanced at Handley. “I’ll give you the names and directions of my agent and solicitor so you can tell Royce’s who to contact.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Various other details were discussed and decided. The announcement for the news sheets completed, Handley left to ferry it to Retford for dispatch.

 

“The guest list,” Clarice warned, “is going to be the biggest challenge.”

 

“Just thinking of it makes the mind boggle.” Letitia shook her head. “I thought my second wedding was big, but this…”

 

“We’ll simply have to be highly selective,” Minerva stated. “Which, to my mind, is no bad thing.” She looked at Penny. “I’m inclined to set the number by the size of the church.”

 

Penny considered, then shook her head. “You won’t get
away with that—not if by that you mean after you’ve accommodated the locals?”

 

“I did mean that.” Minerva sighed. “So how many do you think?”

 

She’d wrestled the number down to five hundred when Royce decided he’d heard enough.
Five hundred?
Rising, he inclined his head. “Ladies, I believe I can leave the details in your capable hands.” He glanced at Minerva. “If you need me, I’ll be in the study, and then later in my apartments.”

 

Waiting for her.

 

She smiled. “Yes, of course.”

 

Smiling himself, he left them.

 

Minerva watched him go, sensing his inner peace, then, inwardly glowing herself, refocused on her list. “All right—how many do we need to allow for Carlton House?”

 

An hour later, with the major groups of guests identified and estimated, they called a halt. Retford had already delivered a tea tray; as they sat sipping, Letitia listed the areas they’d covered. “I really don’t think there’s much else we can assist you with, at least not at this time.” She met Minerva’s eyes. “We were thinking of leaving tomorrow at first light.”

 

“Earlier than all the others, so we won’t get caught up in their chaos,” Penny said.

 

Clarice studied Minerva. “But if you truly need us, you only have to say.”

 

She smiled, shook her head. “You’ve been…” She included the other two in her glance. “Immensely helpful, incredibly supportive. I honestly don’t know how I would have got through all this without your help.”

 

Letitia grinned. “You’d have managed. Given you can—demonstrably—manage your soon-to-be husband, I find it difficult to believe there’s any situation you won’t be able to overcome.”

 

“I have to ask,” Clarice said. “How did you get him to accept the three weeks so readily? We came prepared with a list of arguments, but you already had him agreeing.”