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.

Her pulse leapt every time; when Retford at last appeared to announce dinner, she was wishing she’d brought down her fan. Under cover of the butler’s stentorian announcement, she glanced at Royce, narrowed her eyes. Although his impassive mien didn’t soften, with his eyes he managed to convey an expression of supreme innocence.

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You haven’t been innocent since birth.”

He smiled-a gesture that, for her, didn’t bode well-and took her arm.

Desperately tamping down her reaction, she indicated a lady across the room. “You should lead Caroline Courtney in.”

“Lady Courtney can find her own partner. This is not a formal dinner.” He looked down at her, his dark gaze suggestive. “I’d much rather lead you.”

He deliberately omitted the “in,” leaving her to supply the context-something the less sensible part of her mind was only too happy to do. Damn it. Damn him.

Reaching the dining table at the head of the line, he sat her to the left of his great chair. As he took his seat, she grasped the chance provided by the scrape of other chairs to murmur, “This ploy of yours won’t work.” She caught his eye. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

He held her gaze, let a heartbeat pass, then slowly raised one brow. “Oh?”

She looked away, inwardly berating herself. She knew better than to fling gauntlets his way.

Predictably, he picked hers up.

She’d thought she would be reasonably safe at the table-the numbers had reduced so they weren’t sitting overly close-but she quickly learned that he didn’t need to physically touch her to affect her.

All he needed to do was fix his gaze on her mouth as she supped her soup, or as she closed her lips about a deli cate fish dumpling; how he could communicate lascivious thoughts with just a glance from his dark eyes she didn’t know, but he could.

She sat back, cleared her throat, reached for her wineglass. Took a sip, felt his gaze on her lips, then felt it lower as she swallowed…as if he were tracking the liquid as it slid down her throat, traveled down inside her chest…

Desperate, she turned to the gentleman-Gordon Varisey-sitting on her other side, but he was engrossed in a discussion with Susannah. Across the table, Caroline, Lady Courtney, was more interested in making eyes at Phillip Debraigh than in distracting her host.

“Is my ploy working yet?”

The soft, taunting words slipped past her ear like a caress; turning to face Royce as he sat back in his chair, wineglass in hand, she fought to quell a reactive shiver, and didn’t entirely succeed.

Her only consolation was that no one else seemed to have noticed the subtle battle being waged at the head of the table. That being so…she narrowed her eyes on his, succinctly stated, “Go to the devil.”

His lips curved in an entirely genuine-devastatingly attractive-smile. His gaze locked with hers, he raised his wineglass, sipped. “I expect I will.”

She looked away; she didn’t need to see the sheen of red wine on the mobile lips she’d spent a good portion of her girlhood dreaming about. She reached for her wineglass.

Just as he added, “If nothing else for what I’m imagining doing to you.”

Her fingers missed the glass bowl, bobbled the long stem; the wineglass tipped-He caught it, his left hand reaching over hers, then curling over it as he pressed the stem into her all but nerveless fingers.

His hand rested, hard and strong, over hers, until she gripped the glass, then he withdrew his hand slowly, his fin gers stroking over her hand and knuckles.

Her lungs had seized long ago.

He shifted, using the movement to lean closer and murmur, “Breathe, Minerva.”

She did, hauling in a huge breath-refusing to notice that as he sat back, his gaze lowered to her breasts, half exposed by her evening gown.

She was ready to do murder by the time the meal ended. Rising with the other ladies, she followed Margaret to the drawing room.

Royce wasn’t going to let her be. She’d been chased by gentlemen-even noblemen-before; any man but he and she would have simply stood her ground, confident of her ability to trump whatever move he made, but she knew her limits. She needed to escape while she could. He would lead the gentlemen back to rejoin the ladies all too soon.