Oh, Christ. “But-”

“No.” Lips set, eyes snapping, she pointed at his nose. “Keep quiet and listen! There’s no point in offering for my hand-in even thinking of it-because even if you do, I will refuse you. As you’re very well aware, I enjoyed the”-she paused, then waved-“interlude immensely, and I’m more than adult enough to take responsibility for my own actions, even if our recent actions were more yours than mine. Regardless, contrary to popular misconception, the last, very last thing a lady such as I want to hear after lying with a man for the first time is a proposal prompted by said man’s misplaced notion of honor!”

Her voice had steadily gained in intensity. She glared at him, lips tight. “So don’t make that mistake.”

The tension investing her body, lying half atop his, was of entirely the wrong sort. His features impassive, he searched her eyes; he’d made a tactical blunder, and had to beat a strategic retreat. He nodded. “All right. I won’t.”

She narrowed her eyes even more. “And you won’t try to manipulate me into it?”

He raised both brows. “Manipulate you into marriage because I took your virginity?” He shook his head. “I can assure you-I’ll even promise on my honor-that I won’t do that.”

Eyes locked with his, she hesitated, almost as if she could detect the prevarication in his words. He steadily returned her regard. Eventually she uttered a soft “humph,” and swung away. “Good.”

She pulled out of his arms, and started wrestling her way free of the covers.

He reached out and lightly clasped her wrist. “Where are you going?”

She glanced at him. “To my room, of course.”

His fingers locked. “Why?”

She blinked at him. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

“No.” His eyes on hers, he drew the hand he held back beneath the covers-down to where his erection stood at full attention. Curling her fingers about his rigid flesh, he watched her expression change to one of fascination. “This,” he ground out, “is what you’re supposed to do. What you’re supposed to attend to.”

Her gaze refocused on his face. She studied his eyes, then nodded. “All right.” Swinging back to him, she switched her right hand for her left, smoothing her palm up his length before, as she leaned into him, closing her fingers. “If you insist.”

He managed a grating “I do.” Reaching up, he slid one hand behind her nape and pulled her lips down to his. “I insist you learn all you want to know.”

She took him at his word, hands touching, caressing, squeezing, gliding, tracing as she would. The unconscious, unguarded sensuality in her face as, eyes closing as if to imprint the heft and weight, length and shape of him on her mind, she explored as she would, tried his control to its limit and beyond. To a chest-shuddering, muscle-quivering extent he’d never before had to endure.

He clung to his sanity by planning what came next. He favored sitting her astride him, impaling her, then teaching her to ride him, but discovered he lacked the strength to counter the urges her bold, innocently brazen caresses called forth. Then incited and ignited.

She connected with his more primitive side far more than any other woman ever had.

Reduced to the point where control was a thin and rapidly shredding veil, he brushed her hands aside, rolled her over, pinning her beneath him, spreading her thighs wide and cupping her, touching her, to find her wet once more. Hauling in a huge breath, he wedged his hips between her thighs and entered her-slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly-steady and inexorable so her breath strangled in her chest and she arched beneath him, a cry fracturing on her lips as with a final short thrust he sheathed himself fully within her.

Letting himself down on her, he anchored her hip with one hand, found her face with the other and, lowering his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth, and plundered to the same rhythm with which he settled to plunder her body.

A bare heartbeat passed, and then she was with him, her hands reaching around to spread on his back, holding him, clinging, her body undulating, caressing, her hips lifting to match his heavy driving rhythm. Releasing her hip, he reached down, found her knee, and lifted it over his hip.

Without further direction, she hooked that knee higher, then did the same with her other leg, opening herself to him so he could sink deeper into her, could without restraint drive them both even harder, even faster, to oblivion.

He did; when she shattered beneath him he intended to hold back, to extend the engagement and take more of her, but the temptation to fly with her was too great-he let go and followed close on her heels, into the senses-shattering glory of climax and on into the void.

Wrapped in her arms, with her wrapped in his, their hearts thundering, breaths sawing, then slowing, they gradually drifted back to reality.

As, all tension spent, she relaxed, boneless, beneath him, he saw a small, subtle smile curve her kiss-swollen lips. The sight warmed him, curiously touched him.

He watched until it faded as she slid into sated sleep.

Thirteen

H e woke her sometime before dawn, time enough to indulge his senses and hers in one last, brief, intense engagement, then let her recover enough to don her gown and walk back to her room.

He rose and helped her dress, then saw her out of his sitting room door. He would have preferred to escort her to her room, but if any others were drifting back to their beds and saw her, it was better they didn’t see her with him.

She was the castle’s chatelaine; there were any number of reasons she might be about early.

After listening to her footsteps fade, he returned to the bedroom, and his bed. Settling beneath the covers, sensing her warmth lingering beside him, conscious of her subtle perfume wreathing all about him, he folded his arms behind his head and fixed his gaze on the window across the room.

So what now? He’d made progress, real and definite progress, but then she’d stymied him in a way he hadn’t been quick enough to foresee. While henceforth he could, and would, have her in his bed, he could no longer simply ask her to be his bride. There was no argument that stood any chance of convincing her he’d wanted to marry her before he’d taken her virginity. That he hadn’t known she was a virgin meant nothing, and no matter how long he waited, she would still view his proposal as the insult she’d warned him not to offer her.

And she’d refuse. Adamantly. And she’d only grow more stubborn the harder he pressed.

Admittedly he had, for one foolish moment, considered using the age-old argument based on virginity and honor as a possible supporting reason for their wedding. He should have guessed how she would react.

He lay staring into space as his household slowly awakened, juggling possibilities, assessing tacks. If he’d asked her to marry him when he’d first set out to, rather than letting her distract him with her challenge into seducing her first, he wouldn’t now be facing this complication, yet there was no point dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

He could see only one way forward. He would have to keep silent over his intention to marry her, and instead do everything in his considerable power to lead her to conclude of her own accord that marrying him was her true and natural destiny. More, her greatly desired destiny.

Once she’d realized that, he could offer for her hand, and she would accept.

If he applied himself to the task, how long could it take? A week?

The grandes dames had accepted the week he’d originally stipulated readily enough. That week had now passed, but he doubted any of them would hie north to castigate him-not yet. If he dallied too long, someone would turn up to lecture him again and exhort him to action, but he probably had another week up his sleeve.

A week he would devote to convincing Minerva that she should be his duchess.

A week to make it clear she already was, but just hadn’t realized.

His lips curved, just as Trevor looked in from the dressing room.

His valet saw his smile, saw the bed. Raised his brows inquiringly.

Royce saw no reason to keep him in the dark. “My chatelaine-who will shortly be your mistress.” He fixed his gaze on Trevor’s face. “A fact she doesn’t yet know, so no one will tell her.”

Trevor smiled. “Naturally not, Your Grace.” His expression one of the utmost equanimity, he started to pick up Royce’s clothes.

Royce studied him. “You don’t seem all that surprised.”

Straightening, Trevor shook out his coat. “You have to choose a lady, and all things considered I find it hard to imagine you could do better than Miss Chesterton.” He shrugged. “Nothing to be surprised about.”

Royce humphed, and got out of the bed. “I will, of course, wish to know anything and everything you learn that might be pertinent. I take it you know her maid?”

Folding Royce’s waistcoat, Trevor smiled. “A young person by the name of Lucy, Your Grace.”

Belting his robe, Royce narrowed his eyes on that smile. “A word to the wise. I might bed the mistress, but you’d be ill-advised to try the same with the maid. She’ll have your balls on a stick-the mistress, not the maid. And in the circumstances, I’d have to let her.”

Trevor’s eyes opened wide. “I’ll bear that in mind, Your Grace. Now, do you wish to shave?”


Minerva awoke when Lucy, her maid, came bustling into the room.