Stephanie Laurens - Mastered By Love

To give her her due, and as he’d expected, Helen absorbed the reality well. She was a natural survivor in their world. Her eyes on his face, she drew a long breath as she digested his words, then she inclined her head, her lips twisting in a rueful grimace. “Good Lord-how very…awkward.”

“Only as awkward as we wish to make it. No one will be surprised if we amicably part and move on.”

She thought, then nodded. “True.”

“I will, naturally, do everything within my power to ensure you’re not made uncomfortable while here, and I hope, in the future, you will continue to regard me as a friend.” He continued to hold her gaze, entirely confident she would understand the offer behind his words, and value it accordingly.

She didn’t disappoint him. She was far from stupid, and if she couldn’t have him as either lover or husband, then having him as a powerful, well-disposed acquaintance was the next best thing. Again she inclined her head, this time in a deeper obeisance. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She hesitated, then lifted her head. “If it would not inconvenience you, I believe I’ll remain for a few days-perhaps for the house party.”

He knew about saving face. “By all means.”

Their interview was at an end; he waved her to the door, falling in beside her as she walked down the room.

He halted before the door, waited until she looked at him. “If I might ask, was it purely distraction you came up to Northumberland to offer, or…?”

She smiled. “Susannah apparently believed I had some chance of becoming your duchess.” She met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think it likely.”

“I apologize for Susannah-she’s younger than I, and doesn’t, in fact, know me as well as she thinks she does.”

Helen laughed. “No one knows you as well as they think they do.” She paused, then smiled-one of her gloriously charming smiles. “Good night, Royce. And good luck with your negotiations.”

Opening the door, she went out.

Royce watched the door close behind her; he stood staring at the panels, his mind immediately refocusing on the one burning issue dominating his current existence-his nego tiations with the lady he’d chosen as his duchess.

His campaign to ensure Minerva said yes.

Minerva lay alone in her bed-a perfectly good bed she’d slept comfortably in for years and years, but which now seemed entirely lacking.

She knew what was missing, what lack it was that somehow made it impossible to fall asleep, but why the simple presence of a male body over a handful of days should have made such a deep impression on her psyche to the extent she-her body-fretted at his absence, she simply could not comprehend.

If her body was restless, her mind was even more so. She had to stop thinking about all she’d learned-had to stop wondering if Helen had actually meant five interludes, or five intimacies; on both counts she and Royce had exceeded the limit. Yet perhaps he, being male, simply counted nights?

The deadening truth she had to accept was that according to his immutable rule-and she could see why he, heir to a massively wealthy and powerful dukedom, had instituted such a rule and stuck by it-her time with him had come to an end.

It was just as well Helen had arrived and explained; at least now she knew.

Sitting up, she pummeled her pillow, then slumped down and pulled the covers over her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She had to get some sleep.

She tried to compose her features, but they wouldn’t relax. Her frown refused to smooth away.

In her heart, her gut, everything felt wrong. So utterly wrong.

The click of her door latch had her opening her eyes. The door swung inward-rather violently-then Royce was in the room, shutting the door forcefully, but silently.

He stalked to the bed. Halting beside it, he looked down at her; all she could see of his expression was that his lips were set in a grim line.

“I suppose I should have expected this.” He shook his head, and reached for the covers.

He tugged. She clutched them tighter. “Wh-”

“Of course, I’d hoped my edict that you’re supposed to be in my bed might have been strong enough to hold, but apparently not.” His accents were clipped, a sure indication of strained temper. He jerked the covers from her grip and flung them off her.

He stopped and stared down at her. “Heaven preserve me, we’re back to nightgowns.”

The disgust in his voice would, in other circumstances, have made her laugh. She narrowed her eyes at him, then dove to scramble off the other side of the bed-but he was too fast.

He caught her, hauled her to him, then hoisted her in his arms.

He started for the door.

“Royce!”

“Shut up. I’m not in a good mood. First Susannah, then Helen, now you. Misogyny beckons.”

She glanced at his face, at his adamantine expression, and shut her lips. As she couldn’t prevent him from carrying her to his room, she would argue once they got there.

He paused by the coat rack. “Grab your cloak.”

She did and quickly flicked the folds over her; at least he’d remembered that.

He juggled her, opened her door, softly shut it behind them, then carried her swiftly through the shadows to his apartments, and on into his bedroom. All the way to his bed.

She pinned him with a stony glare. “What about the countess?”

Halting beside the bed, he met her gaze, his own hard. “What about her?”

“She’s your mistress.”

“Ex-mistress. The ex- is important-it defines that relationship.”

“Does she know that?”

“Yes, she does. She knew it before she came here, and I’ve just confirmed for her that the situation hasn’t changed.” He’d held her gaze throughout. “Any more questions on that subject?”

She blinked. “No. Not at the moment.”

“Good.” He tossed her on the bed.

She bounced once. Before she could grab it, he whipped her cloak off and flung it across the room.

He paused, then stepped back. His hands going to his coat buttons, he toed off his shoes; his eyes on her, he shrugged out of his tight-fitting evening coat, then pointed at her nightgown. “Take that off. If I do, it won’t survive.”

She hesitated. If she was naked, and so was he, rational discussion wouldn’t be high on his agenda. “First-”

“Minerva-take off the gown.”

Minerva-take off the gown.

The words resonated in the dimness between them. He’d packed them with more distilled power, more direct command, than he’d ever used with her before; his tone filled her female ears with primitive threat, and unstated promise.

A not-at-all-subtle reminder that he was the sort of nobleman no one even thought to deny. Certainly no woman. Of their own volition, her fingers shifted on the fine fabric draping her legs.

She realized and stilled them, then, hauling in a breath through lungs suddenly tight, sat up, curling her legs, faced him, and narrowed her eyes on his. “No.” She set her jaw, if not as hard, then at least as belligerently as he. “You didn’t so much as glance at me all evening, and now you want to see me naked?”

His implacability eased not one jot. He drew his cravat off, and dropped it. “Yes.” A heartbeat passed. “I didn’t glance at you-and I’m well aware it was for the whole damned evening-because everyone, literally everyone, was watching me, watching to see me and Helen, my recent mistress, interact, and if instead I’d looked at you, everyone else would have, too. And then they’d have wondered why-why instead of looking at my recent mistress I was looking at you. And not being entirely devoid of intelligence, they’d have guessed, correctly, that my distraction with you at such a moment was because you’re sharing my bed.”

He shrugged off his waistcoat. “I didn’t look your way once the entire evening because I wanted to avoid the speculation I knew would ensue, and I know you won’t like.” He looked down as he dropped the waistcoat on top of his coat; he paused, then lifted his head and met her eyes. “I also didn’t want my cousins getting any ideas about you-and they would if they knew you were sharing my bed.”

Truth-all truth. She heard it ring in every clipped, precise vowel and consonant. And the thought of his cousins approaching her-all the males were as sexually aggressive as he-had been the prod that had affected him most powerfully.

Before she could consider what that might mean, with a barely restrained tug he pulled his shirttails from his waistband.

His gaze lowered to her body, to the offending nightgown. “Take that damned gown off. If it’s still on you when I reach you, I’m going to shred it.”

Not a warning, not a threat, not even a promise-just a pragmatic statement of fact.

He was barely two yards away. She mentally threw up her hands and turned to draw the covers down so she could slip beneath them.

“No. Stay where you are.” His voice had lowered, deepened; his tone sent a primitive thrill racing up her spine. He spoke increasingly slowly. “Just take the gown off. Now.”

She turned back to face him. Her lungs had constricted again. She drew in a tight breath, then reached for the hem of the fine lawn gown, and drew it up, exposing her calves, her knees, her thighs, then, still sitting, her eyes locked on him, she wriggled and tugged until the long gown was bunched around her waist.

The roughness of his brocade counterpane rasped the bare skin of her legs and bottom-and she suddenly had an inkling of why he might want her naked on the bed, rather than in it.