She didn’t want to leave Wolverstone, and, as the pristine condition of his armillary spheres testified, she felt something for him. It might not be the counterpart of his desire for her, and she hadn’t seen enough of him to have developed an admiration and appreciation of his talents reciprocal to his for hers. But it was enough.
Enough for him to work with, enough for him to suggest as a basis for their marriage. It was a damned sight more than could possibly exist between him and any of the ladies on the grandes dames’ list.
He’d come prepared to persuade.
She was twenty-nine, and had admitted no man had offered her anything she valued.
She valued Wolverstone, and he would offer her that.
Indeed, he was willing to offer her anything it was in his power to give, just as long as she agreed to be his duchess.
She might not be as well-connected or well-dowered as the candidates on the list, but her birth and fortune were more than sufficient that she needn’t fear the ton would consider their union a mésalliance.
More, in marrying him herself, she would be satisfying her vows to his parents in unarguably the most effective way—she was the only female who had ever stood up to him, ever faced him down.
As she’d proved yesterday, she would tell him whatever she deemed he needed to hear regardless of him wanting to hear it. And she would do so knowing that he could rip up at her, knowing how violent his temper could be. She already knew, was demonstrably confident, that he would never lose it with—loose it on—her.
That she knew him that well spoke volumes. That she had the courage to act on her knowledge said even more.
He needed a duchess who would be more than a cipher, a social ornament for his arm. He needed a helpmate, and she was uniquely qualified.
Her caring for the estate, her connection with it, was the complement of his; together, they would give Wolverstone—castle, estate, title, and family—the best governance it could have.
And when it came to the critical issue of his heirs, having her in his bed was something he craved; he desired her—more than he would any of the grandes dames’ ciphers, no matter how beautiful. Physical beauty was the most minor attractant to a man like him. There had to be more, and in that respect Minerva was supremely well-endowed.
Yesterday, while she’d been insisting he appease the grandes dames, he’d finally accepted that, if he wanted a marriage like his friends’, then, regardless of what he had to do to make it happen, it was Minerva he needed as his wife. That if he wanted something more than a loveless marriage, he would have to strike out, and, as he had with her help in other respects, try to find a new road.
With her.
The certainty that had gripped him, infused him, hadn’t waned; with the passing hours, it had grown more intense. He’d never felt more certain, more set on any course, more confident it was the right one for him.
No matter what he had to do—no matter the hurdles she might place in his path, no matter where the road led or how fraught the journey might be, no matter what she or the world might demand of him—it was she he had to have.
He couldn’t sit back and wait for it to happen; if he waited any longer, he’d be wed to someone else. So he would do whatever it took, swallow whatever elements of his pride he had to, learn to persuade, to seduce, to entice—do whatever he needed to to convince her to be his.
Mind and senses returning to the here and now, poised to speak, he mentally reached for her—and realized she hadn’t yet joined him.
Turning, he saw her still sitting her horse. She’d swung the big bay to face the view. Hands folded before her, she looked past him down the valley.
He shifted, caught her eye. Beckoned. “Come down. I want to talk to you.”
She looked at him for a moment, then nudged her horse forward. Halting the big bay alongside, she looked down at him. “I’m comfortable here. What did you want to talk about?”
He looked up at her. Proposing while she was perched above him was beyond preposterous. “Nothing I can discuss while you’re up there.”
She’d eased her boots from the stirrups. He reached up and plucked her from her saddle.
Minerva gasped. He’d moved so fast she’d had no time to block him—to prevent him from closing his hands around her waist and lifting her…
Increasingly slowly, he lowered her to the ground.
The look on his face—utter, stunned disbelief—would have been priceless if she hadn’t known what put it there.
She’d reacted to his touch. Decisively and definitely. She’d stiffened. Her lungs had se
ized; her breath had hitched in a wholly damning way. Focused on her, his hands tight about her waist, he hadn’t missed any of the telltale signs.
Long before her feet got within a foot of the lush grass, he’d guessed her secret.