Scripting, planning the interlude that would follow, allowed him to step back, to escort her—still stunned and wondering—from the room and across the corridor to her bedroom door.
He set it swinging wide and stepped back.
Minerva halted, looked him in the eye. “You are not coming in.”
His lips quirked, but he inclined his head. “As you wish. Far be it from me to force myself on you.”
She felt her cheeks heat. In what had just passed, while he might have been the instigator she’d been an equal participant throughout. But she certainly wasn’t going to argue with whatever chivalrous streak had possessed him. As haughtily as she could, she inclined her head. “Good night.”
“Until next time.”
The dark murmur reached her as she went through the door. Clutching the edge, she swung around and looked back. Stated definitively, “There won’t be a next time.”
His soft, dark laugh slid like sin over her flushed skin.
“Good night, Minerva.” He met her eyes. “Sleep well.”
With that, he walked away, toward his apartments.
She shut the door, and leaned back against it.
For just one minute let the sensations he’d sent sweeping through her replay in her mind.
Felt again their power.
Heaven help her—how could she stand against him?
More to the point, how was she going to stand against herself?
Nine
Despite the physical frustrations of the night, Royce was in an equable mood as, the next morning, he worked through his correspondence with Handley in the study.
While he had no experience seducing unwilling or uncertain ladies, his chatelaine, thank God, was neither. Convincing her to lie in his bed would require no sweet talk, cajoling, or longing looks, no playing to her sensitivities; last night, he’d simply been the man, the marcher lord, she already knew him to be, and had succeeded. Admirably.
She might not yet have lain in his bed, but he’d wager the dukedom that by now she’d thought of it. Considered it.
His way forward was now crystal clear, and once he’d bedded her thoroughly, once she knew she was his to the depths of her soul, he’d inform her that she was to be his duchess. He would couch his offer as a request for her hand, but he was adamant that by then there would be no real question, most especially not in her mind.
The more he dwelled on his plan, the more he liked it; with a female like her, the more strings he had linking her to him before he mentioned marriage, the better, the less likely she was to even quibble. The grandes dames might be certain that any of the ladies on their list would unhesitatingly accept his offer, but Minerva’s name wasn’t on that list, and—despite her comment to the contrary—he wasn’t so conceited, so arrogant, that he was, even now, taking her agreement for granted.
But he had no intention of letting her refuse.
“That’s all you have to deal with today.” Handley, a quiet, determined man, an orphan recommended to Royce by the principal of Winchester Grammar School, who had subsequently proved to be entirely worthy of the considerable trust Royce placed in him, collected the various letters, notes, and documents they’d been dealing with. He glanced at Royce. “You wanted me to remind you about Hamilton and the Cleveland Row house.”
“Ah, yes.” He had to decide what to do with his town house now he’d inherited the family mansion in Grosvenor Square. “Tell Jeffers to fetch Miss Chesterton. And you’d better stay. There’ll be letters and instructions to be sent south, no doubt.”
After sending Jeffers for Minerva, Handley returned to the straight-backed chair he preferred, angled to one end of Royce’s desk.
Minerva entered. Seeing Handley, she favored him with a smile, then looked at Royce.
No one else would have seen anything unusual in that look, but Royce knew she was wary, watching for any hint of sexual aggression from him.
He returned her look blandly, and waved her to her customary chair. “We need to discuss the Wolverstone House staff, and how best to merge the staff from my London house into the ducal households.”
Minerva sat, noting that Handley, settled in his chair, a fresh sheet of paper on top of his pile, a pencil in his hand, was listening attentively. She switched her gaze to Royce. “You mentioned a butler.”
He nodded. “Hamilton. He’s been with me for sixteen years, and I wouldn’t want to lose him.”