And today, the entire company had decided to go to church, presumably to atone for the many sins they’d committed. Despite none of those sins being his, he’d felt obliged to attend, too, especially as Minerva had been going, so what else was he to do?
Wallowing in bed when that bed was otherwise empty—devoid of soft, warm, willing female—had never appealed.
Seated in the front pew, Minerva beside him, with his sisters beyond her, he let the sermon roll over him, freeing his mind to range where it would—the latest prod to his escalating frustration was its first stop.
They’d chosen Midsummer Night’s Dream for their play last night—and Minerva had suggested he play Oberon, a chant promptly taken up by the rest of the company in full voice. The twist of fate that had seen her caught by the same company’s brilliant notion that she play Titania, queen to his king, had been, in his opinion, nothing more than her due.
Given their natures, given the situation, even though their exchanges on stage had been oblique, the palpable tension between them had puzzled a number of their audience.
That tension, and its inevitable effects, had resulted in another near-sleepless night.
He slanted a glance to his right, to where she, his fixation, sat, her gaze dutifully trained on Mr. Cribthorn, the vicar, rambling from his pulpit about long-dead Corinthians.
She knew who and what he was; no one knew him better. Yet she’d deliberately set out to cross swords with him—and thus far she was winning.
Accepting defeat on any stage had never come easily; his only recent failure had been over bringing to justice the last traitor he and his men knew lurked somewhere in the government. There were some things fate didn’t allow.
Be that as it may, accepting defeat with Minerva was…entirely beyond his scope. One way or another she was going to be his—his lover first, then his wife.
Her capitulation on both counts would happen—had to happen—soon. He’d told the grandes dames a week, and that week was nearly past. While he doubted they’d haul themselves all the way back to Northumbria if they didn’t see a notice in the Gazette this coming week, he wouldn’t put it past them to start sending candidates north—in carriages designed to break axles and wheels as they neared Wolverstone’s gates.
The vicar called the congregation to their feet for the benediction; everyone rose. Subsequently, once the vicar had passed on his way up the aisle, Royce stepped out of the pew, stepped back to let Minerva go ahead of him, then followed, leaving his sisters trailing shawls and reticules in his wake.
As usual, they were the first out of the church, but he’d noticed one of his more affluent farmers among the worshippers; as they
stepped down to the path, he bent his head close beside Minerva’s. “I want to have a word with Cherry.”
She glanced back and up at him.
And time stopped.
With Margaret and Aurelia distracting the vicar, they were the only two in the churchyard—and they were very close, their lips inches apart.
Her eyes, rich browns flecked with gold, widened; her breath caught, suspended. Her gaze lowered to his lips.
His dropped to hers…
He dragged in a breath and straightened.
She blinked, and stepped away. “Ah…I must speak with Mrs. Cribthorn, and some of the other ladies.”
He nodded stiffly, forced himself to turn away. Just as the rest of the congregation came flooding down the steps.
Searching for Cherry, he set his jaw. Soon. She was going to lie beneath him very soon.
Minerva let a moment pass while her heart slowed and her breathing evened, then she drew a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and went to speak with the vicar’s wife about the preparations for the fair.
She was turning from Mrs. Cribthorn when Susannah approached.
“There you are!” Susannah gestured to where the castle’s guests were piling into various carriages. “We’re heading back—do you want to come, or do you have to wait for Royce?”
Royce had taken her up in his curricle for the drive to the church. “I…” Can’t possibly leave yet. Minerva swallowed the words. As a recognized representative of the castle, the largest and socially dominant house in the district, it simply wasn’t done to leave without chatting with their neighbors; the locals would see that as a slight. Neither she nor Royce could yet leave, a fact Susannah should have known. “No. I’ll wait.”
Susannah shrugged, gathering her shawl. “Commendably dutiful—I hope Royce appreciates it, and that you aren’t bored to tears.” With a commiserating grimace, she headed for the carriages.
Her last comment had been entirely sincere; the late duke’s daughters had adopted their father’s social views. Old Henry had rarely come to church, leaving it to his wife, and later Minerva alone, to carry the castle flag.
More interesting to Minerva, Susannah’s comments confirmed that, despite the near debacle of last night’s play—she’d thought the lust that had burned in Royce’s eyes, that had resonated beneath the smooth tenor of his voice, the breathlessness that had assailed her, the awareness that had invested her every action, would have utterly given them away—not a single guest had realized that his interest in her had any basis beyond castle business.