She’d followed his lead, then and later, as they’d parted, then met again, throughout the day, confident that at some point they would meet privately…but she was no longer so sure that would happen. She’d never engaged in a liaison before; she didn’t know the script.
He did, but he was seated two rows in front of her, chatting to Caroline Courtney, who had claimed the chair beside him.
Under cover of the dinner conversations, he’d asked her if Cranny still kept stocks of the chicken essence she’d used to administer to them when they’d suffered childhood chills. She hadn’t been sure, but when he’d suggested they send a bottle to the Honeymans for their daughter, she’d detoured to see the housekeeper before joining the company in the music room, thus missing her chance to sit next to him.
Narrowing her eyes on the back of his head, she wished she could see inside. What was he thinking? Specifically, what was he thinking about her? Was he thinking about her?
Or had one night been enough?
The more confident part of her brazenly scoffed, but a more vulnerable part wondered.
At the end of the play, she clapped politely, caught Royce’s eye for an instant, then excused herself and retired, leaving Margaret to manage the tea tray. She could do without spending the next half hour surrounded by the lascivious throng with him in the same room, aware of his gaze occasionally resting on her, fighting to keep hers from him—while every inch of her skin prickled with anticipation.
Reaching her room, willing her mind from the question of “Would he?” she stripped off her clothes, donned her nightgown, shrugged on her robe, then rang for Lucy.
She had a set of faint marks at the top of one thigh that was beyond her ability to explain.
Seated at her dressing table, she was brushing out her hair when Lucy breezed in.
“You’re early tonight, ma’am.” Lucy bent to pick up her gown. “Didn’t you enjoy the play?”
She pulled a face. “They’re becoming rather boring—just as well the fair’s next week or I’d have to devise some other entertainment.” She glanced at Lucy as the maid bustled to the armoire. “Did you learn anything?”
Opening the armoire, Lucy shook her dark head. “Mr. Handley’s a quiet one—he’s kind and smiles, but he’s not one to talk. And of course he sits at the top end of the table. Trevor’s closer to me, and he’s a right chatterer, but although he natters on, he never really says anything, if you know what I mean.”
“I can imagine.” She hadn’t really thought Royce would employ staff who didn’t keep his secrets.
“The only thing any of us have got out of the pair of them is that His Grace is still negotiating with this lady he’s chosen.” Shutting the armoire, Lucy turned. “Not even a whisper and nary a hint of who the lady is. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until we’re told.”
“Indeed.” She inwardly grimaced.
Lucy turned down the bed, then returned and halted beside her. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you, Lucy—you may go.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Good night.”
Minerva murmured a “Good night,” her mind once again running down the names on the grandes dames’ list. Which one had Royce chosen? One of those she knew?
She was tempted to ask him outright—it would help if she knew how well-trained his duchess-to-be was so she would know how much she herself would need to impart before said duchess could manage on her own. The thought of handing her chatelaine’s keys to some giggling ninnyhammer evoked a response very close to revulsion.
Rising, she snuffed the candelabra on the dressing table, leaving only the single candle burning by her bed. Drawing her robe closed, she belted it as she walked to the window.
If Royce wished to spend the night with her, he would come to her room; she might not have indulged in a liaison before, but she knew that much.
He would come. Or he wouldn’t.
Perhaps he’d heard from the family of the lady for whom he’d offered.
Crossing her arms, she looked out at the night-shrouded landscape.
And waited.
And wondered.
“Royce!”
Halting under the archway leading into the keep’s gallery, Royce let his head fall back, eyes closing in frustration.