Releasing her, he waved her forward. “Lead on.” He paced beside her as she glided through the guests toward the group with whom the two youngest Variseys present were standing. As they neared, he murmured, “Just don’t try to slip away from me.”
The undisguised warning had her plastering on a smile, engaging Henry and Arthur, and dutifully remaining beside Royce as they conversed.
She quickly realized why he’d appeared in the drawing room the full regulation half hour before dinner-so he could use the time to torture her with a thousand little touches. Nothing more than the polite, unremarkable, customary gestures a gentleman bestowed on a lady-his grip on her elbow, a touch on her arm, the sensation of his hand hovering at the back of her waist…then touching, lightly steering-
Her pulse leapt every time; when Retford at last appeared to announce dinner, she was wishing she’d brought down her fan. Under cover of the butler’s stentorian announcement, she glanced at Royce, narrowed her eyes. Although his impassive mien didn’t soften, with his eyes he managed to convey an expression of supreme innocence.
She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You haven’t been innocent since birth.”
He smiled-a gesture that, for her, didn’t bode well-and took her arm.
Desperately tamping down her reaction, she indicated a lady across the room. “You should lead Caroline Courtney in.”
“Lady Courtney can find her own partner. This is not a formal dinner.” He looked down at her, his dark gaze suggestive. “I’d much rather lead you.”
He deliberately omitted the “in,” leaving her to supply the context-something the less sensible part of her mind was only too happy to do. Damn it. Damn him.
Reaching the dining table at the head of the line, he sat her to the left of his great chair. As he took his seat, she grasped the chance provided by the scrape of other chairs to murmur, “This ploy of yours won’t work.” She caught his eye. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
He held her gaze, let a heartbeat pass, then slowly raised one brow. “Oh?”
She looked away, inwardly berating herself. She knew better than to fling gauntlets his way.
Predictably, he picked hers up.
She’d thought she would be reasonably safe at the table-the numbers had reduced so they weren’t sitting overly close-but she quickly learned that he didn’t need to physically touch her to affect her.
All he needed to do was fix his gaze on her mouth as she supped her soup, or as she closed her lips about a deli cate fish dumpling; how he could communicate lascivious thoughts with just a glance from his dark eyes she didn’t know, but he could.
She sat back, cleared her throat, reached for her wineglass. Took a sip, felt his gaze on her lips, then felt it lower as she swallowed…as if he were tracking the liquid as it slid down her throat, traveled down inside her chest…
Desperate, she turned to the gentleman-Gordon Varisey-sitting on her other side, but he was engrossed in a discussion with Susannah. Across the table, Caroline, Lady Courtney, was more interested in making eyes at Phillip Debraigh than in distracting her host.
“Is my ploy working yet?”
The soft, taunting words slipped past her ear like a caress; turning to face Royce as he sat back in his chair, wineglass in hand, she fought to quell a reactive shiver, and didn’t entirely succeed.
Her only consolation was that no one else seemed to have noticed the subtle battle being waged at the head of the table. That being so…she narrowed her eyes on his, succinctly stated, “Go to the devil.”
His lips curved in an entirely genuine-devastatingly attractive-smile. His gaze locked with hers, he raised his wineglass, sipped. “I expect I will.”
She looked away; she didn’t need to see the sheen of red wine on the mobile lips she’d spent a good portion of her girlhood dreaming about. She reached for her wineglass.
Just as he added, “If nothing else for what I’m imagining doing to you.”
Her fingers missed the glass bowl, bobbled the long stem; the wineglass tipped-He caught it, his left hand reaching over hers, then curling over it as he pressed the stem into her all but nerveless fingers.
His hand rested, hard and strong, over hers, until she gripped the glass, then he withdrew his hand slowly, his fin gers stroking over her hand and knuckles.
Her lungs had seized long ago.
He shifted, using the movement to lean closer and murmur, “Breathe, Minerva.”
She did, hauling in a huge breath-refusing to notice that as he sat back, his gaze lowered to her breasts, half exposed by her evening gown.
She was ready to do murder by the time the meal ended. Rising with the other ladies, she followed Margaret to the drawing room.
Royce wasn’t going to let her be. She’d been chased by gentlemen-even noblemen-before; any man but he and she would have simply stood her ground, confident of her ability to trump whatever move he made, but she knew her limits. She needed to escape while she could. He would lead the gentlemen back to rejoin the ladies all too soon.
Reaching the drawing room, the ladies filed in; she paused just inside the door, waiting until the others settled. She’d speak with Margaret, then-
“There you are.” Susannah slipped her arm through hers and drew her toward the side of the room. “I wanted to ask”-Susannah leaned close-“whether you have any idea which lady Royce is corresponding with?”
She frowned. “Corresponding?”
“He said he’d make an announcement once the lady he’d chosen agreed.” Halting, Susannah fixed her eyes-a lighter brown than her brother’s-on Minerva’s face. “So I presume he’s asking her, and as she’s not here, I assume he must have written to her.”
“Ah, I see. I haven’t seen him write any letter, but then he uses Handley for most of his correspondence, so I wouldn’t necessarily know.” Much to her relief, especially in this matter.
“Handley?” Susannah tapped her lips with one fingertip, then slanted a glance Minerva’s way. “I haven’t met him, but perhaps he might be persuaded to divulge what he knows?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother trying. Aside from all else, he’ll tell Royce.” She hesitated, then added, “In fact, all Royce’s personal staff are utterly devoted. You won’t find any who’ll discuss his private affairs.”
Including her.
Susannah sighed. “I suppose we’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
“Indeed.” She patted Susannah’s arm as she drew hers free. “I have to speak with Margaret.”
Susannah nodded and strolled off to join some others while Minerva headed for Margaret, enthroned in state on the chaise facing the hearth.
Susannah was right; Royce must have sent some communication to the lady he’d chosen as his duchess-a point she shouldn’t have forgotten. In typical Varisey fashion, while waiting for his bride to agree to be his, he was intent on bedding his chatelaine.
If she needed any reminder of the unwisdom of letting him seduce her, recalling that she would learn any day who would be his duchess should help bolster her resolution.
She really didn’t want to know; the thought curdled her stomach.
Refocusing on her plans to stay out of his arms, and out of his bed, she paused beside Margaret. “I have a headache,” she lied. “Can you do the honors with the tea tray?”
“Yes, of course.” Looking more relaxed than when her husband had been there, Margaret waved her away. “You should tell Royce not to work you so hard, dear. You need time for some distraction.”
Minerva smiled and headed for the door; she understood perfectly what “distraction” Margaret was recommending-precisely the sort her brother had in mind.
She didn’t dally; she didn’t trust Royce not to cut the men’s drinking short, and under some pretext return to the drawing room early. Slipping out of the room, she went into the front hall, then quickly climbed the main stairs.
There was no one about. She heard no rumble of male voices; the
