Mastered By Love

Then he closed his eyes and groaned, she moaned, and each sought the others’ lips.

And let mutual surrender have them, take them.

A click was all the warning they had.

“Oh, my God!”

The shrill exclamation fell like a bucket of icy water over them.

It was followed by a chorus of gasps, and more muted expressions of shock.

Head up, spine rigid, Royce thought faster than he ever had in his life.

Women, ladies, an untold number, stood clustered in the doorway five yards behind his back.

Someone had brought them up here, but who had wasn’t his first concern.

Locked in his arms, supported by his hand beneath her bottom and braced by his body sunk deeply in hers, Minerva was rigid. Hands fisted in his lapels, she’d ducked her head to his chest.

He felt like he’d been clouted with a battle mace.

His shoulders were broad; the women behind him couldn’t see her, at least not her face or body. They would be able to see her topknot, telltale wheat-gold, over his shoulder, and even more damningly her stocking-clad legs clasped about his hips.

There was not a hope in hell of disguising their occupation.

A kiss would have been bad enough, but this…

There was only one course of action open to him.

Easing Minerva from him, he withdrew from her; given his size, that necessitated a maneuver that even viewed from behind was impossible to mistake. Her knees slid from his hips, he lowered her until her feet touched the ground. Her skirts tumbled straight of their own accord.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, quickly doing up the placket of his breeches. “Don’t say a word.”

She looked at him through wide, utterly stunned eyes.

Uncaring of the crowd, he bent his head and kissed her, a swift, reassuring kiss, then he straightened and turned to face their fate.

His expression aloof and cold, his gaze pure ice, he regarded the knot of ladies, round-eyed, hands at their breasts, their expressions as stunned as Minerva’s…except for Susannah’s. She stood at the rear, peering past the others.

Refocusing on those in the front of the group-a cluster of his sisters’ London friends-he drew breath, then said the words he had to say. “Ladies. Miss Chesterton has just done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

“Well! It’s Miss Chesterton! Whoever would have thought!” Caroline Courtney, all agog, broke the news as he circled the billiard table. With the other men present, most Royce’s cousins, he halted and listened as Caroline blurted out the juicy details of how Royce and his chatelaine had been caught in flagrante delicto on the battlements.

“There was absolutely no doubt about it,” she assured them. “We all saw.”

He frowned. “Was she who Royce intended to marry all along?”

Caroline shrugged. “Who can say? Regardless, she’s the one he’ll have to marry now.”

Frowning, Gordon stated, “I can’t imagine Royce letting himself be trapped like that.” Then he realized what he’d said, and colored. “Not that Minerva won’t make a perfectly acceptable duchess.”

Inwardly smiling, he mentally thanked Susannah; outwardly calm, he turned back to the table, savoring his victory.

The news would reach London as fast as the mail coach could carry it; he wouldn’t need to lift so much as a finger.

So Royce would now have to marry his chatelaine-be forced to marry her, and that he wouldn’t like.

Even worse would be the whispers traded behind scented hands, the sniggers, the unsavory speculation directed at his duchess.

Unavoidable within the ton.

And Royce wouldn’t like that at all.

Smiling, he leaned over the table and sent one ball neatly into a pocket, then he straightened and, slowly circling the table, surveyed the possibilities.

In the duchess’s morning room, Letitia watched Minerva pace. “I appreciate that it’s the very last thing you would have wished to happen, but believe me, in the circumstances, there was nothing else he could have done.”

“I know.” Her tone clipped, Minerva swung on her heel. “I was there. It was awful.”

“Here.” Penny held out a glass containing at least three fingers of brandy. “Charles swears it always helps.” She took a sip from her own glass. “And he’s right.”

Minerva seized the glass, took a healthy swallow, and felt the fiery liquid sear her throat, but then the warmth spread lower, loosening some of her icy rage. “I felt so damned helpless! I couldn’t even think.”

“Take it from a Vaux, that scene would have taxed my histrionic capabilities.” Letitia, too, was sipping brandy. She shook her head. “There wasn’t anything you could have done to change the outcome.”

Rendered more furious than she’d ever been in her life, Minerva could barely recall descending from the battlements. In a voice that dripped icicles, Royce had, entirely unsubtly, informed the importunate ladies that the battlements, like the keep itself, were private; they’d all but tripped over each other fleeing back down the stairs. Once they were gone, he’d turned, taken her hand, led her down, and brought her here.

She’d been trembling-with rage.

He’d been incandescent with fury, but, as usual, very little showed. He’d kissed her lightly, squeezed her hand, said, “Wait here.” Then he’d left.

Minutes later, Letitia had arrived, fired with concern, ready to offer comfort and support; she’d lent a sympathetic ear while Minerva had ranted, literally raved over being denied her declaration, her supreme moment when she accepted Royce and pledged her love.

Penny had joined them a few minutes ago, bearing a tray with the brandy decanter and four glasses. She’d listened for a moment, then set down the tray and poured.

The door opened, and Clarice came in. Penny held out the fourth glass; Clarice thanked her with a nod as she took it, sipped, then sank down onto the sofa opposite Letitia. She met their gazes. “Between us-Royce, Penny, Jack, and me-and surprisingly enough, Susannah-I think we’ve got everything smoothed over. Our story is that the three of us knew of the engagement-which, given your state this morning and what would naturally have followed from that, is the truth. And, indeed, that’s why we’re here, to witness the announcement for the grandes dames.”

Minerva scowled, sipped. “I vaguely recall Royce muttering something about wringing Susannah’s neck. Wasn’t she the one who brought the ladies up to the battlements? If she was, and he hasn’t, I will.”

“She was.” Penny sat beside Clarice. “But believe it or not, she thought she was helping. Being Cupid’s assistant, so to speak. She’d learned, somehow, that you were Royce’s lover, and decided she much preferred you as her sister-in-law over any other, so…” Penny shrugged. “Of course, she thought it was Royce dragging his heels.”

Minerva grimaced. “She and I were much closer when we were young-we’ve always been friendly, although recently, of course, the connection’s been more distant.” She sighed, and dropped onto the sofa beside Letitia. “I suppose that explains it.”

Penny’s Charles was right; the brandy helped, but anger still coursed her veins. Thanks to Susannah, she and even more Royce had lost what should have been a treasured moment. “Damn!” She took another sip.

Luckily, the incident on the battlements and its outcome had changed nothing beyond that; she literally thanked heaven that she’d already made up her mind. If she hadn’t…