The marcher lord within him purred in anticipation. Inwardly he smiled; outwardly he maintained his impassive expression.
Desire, lust, and need still ran rampant through his veins, but he reined the unruly, tempestuous emotions in. He wanted her, and was determined to have her. He’d gone to the lookout already committed to doing whatever it took to convince her to be his—in all the relevant spheres, of which this was one. His first test, apparently, was to convince her that she wanted him enough—to wit, a great deal more than she knew.
The prospect of exerting himself over a woman felt alien, but he shook aside the niggle.
He’d been intending to offer her the dukedom, his duchess’s coronet; he toyed with the idea of asking her if that would prove enough. But the challenge she’d issued had been based on the physical, not the material; he would answer her on the same plane. Time enough once she was gracing his bed to inform her of the permanent position he intended her to fill.
His gaze lowered to her hand, still resting in his. He needed to let her go—for now.
Forcing his fingers to ease, he let her hand, her fingers, slide from his grasp. Saw, because he was watching intently, her release the breath she’d been holding. She didn’t step away; she lowered her arm, but otherwise remained still. Watching him.
Wise; his more primitive side wasn’t happy about letting her go, and was just waiting for any excuse to override her wishes and the counsel of his wiser self.
Too conscious of that primitive self prowling just beneath his skin, he forced himself to turn away, to start up the stairs. He spoke without turning around. “I’ll see you in the study in half an hour to discuss the mill.”
That afternoon, Royce’s last traitor lay naked on his back in Royce’s younger sister’s bed.
Equally naked, Susannah lolled on her stomach beside him. “I sent off that note with the post last evening—it should reach town later today.”
“Good.”
Lifting an arm, he trailed his fingers over the quite delectable curve of her derriere. “It’ll be amusing to see if dear Helen avails herself of your kind invitation.”
“Poor Royce, forced by the grandes dames to choose a bride—the least I can do is arrange a little diversion.”
“With luck, the beautiful countess will be here by Sunday.”
“Hmm.” Susannah looked pensive. “I really can’t see him rushing to announce his betrothal, not given it was forced on him. Once she arrives, he might put it off indefinitely.”
“Or even change his mind. Have you really no idea who he’s chosen?”
“No. No one does. Even Minerva has no clue, which, as you might expect, is bothering her greatly.”
“Can’t you wheedle it out of him? You’re his favorite sister, after all.”
Susannah snorted. “This is Royce Varisey we’re talking about. He might look on me more kindly than he does Margaret and Aurelia—and really, who wouldn’t?—but ‘wheedling’ anything out of him would literally be the equivalent of getting blood from a stone.”
“Ah, well—it seems we’ll have to wait with everyone else to hear. A week or so…not that long.”
Susannah sat up. “Wait a minute. He said the week’s delay was to get the lady’s agreement.” She turned to him. “If we knew which lady he contacted…”
It was his turn to snort derisively. “Not even I would suggest you might induce Retford to tell you who his new master is corresponding with.”
Susannah slapped his chest with the back of her hand. “Not me, silly—Minerva. I bet she’s already thought of it.” She grinned, then slid sinuously, sensuously, into his arms. “I’ll ask her…later.”
He pulled her over him, licked her lips, and slid his hand between her thighs. “Indeed. Later.”
Eight
Royce walked into the drawing room that evening, and calmly surveyed the remaining company. His sisters had stayed, although their husbands had departed; all three had, apparently, decided to indulge themselves with a few weeks’ break, taking advantage of the, for them, freer, less restrictive structure of his essentially bachelor household.
All three were indulging in affairs under his roof—Aurelia and Susannah with two of his cousins, Margaret with the husband of one of her “friends,” who was helpfully otherwise engaged with another of his cousins.
Luckily, he wasn’t, wouldn’t be held to be, responsible in any way for them, their sins, or their marriages. For the moment, at least, they could do as they pleased; they—his sisters, cousins, and their assorted friends—would provide cover for his pursuit of his chatelaine.
For that, he would tolerate them, at least for now. He was easy enough in their company; he could interact with them or ignore them as he chose.
Some had mentioned staying for the Alwinton Fair, a few weeks away. It was a highlight of the local year; their mother had often hosted house parties coinciding with the event. As he glanced around, noting bright eyes, flushed cheeks, and meaningful looks, it seemed his sisters and cousins were intent on recapturing those youthful, more carefree times.