She felt her brightest smile dawn, felt it light her eyes. “Yes, all right.”
With a nod, he turned to his rooms.
Thoroughly pleased with her day, she continued to hers.
They next met in the drawing room, surrounded by the others all full of their day and their plans for the morrow. Walking into the large room, Royce located Minerva chatting in a group with Susannah, Phillip, Arthur, and Gregory. He met her eyes as Retford appeared behind him to announce dinner; stepping aside, he let the others go ahead, waiting until she joined him to claim her.
He wanted her with him, but hadn’t yet decided what he wanted to say—or rather, how to say it. He sat her beside him; as he took his own seat at the table’s head, she regarded him calmly, then turned to Gordon on her left and asked him about something.
The party had relaxed even further, all the members entirely comfortable in each other’s company. He felt comfortable ignoring them all; sitting back, his fingers crooked about the stem of his wineglass, as the endless chatter flowed over an
d around him he let his gaze rest on his chatelaine’s golden head while their day replayed in his mind.
All in all it had been a distinct success, yet he hadn’t been—still wasn’t—pleased by the way she’d evoked—deliberately and knowingly provoked—his temper over the bridge. He’d asked her to in a way, but he hadn’t imagined she’d succeed to anything like the extent she had.
She had effectively manipulated him, albeit with his implied consent. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had successfully done so; that she had, and so easily, left him feeling oddly vulnerable—not a feeling with which he was familiar, one the marcher lord he truly was didn’t approve of in the least.
However, against that stood the successes of the day. First in dealing with Falwell, then in deciding the steward’s replacement, and lastly over the bridge. He’d wanted to illustrate one point, to demonstrate it in a way she, rational female that she was, couldn’t fail to see, and between them they’d succeeded brilliantly.
Regardless…he let his gaze grow more intent, until she felt it and glanced his way. He shifted toward her; she turned back and excused herself to Gordon, then faced him and raised her brows.
He locked his eyes on hers. “Why didn’t you simply tell me about the children using the bridge?”
She held his gaze. “If I had, the effect would have been…distanced. You asked for something dramatic, to give you something urgent to take to the aldermen—if you hadn’t seen the children, but simply been told of them, it wouldn’t have been the same.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t have been the same.”
He wouldn’t have felt like handing the aldermen their heads. He hesitated, then, still holding her gaze, inclined his head. “True.” Lifting his glass, he saluted her. “We make a good team.”
Which was the point he’d been bent on illustrating.
He might tie her to him with passion, but to be sure of holding her he needed more. A lady like her needed occupation—an ability to achieve. As his wife, she’d be able to achieve even more than she currently could; when the time came, he wasn’t going to be backward in pointing that out.
She smiled, lifted her glass, and touched the rim to his. “Indeed.”
He watched her sip, then swallow, felt something in him tighten. “Incidentally…” He waited until her gaze returned to his eyes. “It’s customary when a gentleman gives a lady a token of his appreciation, for that lady to show her appreciation in return.”
Her brows rose, but she didn’t look away. Instead, a faint—distinctly arousing—smile flirted about the corners of her lips. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Do.”
Their gazes touched, locked; the connection deepened. Around them the company was in full voice, the bustle of the footmen serving, the clink of cutlery and the clatter of china a cacophony of sound and a sea of colorful movement swirling all about them, yet it all faded, grew distant, while between them that indefinable connection grew taut, gripped and held.
Expectation and anticipation flickered and sparked.
Her breasts swelled as she drew in a breath, then she looked away.
He glanced down, at his fingers curved about the bowl of the wineglass; setting it down, he shifted in his chair.
At least the company had tired of amateur theatricals; he inwardly gave thanks. The meal ended and Minerva left his side; he kept the passing of the port to the barest minimum, then led the gentlemen to rejoin the ladies in the drawing room.
After exchanging one look, he made no attempt to join her; with heightened passion all but arcing between them, it was simply too dangerous—not even this company were that blind. Outwardly idly amiable, he chatted to some of his sisters’ friends, yet he knew the instant Minerva slipped from the room.
She didn’t return. He gave her half an hour, then left the garrulous gathering and followed her up the stairs into the keep. Slowing, he glanced at the shadows wreathing the corridor to her room, wondered, but then continued on. To his apartments, to his bedroom.
She was there, lying in his bed.
Halting in the doorway, he smiled, the gesture laden with every ounce of the predatory impulses coursing his veins.
She’d left no candles burning, but the moonlight streamed in, burnishing her hair as it rippled across his pillows, gilding the curves of her bare shoulders with a pearlescent sheen.