His hands closed on her shoulders and steadied her as the door swung shut behind her. He frowned down at her. “Where—”
She held up a hand. “If you must know, I’ve been dealing with your friends’ wives.” She whisked out of his hold and backed away, already unbuttoning her gown. “Go to your room—I’ll follow as soon as I’ve changed.”
He hesitated.
She got the impression he wanted to help her with her gown, but wasn’t sure he trusted himself. She waved him off. “Go! I’ll get there sooner if you do.”
“All right.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be waiting.”
The door shut soundlessly behind him just as she recalled she should have warned him not to undress.
“Damn!” Wrestling with her laces, she hurried even faster.
He was not happy. The last weeks had crawled by without any real satisfaction.
It had taken Lady Ashton longer than he’d expected to get here, and then, instead of creating any difficulty for Royce—not even the slightest scene—the damned woman had, so it appeared, accepted her congé without even a tantrum—not even a decent sulk!
That was one thing. Her rejection of him was quite another.
Seething, he stalked out of the west wing into the deeper shadows of the keep’s gallery. He’d gone to her room assuming that, as Royce had declined to share her bed—a fact she’d made light of when, at his subtle prod, Susannah had asked—then the delectable Lady Ashton would be amenable to entertaining him. She had a mouth he’d fantasized about using ever since Royce’s interest had focused his attention on her.
Instead, the lovely countess hadn’t let him past her door. She’d pleaded a migraine and stated her intention of leaving the next day as necessitating a good night’s sleep.
He ground his teeth. To be fobbed off with such transparent and paltry excuses made his blood boil. He’d intended to return to his room for a stiff brandy, but he needed something more potent than alcohol to burn away the memory of Lady Ashton’s blank politeness.
She’d looked at him, and coolly dismissed him as unworthy to take Royce’s place.
To rid himself of the vision, he needed something to replace it. Something like the image of Susannah—Royce’s favorite sister—on her knees before him. With him looking down at her, first from the front, then from the rear, as she serviced him,
If he pushed her hard, she might just be able to make him forget the countess.
Imagining doing to Royce’s sister what he’d planned to do to Royce’s mistress, he crossed the gallery. Susannah’s room was in the east wing.
He was passing one of the deep embrasures slotted into the keep’s walls when the sound of a door hurriedly opening had him instinctively sidestepping into the deeper shadows and halting.
Silently he waited for whoever it was to pass.
Light footsteps came pattering along the runner—a woman, hurrying.
She passed the opening of the embrasure; a glint of moonlight tangled in her hair. Minerva.
Seeing her hurrying about wasn’t surprising, even late at night. Seeing her rush off in her nightgown, swinging a light cloak about her shoulders, was.
He’d been walking back from the countess’s rooms for some minutes; in the pervasive silence he would have heard if any of the staff had knocked on Minerva’s door.
He slipped out of the embrasure and followed at a distance, stopped breathing when she turned down the short corridor that led to the ducal apartments. He reached the corner in time to peer around and see her open the door leading into Royce’s sitting room.
It shut silently behind her.
Despite the obvious implications, he couldn’t quite believe it. So he waited. Waited for her to emerge with Royce, having summoned him to deal with some emergency…
In her nightgown?
Barging into Royce’s bedroom?
A clock somewhere tolled the quarter hour; he’d been standing there watching the door for over fifteen minutes. Minerva wasn’t coming out.
She was the reason Royce had dismissed the countess.