Royce watched the door close behind her; he stood staring at the panels, his mind immediately refocusing on the one burning issue dominating his current existence—his negotiations with the lady he’d chosen as his duchess.
His campaign to ensure Minerva said yes.
Minerva lay alone in her bed—a perfectly good bed she’d slept comfortably in for years and years, but which now seemed entirely lacking.
She knew what was missing, what lack it was that somehow made it impossible to fall asleep, but why the simple presence of a male body over a handful of days should have made such a deep impression on her psyche to the extent she—her body—fretted at his absence, she simply could not comprehend.
If her body was restless, her mind was even more so. She had to stop thinking about all she’d learned—had to stop wondering if Helen had actually meant five interludes, or five intimacies; on both counts she and Royce had exceeded the limit. Yet perhaps he, being male, simply counted nights?
The deadening truth she had to accept was that according to his immutable rule—and she could see why he, heir to a massively wealthy and powerful dukedom, had instituted such a rule and stuck by it—her time with him had come to an end.
It was just as well Helen had arrived and explained; at least now she knew.
Sitting up, she pummeled her pillow, then slumped down and pulled the covers over her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She had to get some sleep.
She tried to compose her features, but they wouldn’t relax. Her frown refused to smooth away.
In her heart, her gut, everything felt wrong. So utterly wrong.
The click of her door latch had her opening her eyes. The door swung inward—rather violently—then Royce was in the room, shutting the door forcefully, but silently.
He stalked to the bed. Halting beside it, he looked down at her; all she could see of his expression was that his lips were set in a grim line.
“I suppose I should have expected this.” He shook his head, and reached for the covers.
He tugged. She clutched them tighter. “Wh—”
“Of course, I’d hoped my edict that you’re supposed to be in my bed might have been strong enough to hold, but apparently not.” His accents were clipped, a sure indication of strained temper. He jerked the covers from her grip and flung them off her.
He stopped and stared down at her. “Heaven preserve me, we’re back to nightgowns.”
The disgust in his voice would, in other circumstances, have made her laugh. She narrowed her eyes at him, then dove to scramble off the other side of the bed—but he was too fast.
He caught her, hauled her to him, then hoisted her in his arms.
He started for the door.
“Royce!”
“Shut up. I’m not in a good mood. First Susannah, then Helen, now you. Misogyny beckons.”
She glanced at his face, at his adamantine expression, and shut her lips. As she couldn’t prevent him from carrying her to his room, she would argue once they got there.
He paused by the coat rack. “Grab your cloak.”
She did and quickly flicked the folds over her; at least he’d remembered that.
He juggled her, opened her door, softly shut it behind them, then carried her swiftly through the shadows to his apartments, and on into his bedroom. All the way to his bed.
She pinned him with a stony glare. “What about the countess?”
Halting beside the bed, he met her gaze, his own hard. “What about her?”
“She’s your mistress.”
“Ex-mistress. The ex- is important—it defines that relationship.”
“Does she know that?”