Curiously clearheaded, he revisited the events, and even more the emotions—all they’d broached, drawn on, used, revealed, over the last hour.
She was still awake. Waiting to hear what he would say.
He touched his lips to her temple. “Know this.” He kept his voice low; she would hear all he wanted her to hear in his tone. “I will give you anything. Anything and everything I have to give. There is nothing you can ask for that I will not grant you—whatever I have, whatever I am, is yours.”
Each word rang with absolute, unshakable commitment.
A long moment passed. “Do you believe me?”
“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.
“Good.” Lips curving, settling his head on the pillow, he closed his arms about her. “Go to sleep.”
He knew it was a command, didn’t care. He felt her sigh, felt the last of her tension fade, felt sleep claim her. Taking his own advice, contented to his toes, he surrendered to his dreams.
Nineteen
At a smidgen before dawn, Minerva floated back to her room, flopped into her bed, and sighed. She couldn’t stop smiling. Royce had more than passed her test with flying colors; even if he couldn’t promise love, what he had promised had more than reassured. He’d given her everything she’d asked for.
So what now? What next?
She still had no assurance that at some point what presently flared so hotly between them wouldn’t die…Could she risk accepting his offer?
Could she risk not?
She blinked, felt a cold chill wash through her. Frowned as, for the first time, the alternative to accepting—refusing him, turning her back on all that might be and walking away—formed in her mind.
The truth dawned.
“Damn that mangy Scot.” She slumped back on her pillows. “He’s right!” Why had it taken her so long to see it?
“Because I’ve been looking at Royce, not me. I love him.” To the depths of her soul. “No matter how many symptoms of love he has, my heart won’t change.”
Infatuation-obsession had grown to something a great deal more—more powerful, deeper, impossible to deny, and immutable, set in stone. Whatever trials she staged, even when he passed with flying colors, were no more than reassurance. Comforting, enlightening, and supportive, yes, but in the end, beside the point. She loved him, and as Penny had said, love was not a passive emotion.
Love would never allow her to turn her back on him and walk away, would never allow her to be so cowardly as not to risk her heart.
Love would—and did—demand her heart.
If she wanted love, she had to risk it. Had to give it. Had to surrender it.
Her way forward was suddenly crystal clear.
“Your Grace, I will be honored to accept your offer.”
Her heart literally soared at the sound of the words—words she’d never thought to say. Her lips curved, and curved; she smiled gloriously.
The door opened; Lucy breezed in. “Good morning, ma’am. Ready for the big day? Everyone’s already bustling below stairs.”
“Oh. Yes.” Her smile waned. She inwardly swore; it was the day before the fair. The one day of the year in which she would have not a moment to call her own.
Or Royce’s.
She swore again, and got up.
And plunged into the day—into a whirlpool of frenetic activity and concerted organization.
Breakfast for her was rushed. Royce, wisely, had come down early, and already ridden out. All the guests had arrived; the parlor was a sea of chatter and greetings. Of course, her three mentors were agog to hear her news; given the company, the best she could do was reconjure her radiant smile.