“There was an element of blackmail involved, as I recall.”
She snorted. “You were sixteen—there was a girl involved. Not me.”
He remembered, smiled. “The blacksmith’s daughter. It’s coming back to me.”
Minerva eyed his smile, waiting…he saw her looking, quirked an arrogantly amused brow. She smiled back—intently. “Keep remembering.”
She watched as he did. His smile faltered, then disappeared.
Expression inscrutable, he met her eyes. “You never told me how much you actually saw.”
It was her turn to smile in fond reminiscence. “Enough.” She added, “Enough to know your technique has improved significantly since then.”
“I should bloody well hope so. That was twenty-one years ago.”
“And you haven’t been living in a monastery.”
He ignored that. Frowned. “Another thing I didn’t think to ask all those years ago—did you often follow me?”
She shrugged. “Not when you rode—you would have seen me.”
A short silence ensued, then he quietly asked, “How often did you spy on me?”
She glanced at his face, arched a brow. “You’re starting to look as stunned as you did in the mill.”
He met her eyes. “It’s a reaction to the revelation that I was singlehandedly if unwittingly responsible for my wife’s extensive sexual education at a precocious age.”
She smiled. “You don’t seem to have any objection to the outcome.”
He hesitated, then said, “Just tell me one thing—it was singlehandedly, wasn’t it?”
She laughed, leaned back in his arms. “I may have been precocious, but I was only interested in you.”
He humphed, hugged her tight.
After a moment, he nuzzled her neck. “Perhaps it’s time I reminded you of some of the technical improvements I’ve assimilated over the years.”
“Hmm. Perhaps.” She shifted sinuously against him, her derriere caressing his erection. “And perhaps you might include something new, something more novel and adventurous.” Glancing over her shoulder, she caught his eye. “Perhaps you should extend my horizons.”
Her tone made that last an imperious, definitely duchessy demand.
He laughed and rose, sweeping her up in his arms. He carried her into the bedroom; halting beside the bed with her cradled in his arms, he looked down. Met her eyes. Held them. “I love you—I really do.” The words were low, heartfelt, resonating with feeling—with discovery, joy, and unfettered belief. “Even when you refuse to do as I say—perhaps even because you refused to look away, to not see the violent side of me.”
Her words were as heartfelt as his. “I love all of you—your worst, your best, and everything in between.” Laying a palm against his cheek, she smiled into his eyes. “I even love your temper.”
He snorted. “I should have you put that in writing.”
She laughed, reached further, and drew his head to hers. He kissed her, followed her down as he laid her on his bed, on the crimson-and-gold brocade.
His. His duchess.
His life. His all.
Later, much later, Minerva lolled naked on the crimson silk sheets, and watched the last of the light fade over the distant hills. Beside her, Royce lay slumped on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, the other draped loosely around her.
He was at peace, and so was she. She was precisely where she was meant to be.
His parents, she thought, would have been pleased; she’d fulfilled her vows to them—quite possibly in the way they’d always intended. They’d known her well, and, she’d come to realize, had understood Royce better than he’d known.