Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

He, in contrast, was intent on capturing Minerva. With luck, the fair and the company would distract his sisters from any further misplaced interest in his affairs.

Despite the frustration he’d recently endured having been to no real purpose, that frustration was still continuing. Not, however, for long. He’d forced himself to toe her line through a few hours of her company, discussing the mill and other estate matters—lulling her into a sense of safety.

Into believing she was safe with him. From him.

Nothing could be further from the truth, at least not with respect to their current point of contention. She was going to land in his bed—naked—sooner or later; he was intent on ensuring it was the former that applied.

He located her at the center of a group by the fireplace; she still wore her weeds, as did his sisters, but the other female guests had switched to gowns of lavender or gray. Minerva still shone like a beacon to him. He prowled through the guests, heading her way.

Minerva saw him coming; continuing to smile at Phillip Debraigh, who was entertaining the group with a tale, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths, and a firmer grip on her composure. Royce had, without argument, behaved precisely as she’d stipulated for the rest of the morning and all the afternoon, adhering to both the letter and intent of her dictate. There was no reason to imagine he’d suddenly change tack…

Except that she couldn’t bring herself to believe that he would meekly accept her dismissal and fall in with her specified line.

Which was why she tensed, lungs tightening, when he neared. Phillip ended his tale and excused himself, drifting off to join another group. The circle shuffled, adjusted, as Royce came to stand by her side.

He greeted the others with his customary, coolly urbane air; last of all, he looked at her—and smiled.

Pure wolf. That he planned something was patently clear from the expression in his dark eyes.

Lips lightly curved, she inclined her head serenely in reply.

One of the other ladies launched into the latest ton story.

Nerves flickering, her lungs too tight, Minerva seized the moment to murmur, “If you’ll excuse me…” She stepped back—

Halted, nerves leaping, as long, hard fingers closed—gently, yet with underlying strength—about her elbow.

Royce turned with her, one dark brow arching. “Whither away?”

Away from him. She looked across the room. “I should see if Margaret needs anything.”

“I thought, as my chatelaine, you’re supposed to remain by my side.”

“If you need me.”

“I definitely need you.”

She didn’t dare look at his face. His tone was bad enough; the tenor of his deep voice sent a shivery tingle skating down her spine. “Well, then, you should probably speak with those cousins you’ve spent least time with. Henry and Arthur, for instance.”

Releasing her, he waved her forward. “Lead on.” He paced beside her as she glided through the guests toward the group with whom the two youngest Variseys present were standing. As they neared, he murmured, “Just don’t try to slip away from me.”

The undisguised warning had her plastering on a smile, engaging Henry and Arthur, and dutifully remaining beside Royce as they conversed.

She quickly realized why he’d appeared in the drawing room the full regulation half hour before dinner—so he could use the time to torture her with a thousand little touches. Nothing more than the polite, unremarkable, customary gestures a gentleman bestowed on a lady—his grip on her elbow, a touch on her arm, the sensation of his hand hovering at the back of her waist…then touching, lightly steering—burning.

Her pulse leapt every time; when Retford at last appeared to announce dinner, she was wishing she’d brought down her fan. Under cover of the butler’s stentorian announcement, she glanced at Royce, narrowed her eyes. Although his impassive mien didn’t soften, with his eyes he managed to convey an expression of supreme innocence.

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You haven’t been innocent since birth.”

He smiled—a gesture that, for her, didn’t bode well—and took her arm.

Desperately tamping down her reaction, she indicated a lady across the room. “You should lead Caroline Courtney in.”

“Lady Courtney can find her own partner. This is not a formal dinner.” He looked down at her, his dark gaze suggestive. “I’d much rather lead you.”

He deliberately omitted the “in,” leaving her to supply the context—something the less sensible part of her mind was only too happy to do. Damn it. Damn him.

Reaching the dining table at the head of the line, he sat her to the left of his great chair. As he took his seat, she grasped the chance provided by the scrape of other chairs to murmur, “This ploy of yours won’t work.” She caught his eye. “I’m not going to change my mind.”