Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

Her mind immediately conjured an all too evocative memory of his last attempt to sweep her into his bed; when her intellect leapt to the fore and hauled her mind away, it merely skittered to the time before that, to his lips on hers, to the pleasure his long fingers had wrought while he’d pinned her to the wall in the lust-heavy dark…

It took effort to wrestle her wits free, to focus on his words. “But you haven’t succeeded.”

She would have called back the words the instant she uttered them; they sounded collected and calm—nothing like what she felt.

Slowly, he turned his head and met her eyes. Smiled—that curving of his lips that carried a promise of lethal reaction rather than any soothing reassurance. “Not. Yet.”

He dropped the quiet words like stones into the air between them; she felt the tension pull, then quiver. Felt something within her inwardly tremble—not with apprehension but a damning anticipation. She forced herself to arch a brow, then deliberately turned her attention back down the table.

As soon as dessert was consumed, Margaret dispatched Susannah, Phillip, and the rest of the cast to the music room to prepare. Everyone else remained at the table, finishing their wine, chatting—until Margaret declared the players had had time enough, and the entire com

pany adjourned to the music room.

The music room lay in the west wing, at the point where the north wing joined it. Part of both wings, the room was an odd shape, having two doors, one opening to the north wing and one to the west wing corridors, and only one window—a wide one angled between the two outer walls. The shallow dais that formed the stage filled the floor before the window, a trapezoid that extended well into the room. The stage itself was the rectangle directly in front of the window, while the triangular areas to either side had been paneled off, blocking them off from the audience sitting in the main part of the room, creating wings in which the players could don the finery that made up their costumes, and stage props and furniture could be stored.

Thick velvet curtains concealed the stage. Footmen had set up four rows of gilt-backed chairs across the room before it. The crowd filed in, chatting and laughing, noting the closed curtains, and the dimness created by having only three candelabra on pedestals lighting the large room; a chandelier, fully lit, cast its light down upon the presently screened stage.

Minerva didn’t even attempt to slip from Royce’s side as he guided her to a seat in the second row, to the right of the center aisle. She sat, grateful to have survived the trip from the dining room with nothing more discomposing than the sensation of his hand at her waist, and the curious aura he projected of hovering over and around her.

Both protectively and possessively.

She should take exception to the evolving habit, but her witless senses were intrigued and unhelpfully tantalized by the suggestive attention.

The rest of the group quickly took their seats. Someone peeked out through the curtains, then, slowly, the heavy curtains parted on the first scene.

The play began. In such situations, it was accepted practice for the audience to call comments, suggestions, and directions to the players—who might or might not respond. Whatever the true tone of the play, the result was always a comedy, something the abbreviated scripts were designed to enhance; the players were expected to overplay the parts to the top of their bent.

While most in the audience called their comments loud enough for all to hear, Royce made his to her alone. His observations, especially on Mercutio, played to the hilt and beyond by his cousin Rohan, were so dry, so acerbic and cuttingly witty, that he reduced her to helpless giggles in short order—something he observed with transparently genuine approval, and what looked very like self-congratulation.

When Susannah appeared as Juliet, waltzing through her family’s ball, she returned the favor, making him smile, eventually surprising a laugh from him; she discovered she felt chuffed about that, too.

The balcony scene had them trying to outdo each other, just as Susannah and Phillip vied for the histrionic honors on stage.

When the curtain finally swished closed and the audience thundered their applause for a job well done, Royce discovered he had, entirely unexpectedly, enjoyed himself.

Unfortunately, as he looked around as footmen hurried in to light more candles, he realized the whole company had enjoyed themselves hugely—which augured very badly for him. They’d want to do a play every night until the fair; it took him only an instant to realize he’d have no hope of altering that.

He would have to find some way around his chatelaine’s latest hurdle.

Both he and Minerva rose with the others, chatting and exchanging comments. Along with the other players, Susannah reappeared, stepping down from the stage to rejoin the company. Slowly, he made his way to her side.

She turned as he approached, arched one dark brow. “Did you enjoy my performance?”

He arched a brow back. “Was it all performance?”

Susannah opened her eyes wide.

Minerva had drifted from Royce’s side. She’d been complimenting Rohan on his execution of Mercutio; she was standing only feet away from Susannah when Royce approached.

Close enough to see and hear as he complimented his sister, then more quietly said, “I take it Phillip is the latest to catch your eye. I wouldn’t have thought him your type.”

Susannah smiled archly and tapped his cheek. “Clearly, brother mine, you either don’t know my type, or you don’t know Phillip.” She looked across to where Phillip was laughing with various others. “Indeed,” Susannah continued, “we suit each other admirably well.” She glanced up at Royce, smiled. “Well, at least for the moment.”

Minerva inwardly frowned; she hadn’t picked up any connection between Phillip and Susannah—indeed, she’d thought Susannah’s interest lay elsewhere.

With a widening smile, Susannah waggled her fingers at Royce, then left him.

Royce watched her go, and inwardly shrugged; after his years in social exile, she was right—he couldn’t know her adult tastes that well.