Then she joined him.
Her small hands found his face, framed it for a moment, then lowered to spread across his shoulders.
As the tempo of their joining inexorably rose, she gripped, clutched, her body undulating beneath his, dancing to a rhythm as old as time.
One he set, but she was with him, waltzing in the heat and the flames, in the scintillating fire of their shared passion.
And it was everything he’d wanted the moment to be—appeasement and acknowledgment, satiation and surrender, all in one.
She was everything he needed her to be—his lover, his bride, his wife.
His all.
In the moment when together they crested the last peak and found ecstasy waiting to claim them, he knew beyond question that he had all he needed of life in his arms. For this, she was the only woman for him, with him creating, then anchoring him in, this deeper, more heart-wrenching glory.
Submitting to him, surrendering to him.
Vanquishing him.
Now and forever.
The storm took them, and he surrendered, too, his fingers locked with hers as the fury of their joint passion wracked them, rocked them. Shattered and drained them, then left their senses to slowly fill again—with each other.
He’d never felt so close to any woman before, had never shared what he just had with any other.
When he finally summoned enough strength and will to move, he disengaged and lifted from her, then gathered her to him, into his arms, soothed when she came readily, snuggling close.
Through the darkness he touched his lips to her temple. “Sleep. I’ll wake you in time to leave.”
Her only reply was that her last lingering tension eased, then faded.
He closed his eyes and, utterly stated to the depths of his primitive soul, let sleep claim him.
Fourteen
Royce woke her before dawn in predictable fashion; Minerva reached her room with barely enough time to fall into her bed and recover before Lucy arrived to draw back the curtains.
After washing and dressing, once again eschewing Lucy’s assistance, she set about her usual routine with far more confidence than the day before. If Royce wanted her enough to insist she grace his bed, then he wasn’t about to lose interest in her just yet. Indeed, if last night was anything to judge by, his desire for her seemed to be escalating, not fading.
She pondered that, and how she felt about it, over breakfast, then, leaving his sisters and their guests to their own devices, retreated to the duchess’s morning room to prepare for their usual meeting in the study—and to consider what she might request of him.
If he could demand and insist on her physical surrender, then, she felt, some reward was her due. Some token of his appreciation.
When Jeffers arrived to summon her, she knew for what she would ask; the request would test Royce’s desire, but who knew how long his interest would last? She should ask now; with Variseys it paid to be bold.
Jeffers opened the study door. Entering, she saw that Falwell, as well as Handley, was present; the steward was sitting in the second chair before the desk.
Royce waved her to her usual seat. “Falwell has been describing the current state of the flocks and the clip. There appears to be some decline in quality.”
“Nothing major, of course,” Falwell quickly said, glancing, surprised, at Minerva. “Miss Chesterton has no doubt heard the farmers’ rumblings—”
“Indeed.” She cut off the rest of Falwell’s justification for doing nothing over recent years. “I understand the problem lies in the breeding stock.” Sitting, she met Royce’s gaze.
“Be that as it may,” Falwell said, “to get new breeding stock we’d have to go far south, and the expense—”
“Perhaps O’Loughlin could help?” She made the suggestion as innocently as she could. Royce had summoned her to join this discussion; presumably he wanted her opinions.
Falwell bridled; he didn’t like Hamish, but then Hamish had no time for him.