“Indeed.” She patted Susannah’s arm as she drew hers free. “I have to speak with Margaret.”
Susannah nodded and strolled off to join some others while Minerva headed for Margaret, enthroned in state on the chaise facing the hearth.
Susannah was right; Royce must have sent some communication to the lady he’d chosen as his duchess—a point she shouldn’t have forgotten. In typical Varisey fashion, while waiting for his bride to agree to be his, he was intent on bedding his chatelaine.
If she needed any reminder of the unwisdom of letting him seduce her, recalling that she would learn any day who would be his duchess should help bolster her resolution.
She really didn’t want to know; the thought curdled her stomach.
Refocusing on her plans to stay out of his arms, and out of his bed, she paused beside Margaret. “I have a headache,” she lied. “Can you do the honors with the tea tray?”
“Yes, of course.” Looking more relaxed than when her husband had been there, Margaret waved her away. “You should tell Royce not to work you so hard, dear. You need time for some distraction.”
Minerva smiled and headed for the door; she understood perfectly what “distraction” Margaret was recommending—precisely the sort her brother had in mind. Variseys!
She didn’t dally; she didn’t trust Royce not to cut the men’s drinking short, and under some pretext return to the drawing room early. Slipping out of the room, she went into the front hall, then quickly climbed the main stairs.
There was no one about. She heard no rumble of male voices; the gentlemen must still be in the dining room. Relieved, she walked into the keep, hesitated, debating, then headed for the duchess’s morning room. It was too early for sleep, and her embroidery frame was there.
The morning room had been the late duchess’s personal domain; her daughters had only intruded when invited. Since her death, they hadn’t set foot there. Variseys had little interest in the dead; they never clung to memories.
That had suited Minerva. Over the last three years, the room had become her own.
Presumably it would remain so—until the next duchess arrived.
Opening the door, she went in. The room lay in darkness, but she knew it well. She walked toward the table that stood along the back of the nearer sofa, paused, then returned to the door and locked it. No sense taking any chances.
Smiling to herself, she strolled to the sofa table, set her hand on the tinderbox, and lit the lamp. The wick flared; she waited until it burned steadily, then set the glass in place, adjusted the flame—and suddenly felt—knew—that she wasn’t alone…raising her gaze from the lamp, she looked—
At Royce, sitting at his negligent ease on the sofa opposite. Watching her.
“What are you doing here?” The words left her lips as her panicking mind assessed her options.
“Waiting for you.”
She’d locked the door. Looking into his eyes, so dark, his gaze intent and unwavering, she knew that despite him being on the farther sofa, if she tried to reach the door, he’d be there ahead of her. “Why?”
Keeping him talking seemed her only option.
Assuming, of course, that he would oblige.
He didn’t. Instead, he slowly rose. “Helpful of you to lock the door.”
“I wasn’t trying to help you.” She watched him walk toward her, tamped down her flaring panic, reminded herself it was pointless to run. One did not turn and flee from a predator.
He rounded the sofa, and she swung to face him. He halted before her, looked into her face—as if studying it, her features, as if memorizing the details. “What you said—about me not kissing you again?”
She tensed. “What about it?”
His lips lifted fractionally. “I didn’t agree.”
She waited, beyond tense, for him to reach for her, to kiss her again, but he didn’t. He stood looking down at her, watching her, his dark gaze intent, as if this were some game and it was her move.
Trapped in his gaze, she sensed heat stirring, rising between them; desperate, she searched for some way to distract him. “What about your bride? You’re supposed to be arranging an announcement as we speak.”
“I’m negotiating. Meanwhile…” He stepped forward; instinctively she stepped back. “I’m going to kiss you again.”
That was what she was afraid of. He took another step, and she backed again.