He lay staring into space as his household slowly awakened, juggling possibilities, assessing tacks. If he’d asked her to marry him when he’d first set out to, rather than letting her distract him with her challenge into seducing her first, he wouldn’t now be facing this complication, yet there was no point dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.
He could see only one way forward. He would have to keep silent over his intention to marry her, and instead do everything in his considerable power to lead her to conclude of her own accord that marrying him was her true and natural destiny. More, her greatly desired destiny.
Once she’d realized that, he could offer for her hand, and she would accept.
If he applied himself to the task, how long could it take? A week?
The grandes dames had accepted the week he’d originally stipulated readily enough. That week had now passed, but he doubted any of them would hie north to castigate him—not yet. If he dallied too long, someone would turn up to lecture him again and exhort him to action, but he probably had another week up his sleeve.
A week he would devote to convincing Minerva that she should be his duchess.
A week to make it clear she already was, but just hadn’t realized.
His lips curved, just as Trevor looked in from the dressing room.
His valet saw his smile, saw the bed. Raised his brows inquiringly.
Royce saw no reason to keep him in the dark. “My chatelaine—who will shortly be your mistress.” He fixed his gaze on Trevor’s face. “A fact she doesn’t yet know, so no one will tell her.”
Trevor smiled. “Naturally not, Your Grace.” His expression one of the utmost equanimity, he started to pick up Royce’s clothes.
Royce studied him. “You don’t seem all that surprised.”
Straightening, Trevor shook out his coat. “You have to choose a lady, and all things considered I find it hard to imagine you could do better than Miss Chesterton.” He shrugged. “Nothing to be surprised about.”
Royce humphed, and got out of the bed. “I will, of course, wish to know anything and everything you learn that might be pertinent. I take it you know her maid?”
Folding Royce’s waistcoat, Trevor smiled. “A young person by the name of Lucy, Your Grace.”
Belting his robe, Royce narrowed his eyes on that smile. “A word to the wise. I might bed the mistress, but you’d be ill-advised to try the same with the maid. She’ll have your balls on a stick—the mistress, not the maid. And in the circumstances, I’d have to let her.”
Trevor’s eyes opened wide. “I’ll bear that in mind, Your Grace. Now, do you wish to shave?”
Minerva awoke when Lucy, her maid, came bustling into the room.
After leaving Royce, she’d slipped back to her room without seeing anyone; she’d undressed, put on her nightgown, brushed out her tangled hair, got into bed—and to her surprise had fallen deeply asleep.
She yawned, stretched—and felt twinges where she never had before. She watched Lucy open the curtains, then shake out her gown; when Lucy turned to the armoire, she surreptitiously peeked down the front of her nightgown.
She blinked, then looked across the room. “The black with the buttons up the front, Lucy. Just leave it over the chair. I’ll get up shortly, but you don’t need to wait. I can manage that gown by myself.”
And innocent Lucy didn’t need to see the telltale marks on her breasts. She didn’t want to think what she might discover farther down.
“I’ve brought up your washing water. Do you need me for anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you, Lucy. You can go and have your breakfast.”
“Thank you, miss.” With a cheery smile and a bobbed curtsy, Lucy took herself off. The door closed behind her.
Minerva exhaled, sank deeper into the mattress, and let her thoughts range over the previous night, and its entirely unexpected events. That Royce would act so directly—and that she would respond so definitely—had never entered her head. But he had, and she had, so where were they now?
She’d always assumed he’d be a vigorous lover. In that, he’d exceeded her expectations; her untutored self had never even imagined much of what, at his hands, she had now experienced. Yet despite her inexperience, she knew him—she hadn’t missed the hunger, the real need that had had him carting her off to his bed, that had driven him as he’d ravished her.
Possessed her.
Repeatedly.
When she’d woken before dawn, just as, from behind, he’d filled her, and proceeded to demonstrate yet another way he could possess her—her body, her senses, and her mind—utterly and completely, with his lips in the hollow below her ear rather than on hers, she, her senses, had been freer to absorb the nuances of his loving.