All of which ran directly counter to her intentions; out of the castle and surrounded by his workers, she’d thought she’d be safe from his seduction.
Physically, she’d been correct, but in other ways her attraction to him was deepening and broadening in ways she hadn’t-couldn’t have-foreseen. Worse, the unexpected allure was unintentional, uncalculated. It wasn’t in his nature to radically alter his behavior to impress.
“Ah, well.” The oldest woman stood. “Time to get back to it if we’re to get all those sheaves stacked before dusk.”
The other women rose and brushed off their aprons; the men saw, and stowed their mugs and jug, hitched up their trousers, and headed back into the field. Royce went with a group to one of the large drays; seizing the moment, Minerva went to check on Rangonel.
Satisfied he was comfortable, she headed to where the others were readying an area for the first haystack. Rounding a dray piled with sheaves, she halted-faced with a fascinating sight.
Royce stood five paces ahead of her, his back to her, looking down at a small girl, no more than five years old, planted directly in his path, nearly tipping backward as she looked all the way up into his face.
Minerva watched as he smoothly crouched before the girl, and waited.
Entirely at ease, the girl studied his face with open inquisitiveness. “What’s your name?” she eventually lisped.
Royce hesitated; Minerva could imagine him sorting through the various answers he could give. But eventually he said, “Royce.”
The girl tilted her head, frowned as she studied him. “Ma said you were a wolf.”
Minerva couldn’t resist shifting sideways, trying to see his face. His profile confirmed he was fighting not to smile-wolfishly.
“My teeth aren’t big enough.”
The poppet eyed him measuringly, then nodded sagely. “Your snout isn’t long enough, either, and you’re not hairy.”
Her own lips compressed, Minerva saw his jaw clench, holding back a laugh. After an instant, he nodded. “Very true.”
The girl reached out, with one small hand clasped two of his fingers. “We should go and help now. You can walk with me. I know how the haystack’s made-I’ll show you.”
She tugged, and Royce obediently rose.
Minerva watched as the most powerful duke in all of England allowed a five-year-old poppet to lead him to where his workers had gathered, and blithely instruct him in how to stack sheaves.
Days passed, and Royce advanced his cause not one whit. No matter what he did, Minerva evaded him at every turn, surrounding herself with either the estate people or the castle’s guests.
The plays had proved a major success; they now filled the evenings, allowing her to use the company of the other ladies to elude him every night. He’d reached the point of questioning his not exactly rational but unquestionably honorable disinclination to follow her into her room, trampling on her privacy to press his seduction, his suit.
While playing a long game was his forte, inaction was another matter; lack of progress on any front had always irked.
Lack of progress on this front positively hurt.
And today, the entire company had decided to go to church, presumably to atone for the many sins they’d committed. Despite none of those sins being his, he’d felt obliged to attend, too, especially as Minerva had been going, so what else was he to do?
Wallowing in bed when that bed was otherwise empty-devoid of soft, warm, willing female-had never appealed.
Seated in the front pew, Minerva beside him, with his sisters beyond her, he let the sermon roll over him, freeing his mind to range where it would-the latest prod to his escalating frustration was its first stop.
They’d chosen Midsummer Night’s Dream for their play last night-and Minerva had suggested he play Oberon, a chant promptly taken up by the rest of the company in full voice. The twist of fate that had seen her caught by the same company’s brilliant notion that she play Titania, queen to his king, had been, in his opinion, nothing more than her due.
Given their natures, given the situation, even though their exchanges on stage had been oblique, the palpable tension between them had puzzled a number of their audience.
That tension, and its inevitable effects, had resulted in another near-sleepless night.
He slanted a glance to his right, to where she, his fixation, sat, her gaze dutifully trained on Mr. Cribthorn, the vicar, rambling from his pulpit about long-dead Corinthians.
She knew who and what he was; no one knew him better. Yet she’d deliberately set out to cross swords with him-and thus far she was winning.
Accepting defeat on any stage had never come easily; his only recent failure had been over bringing to justice the last traitor he and his men knew lurked somewhere in the government. There were some things fate didn’t allow.
Be that as it may, accepting defeat with Minerva was…entirely beyond his scope. One way or another she was going to be his-his lover first, then his wife.
Her capitulation on both counts would happen-had to happen-soon. He’d told the grandes dames a week, and that week was nearly past. While he doubted they’d haul themselves all the way back to Northumbria if they didn’t see a notice in the Gazette this coming week, he wouldn’t put it past them to start sending candidates north-in carriages designed to break axles and wheels as they neared Wolverstone’s gates.
The vicar called the congregation to their feet for the benediction; everyone rose. Subsequently, once the vicar had passed on his way up the aisle, Royce stepped out of the pew, stepped back to let Minerva go ahead of him, then followed, leaving his sisters trailing shawls and reticules in his wake.
As usual, they were the first out of the church, but he’d noticed one of his more affluent farmers among the worshippers; as they stepped down to the path, he bent his head close beside Minerva’s. “I want to have a word with Cherry.”
She glanced back and up at him.
And time stopped.
With Margaret and Aurelia distracting the vicar, they were the only two in the churchyard-and they were very close, their lips inches apart.
Her eyes, rich browns flecked with gold, widened; her breath caught, suspended. Her gaze lowered to his lips.
His dropped to hers…
He dragged in a breath and straightened.
She blinked, and stepped away. “Ah…I must speak with Mrs. Cribthorn, and some of the other ladies.”
He nodded stiffly, forced himself to turn away. Just as the rest of the congregation came flooding down the steps.
Searching for Cherry, he set his jaw. Soon. She was going to lie beneath him very soon.
Minerva let a moment pass while her heart slowed and her breathing evened, then she drew a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and went to speak with the vicar’s wife about the preparations for the fair.
She was turning from Mrs. Cribthorn when Susannah approached.
“There you are!” Susannah gestured to where the castle’s guests were piling into various carriages. “We’re heading back-do you want to come, or do you have to wait for Royce?”
Royce had taken her up in his curricle for the drive to the church. “I…” Can’t possibly leave yet. Minerva swallowed the words. As a recognized representative of the castle, the largest and socially dominant house in the district, it simply wasn’t done to leave without chatting with their neighbors; the locals would see that as a slight. Neither she nor Royce could yet leave, a fact Susannah should have known. “No. I’ll wait.”