For herself, love, real and abiding, was the only coin for which she would exchange her heart. Extensive experience of Varisey unions had bolstered her stance; their type of marriage was not for her. Avoiding, if necessary actively resisting, any suggestion of marrying Royce remained an unaltered, unalterable goal; nothing on that front had changed.
And, to her immense relief, spending the night in his bed hadn’t seduced her heart into loving him; her feelings toward him hadn’t changed all that much-or only on the lust side, not in terms of love.
Thinking of how she now felt about him…she frowned. Despite her resistance, she did feel something more for him-unexpected feelings that had developed since his return. Feelings that had driven her panic of yesterday, when she’d thought he would die.
Those new feelings had grown through seeing him with his people, from his attitudes and actions toward those he deemed in his care. From all the decisions and acts that distinguished him so definitively from his father. The physical pleasure he’d introduced her to hadn’t influenced her as much as all those things.
Yet while he might differ from his father in many ways, when it came to his wife and his marriage, he would revert to type. He’d demonstrated as much in his approach to his prospective bride.
If she let herself be bullied into marrying him, she would risk falling in love with him-irrevocably, irretrievably-and then like Caro Lamb she would pine, wither, and eventually go mad when he, not at all in love with her, left her for another. As he inevitably would.
She wasn’t so foolish as to believe that she might, through loving him, change him. No; if she married him, he, indeed everyone, would expect her to stand meekly by while he indulged as he wished with an endless succession of other ladies.
She snorted, threw back the covers, and swung her legs out of bed. “That’s not going to happen.”
No matter what she felt for him, regardless of what evolved from her infatuation-obsession, no matter what new aspects of attraction developed over the however many nights she might spend in his bed, she would not fall in love with him, ergo she wouldn’t marry him.
At least they were both now very clear on that last point.
Standing, she crossed to the basin and pitcher on her dresser; pouring water into the basin, she let her thoughts range ahead. As matters now stood…
Setting down the pitcher, she stared at the settling water as the immediate future cleared in her mind.
Of necessity her liaison with Royce would be short-lived- he would marry soon, and soon after, she would leave. A few days, a week. Two weeks at most.
Too short a time to fall in love.
Slipping her hands into the bowl, she splashed water on her face, feeling increasingly bright. More alert and expectant, almost intrigued over what the day might bring-reassured and confident that there was no reason she couldn’t indulge with him again.
The risk wasn’t significant. Her heart would be safe.
Safe enough so she could enjoy without a care.
By evening, expectation had turned to impatience. Minerva sat in the music room, ostensibly watching yet another of Shakespeare’s plays while she brooded on the shortcomings of her day.
A perfectly ordinary day, filled with nothing more than the customary events-which was the problem. She’d thought…but she’d been wrong.
Royce had summoned her to his study for their usual morning meeting with Handley; other than a fleeting moment when she’d walked into the room and their eyes had met-and he and she had both paused, both, she suspected, suddenly reminded of how the other’s skin had felt against theirs…but then he’d blinked, looked down, and she’d walked forward and sat, and he’d subsequently treated her exactly as he had the previous day.
She’d followed his lead, then and later, as they’d parted, then met again, throughout the day, confident that at some point they would meet privately…but she was no longer so sure that would happen. She’d never engaged in a liaison before; she didn’t know the script.
He did, but he was seated two rows in front of her, chatting to Caroline Courtney, who had claimed the chair beside him.
Under cover of the dinner conversations, he’d asked her if Cranny still kept stocks of the chicken essence she’d used to administer to them when they’d suffered childhood chills. She hadn’t been sure, but when he’d suggested they send a bottle to the Honeymans for their daughter, she’d detoured to see the housekeeper before joining the company in the music room, thus missing her chance to sit next to him.
Narrowing her eyes on the back of his head, she wished she could see inside. What was he thinking? Specifically, what was he thinking about her? Was he thinking about her?
Or had one night been enough?
The more confident part of her brazenly scoffed, but a more vulnerable part wondered.
At the end of the play, she clapped politely, caught Royce’s eye for an instant, then excused herself and retired, leaving Margaret to manage the tea tray. She could do without spending the next half hour surrounded by the lascivious throng with him in the same room, aware of his gaze occasionally resting on her, fighting to keep hers from him-while every inch of her skin prickled with anticipation.
Reaching her room, willing her mind from the question of “Would he?” she stripped off her clothes, donned her nightgown, shrugged on her robe, then rang for Lucy.
She had a set of faint marks at the top of one thigh that was beyond her ability to explain.
Seated at her dressing table, she was brushing out her hair when Lucy breezed in.
“You’re early tonight, ma’am.” Lucy bent to pick up her gown. “Didn’t you enjoy the play?”
She pulled a face. “They’re becoming rather boring-just as well the fair’s next week or I’d have to devise some other entertainment.” She glanced at Lucy as the maid bustled to the armoire. “Did you learn anything?”
Opening the armoire, Lucy shook her dark head. “Mr. Handley’s a quiet one-he’s kind and smiles, but he’s not one to talk. And of course he sits at the top end of the table. Trevor’s closer to me, and he’s a right chatterer, but although he natters on, he never really says anything, if you know what I mean.”
“I can imagine.” She hadn’t really thought Royce would employ staff who didn’t keep his secrets.
“The only thing any of us have got out of the pair of them is that His Grace is still negotiating with this lady he’s chosen.” Shutting the armoire, Lucy turned. “Not even a whisper and nary a hint of who the lady is. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until we’re told.”
“Indeed.” She inwardly grimaced.
Lucy turned down the bed, then returned and halted beside her. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you, Lucy-you may go.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Good night.”
Minerva murmured a “Good night,” her mind once again running down the names on the grandes dames’ list. Which one had Royce chosen? One of those she knew?
She was tempted to ask him outright-it would help if she knew how well-trained his duchess-to-be was so she would know how much she herself would need to impart before said duchess could manage on her own. The thought of handing her chatelaine’s keys to some giggling ninnyhammer evoked a response very close to revulsion.
Rising, she snuffed the candelabra on the dressing table, leaving only the single candle burning by her bed. Drawing her robe closed, she belted it as she walked to the window.
If Royce wished to spend the night with her, he would come to her room; she might not have indulged in a liaison before, but she knew that much.