He started to ride her slowly, unhurriedly, senses wide, drinking in every iota of sensation. Of the inexpressible delight of her body cradling his, of her softness accepting his hardness, of the innumerable contrasts between their merging bodies.
His felt tight, nerves taut and flickering, seeking, wanting, needing. His mind was open, receptive, overwhelmingly aware of the breadth, depth, and incredible power of the need that swelled and welled inside him.
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
R oyce 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.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Royce did. “I’ll speak to O’Loughlin next time I’m up that way. He might have some breeders we could buy.”
Unsurprisingly, Falwell swallowed his words.
Royce glanced at the sheet on which he’d been making notes. “I need to speak with Miss Chesterton, Falwell, but if you would remain, once we’ve finished, you and I should look over the castle flocks.”
Murmuring acquiescence, Falwell rose, and at Royce’s direction retreated to a straight-backed chair against the wall.
Minerva inwardly cursed. She didn’t want Falwell to hear her request.
“So what have we to deal with today?”
Royce’s question refocused her attention. She looked down at her list, and swiftly went through Retford’s warning that in the wake of the funeral they would need to replenish the cellar, and Cranny’s request for new linens for the north wing bedrooms. “And while we’re looking at fabrics, there are two rooms in the south wing that could use new curtains.” Because of the castle’s isolation, all such items were normally procured from London.
Royce looked at Handley as his secretary glanced up from his notes. “Hamilton can make himself useful-he knows what wines I prefer, and for the rest he could consult with my London housekeeper-” He glanced at Minerva.
“Mrs. Hardcastle,” she supplied.
He looked at Handley. “Send a note to Hamilton about the wines and fabrics, and suggest he ask Mrs. Hardcastle to assist him with the latter. Regardless, he should purchase the materials subject to Miss Chesterton’s and Mrs. Cranshaw’s approval.”
Handley nodded, swiftly scribbling.
“The curtains need to be damask, with apple-green the predominant color,” Minerva said.
Handley nodded again.
Royce arched a brow at her. “Is there anything else?”
“Not about the household.” She hesitated; she would have infinitely preferred not to have Falwell present, but she had to strike while this iron was hot. She drew breath. “However, there’s a matter I’ve been meaning to bring to your attention.”
Royce looked his invitation.
“There’s a footbridge over the Coquet, further to the south, a little beyond Alwinton. It’s been allowed to deteriorate and is now in very bad condition, a serious danger to all who have to use it-”
Falwell shot to his feet. “That’s not on castle lands, Your Grace.” He came forward. “It’s Harbottle’s responsibility, and if they choose to let it fall down, that’s their decision, not ours.”
Royce watched Falwell slant a glance at Minerva, sitting upright in her chair; her gaze was fixed on him, not the steward. Falwell tipped his head her way. “With all due respect to Miss Chesterton, Your Grace, we can’t be fixing things beyond the estate, things that are in no way ours to fix.”
Royce looked at Minerva. She met his eyes, and waited for his decision.
He knew why she’d asked. Other ladies coveted jewels; she asked for a footbridge. And if it had been on his lands, he would have happily bestowed it.