Mastered By Love

Seventeen

H amish O’Loughlin, you mangy Scot, how dare you tell Royce to tell me he loves me!”

“Huh?” Hamish looked up from the sheep he was examining.

Folding her arms, Minerva fell to pacing alongside the pen.

Hamish studied her face. “You didn’t want to hear that he loves you?”

“Of course I would love to hear that he loves me-but how can he say such a thing? He’s a Varisey, for heaven’s sake.”

“Hmm.” Letting the sheep jump away, Hamish leaned against the railing. “Perhaps the same way I tell Moll that I love her.”

“But that’s you. You’re not-” She broke off. Halting, head rising, she blinked at him.

He gave her a cynical smile. “Aye-think on it. I’m as much a Varisey as he is.”

She frowned. “But you’re not…” She waved south, over the hills.

“Castle-bred? True. But perhaps that just means I never believed I wouldn’t love, not when the right woman came along.” He studied her face. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“No-he was honest. He says he’ll try-that he wants more of his marriage, but”-she drew in a huge breath-“he can’t promise to love me because he doesn’t know if he can.”

Hamish made a disgusted sound. “You’re a right pair. You’ve been in love with him-or at least waiting to fall in love with him-for decades, and now you have-”

“You can’t know that.” She stared at him.

“Of course, I can. Not that he’s said all that much, but I can read between his lines, and yours, well enough-and you’re here, aren’t you?”

She frowned harder.

“Aye-it’s as I thought.” Hamish let himself out of the pen, latching the gate behind him. Leaning back against it, he looked at her. “You both need to take a good long look at each other. What do you think has made him even consider having a different sort of marriage? A love match-isn’t that what society calls them? Why do you imagine they’re called that?”

She scowled at him. “You’re making it sound simple and easy.”

Hamish nodded his great head. “Aye-that’s how love is. Simple, straightforward, and easy. It just happens. Where it gets complicated is when you try to think too much, to rationalize it, make sense of it, pick it apart-it’s not like that.” He pushed away from the gate, and started lumbering up the path; she fell in beside him. “But if you must keep thinking, think on this-love happens, just like a disease. And like any disease, the easiest way to tell someone’s caught it is to look for the symptoms. I’ve known Royce longer than you have, and he’s got every last symptom. He might not know he loves you, but he feels it-he acts on it.”

They’d reached the yard where she’d left Rangonel. Hamish halted and looked down at her. “The truth is, lass, he might never be able to honestly, knowingly, tell you he loves you-but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”

She grimaced, rubbed a gloved finger in the center of her forehead. “You’ve only given me more to think about.”

Hamish grinned. “Aye, well, if you must think, the least you can do is think of the right things.”

As Minerva rode south across the border and down through the hills, she had plenty of time to think of Royce and his symptoms. Plenty of time to ponder all Hamish had said; while helping her to her saddle, he’d reminded her that the late duchess had been unwaveringly faithful, not to her husband, but to her longtime lover, Sidney Camberwell.

The duchess and Camberwell had been together for over twenty years; remembering all she’d seen of the pair, thinking of “symptoms,” she had to conclude they’d been very much in love.

Perhaps Hamish was right; Royce could and might love her.

Regardless, she had to make up her mind, and soon-he hadn’t been joking when he’d mentioned Lady Osbaldestone-which was why she’d come out riding; Hamish’s farm had seemed an obvious destination.

Take whatever time you need to think.

She knew Royce far too well not to know that he’d meant: Take whatever time you need to think as long as you agree to be my wife.

He would do everything in his power to ensure she did; henceforth he would feel completely justified in doing whatever it took to make her agree.

In his case, “whatever it took” covered a great deal-as he’d demonstrated that morning, with shattering results. She’d escaped only because the sun had risen. If it hadn’t, she would be at his mercy still.

In public, however, over breakfast, and then later when they’d met for their usual meeting in his study with Handley in attendance and Jeffers by the door, he’d behaved with exemplary decorum; she couldn’t fault him in that-while in private he might pressure her to decide quickly in his favor, he did nothing to raise speculation in others.

“For which,” she assured the hills at large, “I’m duly grateful. The last thing I need is Margaret, Aurelia, and Susannah hectoring me. I don’t even know which way they’d fall-for or against.”

An interesting question, but beside the point. She didn’t care what they thought, and Royce cared even less.

For the umpteenth time, she replayed his arguments. Most confirmed what she’d seen from the start; marrying her would be the best option for him, especially given his commitment to Wolverstone and to the dukedom as a whole. What didn’t fit the mold of convenience and comfort was his desire for a different sort of marriage; she couldn’t question the reality of that-he’d had to force himself to reveal it, and she’d felt his sincerity to her bones.

And he did care for her, in his own arrogant, high-handed way. There was an undeniably seductive triumph in being the only woman to have ever made a Varisey think of anything even approaching love. And especially Royce-to claim him as her own…but that was a piece of self-seduction.

If he did love her, would it last?

If he loved her as she loved him…

She frowned at Rangonel’s ears. “Regardless of Hamish’s opinion, I still have a lot to think through.”

Royce was in his study working through his correspondence with Handley when Jeffers tapped and opened the door. He looked up, arched a brow.

“Three ladies and a gentleman have arrived, Your Grace. The ladies are insisting on seeing you immediately.”

He inwardly frowned. “Their names?”

“The Marchioness of Dearne, the Countess of Lostwithiel, and Lady Clarice Warnefleet, Your Grace. The gentleman is Lord Warnefleet.”

“The gentleman isn’t asking to see me as well?”

“No, Your Grace. Just the ladies.”

Which was Jack Warnefleet’s way of warning him what the subject his wife and her two cronies wished to discuss was. “Thank you, Jeffers. Show the ladies up. Tell Retford to make Lord Warnefleet comfortable in the library.”

As the door closed, he glanced at Handley. “We’ll have to continue this later. I’ll ring when I’m free.”

Handley nodded, gathered his papers, rose, and left. Royce stared at the closed door. There seemed little point in wondering what message Letitia, Penny, and Clarice had for him; he would know soon enough.

Less than a minute later, Jeffers opened the door, and the ladies-three of the seven wives of his ex-colleagues of the Bastion Club-swept in. Rising, he acknowledged their formal curtsies, then waved them to the chairs Jeffers angled before the desk.

He waited until they’d settled, then, dismissing Jeffers with a nod, resumed his seat. As the door closed, he let his gaze sweep the three striking faces before him. “Ladies. Permit me to guess-I owe this pleasure to Lady Osbaldestone.”

“And all the others.” Letitia, flanked by Penny and Clarice, flung her arms wide. “The entire pantheon of tonnish grandes dames.”

He let his brows rise. “Why, if I might ask, you-more specifically, why all three of you?”

Letitia grimaced. “I was visiting Clarice and Jack in Gloucestershire while Christian dealt with business in London. Penny had come up to join us for a few days when Christian relayed a summons from Lady Osbaldestone insisting I attend her immediately in London on a matter of great urgency.”

“Naturally,” Clarice said, “Letitia had to go, and Penny and I decided we could do with a week in London, so we went, too.”

“But,” Penny took up the tale, “the instant Lady Osbaldestone laid eyes on us, she made us joint emissaries with Letitia to carry the collective message of the grandes dames to your ears.”

“I suspect,” Clarice said, “that she thought you might be able to avoid Letitia, but you wouldn’t be able to slide around all three of us.”

Clarice glanced at the other two, who returned her regard, then all three pairs of feminine eyes turned on him.

He raised his brows. “Your message?”

It was Letitia who answered. “You are hereby warned that unless you do as you intimated and announce your duchess-to-be forthwith, you will have to cope with a fleet of carriages turning up at your gates. And, of course, the occupants of those carriages won’t be the sort you can easily turn away.” She shrugged. “Their version was rather more formal, but that’s the gist of it.”

Penny frowned. “Actually, it seemed as if you have quite a few people in residence already-and more arriving.”

“My sisters are hosting a house party coincident with the local parish fair. It used to be a family tradition, but lapsed after my mother died.” He focused on Letitia. “Is there a time limit on the grandes dames’ threat?”

Letitia glanced at Clarice.

“We got the impression the limit is now.” Clarice widened her eyes at him. “Or more precisely, your period of grace expires at the time a missive from us confirming your noncompliance reaches Lady Osbaldestone.”

He tapped a finger on his blotter, letting his gaze sweep their faces again. Lady Osbaldestone had chosen well; with these three, intimidation wouldn’t work. And while he might have been able to divert-subvert-Letitia, with the three of them reinforcing each other, he stood not a chance.

Lips firming, he nodded. “You may report to the beldames that I have, indeed, chosen a bride-”

“Excellent!” Letitia beamed. “So you can draft an announcement, and we can take it back to London.”

“However”-he continued as if she hadn’t spoken-“the lady in question has yet to accept the position.”

They stared at him.

Clarice recovered first. “What is she? Deaf, dumb, blind-or all three?”

That surprised a laugh from him, then he shook his head. “It’s the reverse-she’s too damned insightful for my good. And please do include that in your report-it will make her ladyship’s day. Regardless, an announcement in the Gazette at this point could well prove inimical to our mutual goal.”

All three ladies fixed intrigued gazes on him. He regarded them impassively. “Is there anything else?”

“Who is she?” Letitia demanded. “You can’t just dangle a tale like that before us, and not give us her name.”

“Actually, I can. You don’t need to know.” They’d guess very quickly; he had as much confidence in their intelligence-individually and collectively-as he had in their husbands’.

Three pairs of eyes narrowed; three expressions grew flinty.

Penny informed him, “We’re under orders to remain here-under your feet-until you send a notice to the Gazette.”

Their continued presence might well work in his favor. Their husbands weren’t all that different from him-and Minerva had been starved of the companionship of females she could trust, confide in, and ask for advice. And these three might be disposed to help his cause.

Of course, they’d probably view it as assisting Cupid. Just as long as they succeeded, he didn’t care. “You’re very welcome to stay and join the festivities my sisters have planned.” Rising, he crossed to the bellpull. “I believe my chatelaine, Minerva Chesterton, is presently out, but she should return shortly. Meanwhile I’m sure my staff will make you comfortable.”

All three frowned.

Retford arrived, and he gave orders for their accommodation. They rose, distinctly haughty, and increasingly suspicious.

He ushered them to the door. “I’ll leave you to get settled. No doubt Minerva will look in on you as soon as she returns. I’ll see you at dinner-until then, you must excuse me. Busi ness calls.”

They narrowed their eyes at him, but consented to follow Retford.

Letitia, the last to leave, looked him in the eye. “You know we’ll hound you until you tell us this amazingly insightful lady’s name.”

Unperturbed, he bowed her out; they’d know his lady’s name before he reached the drawing room that evening.

With an irritated “humph!” Letitia went.

Closing the door, he turned back to his desk.

And let his brows rise. Lady Osbaldestone and the other beldames might just have helped.

Returning from her ride, Minerva walked into the front hall to discover a handsome gentleman ambling about admiring the paintings.

He turned at the sound of her boot steps, and smiled charmingly.

“Good morning.” Despite his country-elegant attire, and that smile, she sensed a familiar hardness behind his faзade. “Can I help you?”

He bowed. “Jack Warnefleet, ma’am.”

She glanced around, wondering where Retford was. “Have you just arrived?”

“No.” He smiled again. “I was shown into the library, but I’ve studied all the paintings there. My wife and two of her friends are upstairs, bearding Dal-Wolverstone-in his den.” Hazel eyes twinkled. “I thought I ought to come out here in case a precipitous retreat was in order.”

He’d nearly said Dalziel, which meant he was an acquaintance from Whitehall. She held out her hand. “I’m Miss Chesterton. I act as chatelaine here.”

He bowed over her hand. “Delighted, my dear. I have to admit I have no idea whether we’ll be staying or-” He broke off and looked up the stairs. “Ah-here they are.”

They both turned as three ladies preceded Retford down the stairs. Minerva recognized Letitia and smiled.

Beside her, Jack Warnefleet murmured, “And from their frowns, I suspect we’re staying.”

She didn’t get a chance to ask what he meant; Letitia, seeing her, dispensed with her frown and came hurrying down to embrace her.

“Minerva-just who we need.” Letitia turned as the other two ladies joined them. “I don’t believe you’ve met Lady Clarice, for her sins Lady Warnefleet, wife of this reprobate.” She flicked a hand at Jack, who merely grinned. “And this is Lady Penelope, Countess of Lostwithiel-her husband is Charles, another of Royce’s ex-operatives, as is Jack here.”

Minerva touched hands with the other two ladies. “Welcome to Wolverstone Castle. I gather you’re staying.” She glanced at Retford. “Rooms in the west wing, I think, Retford.” The other guests were mostly in the south and east wings.

“Indeed, ma’am. I’ll have the ladies’ and gentleman’s bags taken up immediately.”

“Thank you.” Linking arms, Letitia leaned close. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Of course.” Minerva glanced at Retford. “If you would bring tea to the duchess’s morning room?”

“At once, ma’am.”

She looked at Jack Warnefleet. “Sir?”

He smiled. “Jack. And I believe I’ll follow the bags and find our room.” He inclined his head to them all. “I’ll catch up with you at luncheon.”

“You’ll hear the gong,” she assured him.

With a salute, he started up the stairs in the wake of two footmen hefting a trunk.

Minerva waved the ladies up, too. “Come up, and we can be comfortable.”

In the duchess’s morning room, they sank onto the sofas, then Retford arrived with a tray. After pouring and handing around the cups and a plate of cakes, Minerva sat back, sipped, caught Letitia’s eye, and raised her brows.

Letitia set down her cup. “The reason we’re here is that the grandes dames have lost patience and are insisting Royce announce his betrothal forthwith.” She grimaced. “Of course, he’s now told us that the lady he’s chosen has yet to accept his suit. Apparently she has reservations, but he refuses to tell us who she is.” She fixed her brilliant hazel gaze on Minerva. “Do you know her name?”

She didn’t know what to say. He’d said he would tell, but he hadn’t. And she hadn’t anticipated such a question, especially from a friend.

A frown started to form in Letitia’s eyes, but it was Clarice who set her cup on her saucer and, staring at Minerva’s face, said, “Aha! ‘She’ is you.” Her brows rose. “Well, well.”

Letitia’s eyes flew wide. She read confirmation in Minerva’s expression, and delight filled her face. “It is you! He’s chosen you. Well! I would never have credited him with so much good sense.”

Head tilted, Penny said, “We’re not wrong, are we? He has asked you to be his bride?”

Minerva grimaced lightly. “Not exactly-not yet-but yes, he wants me to be his duchess.”

Letitia’s frown returned. “Pray excuse me if I’m wrong, but I always sensed that you…well, that you wouldn’t reject his advances.”

Minerva stared at her. “Please tell me I wasn’t that obvious.”

“No, you weren’t-it was just something about the way you paid attention whenever he was mentioned.” Letitia shrugged. “It was probably feeling the same way about Christian that made me notice.”

Minerva felt mildly relieved.

“So,” Clarice asked, “why are you hesitating over accepting his suit?”

Minerva looked from one face to the other. “He’s a Varisey.”

Letitia’s face blanked. “Oh.”

“Ah…” Penny grimaced.

Slowly, Clarice nodded. “I see. Not being a giddy miss with more hair than wit, you want…” She glanced at the other two. “What we’ve all been lucky enough to find.”

Minerva exhaled. “Precisely.” They understood.

After a moment, Penny frowned. “But you haven’t refused him.”

Minerva met Penny’s eyes, then set down her cup and rose; swinging around behind the sofa, she started to pace. “It’s not that simple.” No matter what Hamish thought.

The others watched her, waited.

She needed help; Letitia was an old friend, and they all had marriages based on love-and they’d immediately understood. She halted, briefly closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with him.”

“We rarely do,” Clarice murmured. “It simply happens.”

Opening her eyes, she inclined her head. “So I’ve realized.” She resumed her pacing. “Since he returned, well, he wanted me, and I am twenty-nine. I thought I could be…close to him for just a little while without risking my heart. But I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” Letitia pityingly shook her head. “You’ve been infatuated with Royce Varisey for decades, and you thought you could be with him-by which I assume you mean you’re sharing his bed-and not fall in love with him? My dear Minerva, you weren’t just mistaken.”

“No, I know. I was a fool. But falling in love with him wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t decided to make me his duchess.”

Letitia frowned. “When did he decide that?”

“Weeks ago. After the grandes dames saw him in his study. But”-Minerva forced herself to go on-“that’s not the whole of my problem.”

She continued pacing, ordering the elements of her explanation in her mind. “I’ve always been set on a marriage based on love-I’ve had offers before, a good many, and never been tempted. My parents’ marriage was based on love, and I’ve never wanted anything else. At first…I had no idea Royce had his eye on me. I thought I could hide my interest in him, be the dutiful chatelaine, and then leave once his wife took up the reins. Then…he wanted me, and I thought it would be safe enough, given his marriage was imminent. I thought love would need time to grow-but it didn’t.”

Letitia nodded. “It can strike in an instant.”

“So I’d heard, but I never really believed…regardless, once I realized I’d fallen in love with him, I still thought, given his marriage had to occur soon, that I’d be able to leave, if not heart-whole, then at least with dignity. I’ve never been in love before, and if I never was again, no one would know but me.”

Minerva paused in her pacing, and raised her head. “Then he told me I was the lady he wanted as his duchess.”

“Of course he told you.” Penny humphed.

Minerva nodded. “Indeed-but I’d always known that the last thing, the very last thing I should do if I wanted a marriage based on love, was to marry Royce, or any Varisey. No Varisey marriage in history has been based on love, or in any way included love.” She drew a deep breath, her gaze fixed across the room. “Until last night, I believed that if I married Royce, ours would be a typical Varisey arrangement, and he, and everyone else-all the ton, in fact-would expect me to stand meekly by while he indulged as he wished with any lady who took his fancy.”

Frowning, Letitia nodded. “The typical Varisey union.”

Minerva inclined her head. “And I couldn’t do that. Even before I fell in love with him, I knew I’d never be able to stand that-that knowing he didn’t love me as I loved him, when he went to another’s bed, and then another’s, I’d wither, pine, and go mad like Caro Lamb.”

Their expressions stated that they fully understood.

“So what happened last night?” Clarice asked.

That needed another deep breath. “Last night, Royce swore that if I agree to be his duchess, he’ll be faithful.”

Complete silence reigned for several minutes.

Eventually, Penny said, “I can see how that…changes things.”

Clarice grimaced. “If it weren’t Royce we were talking about, I’d ask if you believed him.”

Letitia snorted. “If he says he will, let alone swears he will, he will.”

Minerva nodded. “Exactly. And at first glance, that should make it easy for me to agree, but, as I realized once I managed to find time to think, while him being faithful clears away one problem, it creates another.”

Gripping the back of the sofa, she focused on the tea tray on the low table between the sofas. “He says he will never lie to me, and that I accept. He says he cares for me as he cares for no other-and I accept that, too. But what happens when, if we wed, and a few years pass, and he no longer comes to my bed.” She raised her gaze, and met Clarice’s, then Penny’s, then lastly Letitia’s. “How am I going to feel then? Knowing he no longer desires me, but because of his vow, is simply…” She gestured. “Existing. Abstaining. Him, of all men.”

They didn’t rush to reassure her.

Eventually, Letitia sighed. “That’s not a comforting-or comfortable-thought.”

Clarice grimaced. Penny did, too.

“If he loved me,” Minerva said, “the problem wouldn’t exist. But he’s been brutally honest-and I can’t fault him in that. He will promise me all that’s in his power to give, but he won’t promise love. He can’t. He admitted he doesn’t know if he even has it in him to give.”

Clarice humphed. “That’s not so odd-they never do know.”

“Which leads me to ask”-Letitia swung to look up at her-“are you sure he isn’t in love with you, but doesn’t know it?”

Penny leaned forward. “If you haven’t been in love before…are you sure you would know if he was?”

Minerva was silent for a long moment. “Someone recently told me that love is like a disease, and the easiest way to know if someone’s caught it is to look for the symptoms.”

“Excellent advice,” Clarice affirmed.

Penny nodded. “Love isn’t a passive emotion-it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do.”

“It makes you take risks you otherwise wouldn’t.” Letitia looked at Minerva. “So what do you think? Might Royce be in love with you, but not know?”

A catalog of minor incidents, comments, tiny revelations, all the little things about him that had surprised her, ran though her mind, but it was Hamish’s comment echoing her own earlier thought that held most weight. What on earth had proved strong enough to move him, the man he was, to break with long tradition and actively seek-want enough to strive for-a different marriage, one that, if she’d understood him correctly, he hoped as much as she might come to encompass love?

“Yes.” She slowly nodded. “He might.”

If she accepted the position of Royce’s duchess, from the instant she said “yes” there would be no turning back.

The luncheon gong had curtailed her discussion with the other ladies; neither Royce nor Jack Warnefleet had appeared, but the rest of the company had, making it impossible to further pursue their debate-at least not aloud.

She spent most of the meal mentally enumerating Royce’s symptoms, but while indicative, neither singly nor collectively were they conclusive.

Retford waylaid her on her way back to the morning room; the others went ahead while she detoured to assess the spirits store. After conferring with Retford, Cranny, and Cook, on impulse she asked after Trevor.

Fate smiled, and she found him alone in the ironing room, busily ironing his master’s cravats. He saw her as she entered, quickly set the iron down, and turned.

“No, no.” She waved him back to the board. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Hesitantly, he picked up the iron from the stand perched above a fire in the small hearth. “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

This could be supremely embarrassing, but she had to ask, had to know. She drew breath, and plunged in. “Trevor-you’ve been with His Grace for some time, have you not?”

“Over seventeen years, ma’am.”

“Indeed. Just so. So you would know if there’s anything in the way in which he behaves toward me that differs from how he’s behaved in the past with other ladies.”

The iron froze in midair. Trevor looked at her, and blinked.

Embarrassment clutched at her chest; she hurried to add, “Of course, I will understand completely if you feel your duty to His Grace precludes you from answering.”

“No, no-I can answer.” Trevor blinked again, and his expression eased. “My answer, ma’am, is that I really can’t say.”

“Oh.” She deflated; all that whipping up her courage for nothing.

But Trevor hadn’t finished. “I’ve never known about any other ladies, you see. He never brought any home.”

“He didn’t?”

His attention on the strip of linen he was carefully flattening, Trevor shook his head. “Never. Cardinal rule. Always their beds, never his.”

Minerva stared at the valet for a long moment, then she nodded and turned away. “Thank you, Trevor.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Well! That’s encouraging.” Perched on the arm of one of the sofas, Clarice watched her pace. “Especially if he’s been so adamant over using his bed, not yours.”

Letitia and Penny, seated on the other sofa, nodded in agreement.

“Yes, but,” Minerva said, “who’s to say that it’s not just him viewing me as his duchess. He’d made up his mind I should marry him before he seduced me, so it’s entirely in character for him to insist on treating me as if I already were what he wants me to be-his wife.”

Letitia made a rude sound. “If Royce decided to ignore your wishes and roll over you, horse, foot, and guns, he’d have simply sent a notice to the Gazette-and then informed you of your impending change in station. That really would be in character. No, this news is definitely encouraging, but”-she held up a hand to stay Minerva’s protest-“I agree that, for your purpose, you need something more definite.”

Penny nodded. “Something more cut and dried.”

“Something,” Minerva stated, “that’s more than just indicative, or suggestive. Something that’s not open to other interpretations.” Halting, she threw up her hands. “At present, this is the equivalent of reading tea leaves. I need something he absolutely wouldn’t do unless he loves me.”

Clarice blew out a breath. “Well, there is one thing you might try. If you’re game…”

Later that night, after a final consultation with her mentors, Minerva hurried back to her bedroom. The rest of the company had retired some time ago; she was late-Royce would be wondering where she was.

If he asked where she’d been, she could hardly tell him she’d been receiving instruction in the subtle art of how to lead a nobleman to reveal his heart.

Reaching her door, she opened it and rushed inside-and came up hard against his chest.

His hands closed on her shoulders and steadied her as the door swung shut behind her. He frowned down at her. “Where-”

She held up a hand. “If you must know, I’ve been dealing with your friends’ wives.” She whisked out of his hold and backed away, already unbuttoning her gown. “Go to your room-I’ll follow as soon as I’ve changed.”

He hesitated.

She got the impression he wanted to help her with her gown, but wasn’t sure he trusted himself. She waved him off. “Go! I’ll get there sooner if you do.”

“All right.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be waiting.”

The door shut soundlessly behind him just as she recalled she should have warned him not to undress.

“Damn!” Wrestling with her laces, she hurried even faster.

He was not happy. The last weeks had crawled by without any real satisfaction.

It had taken Lady Ashton longer than he’d expected to get here, and then, instead of creating any difficulty for Royce-not even the slightest scene-the damned woman had, so it appeared, accepted her congй without even a tantrum-not even a decent sulk!

That was one thing. Her rejection of him was quite another.

Seething, he stalked out of the west wing into the deeper shadows of the keep’s gallery. He’d gone to her room assuming that, as Royce had declined to share her bed-a fact she’d made light of when, at his subtle prod, Susannah had asked-then the delectable Lady Ashton would be amenable to entertaining him. She had a mouth he’d fantasized about using ever since Royce’s interest had focused his attention on her.

Instead, the lovely countess hadn’t let him past her door. She’d pleaded a migraine and stated her intention of leaving the next day as necessitating a good night’s sleep.

He ground his teeth. To be fobbed off with such transparent and paltry excuses made his blood boil. He’d intended to return to his room for a stiff brandy, but he needed something more potent than alcohol to burn away the memory of Lady Ashton’s blank politeness.

She’d looked at him, and coolly dismissed him as unworthy to take Royce’s place.

To rid himself of the vision, he needed something to replace it. Something like the image of Susannah-Royce’s favorite sister-on her knees before him. With him looking down at her, first from the front, then from the rear, as she serviced him,

If he pushed her hard, she might just be able to make him forget the countess.

Imagining doing to Royce’s sister what he’d planned to do to Royce’s mistress, he crossed the gallery. Susannah’s room was in the east wing.

He was passing one of the deep embrasures slotted into the keep’s walls when the sound of a door hurriedly opening had him instinctively sidestepping into the deeper shadows and halting.

Silently he waited for whoever it was to pass.

Light footsteps came pattering along the runner-a woman, hurrying.

She passed the opening of the embrasure; a glint of moonlight tangled in her hair. Minerva.

Seeing her hurrying about wasn’t surprising, even late at night. Seeing her rush off in her nightgown, swinging a light cloak about her shoulders, was.

He’d been walking back from the countess’s rooms for some minutes; in the pervasive silence he would have heard if any of the staff had knocked on Minerva’s door.

He slipped out of the embrasure and followed at a distance, stopped breathing when she turned down the short corridor that led to the ducal apartments. He reached the corner in time to peer around and see her open the door leading into Royce’s sitting room.

It shut silently behind her.

Despite the obvious implications, he couldn’t quite believe it. So he waited. Waited for her to emerge with Royce, having summoned him to deal with some emergency…

In her nightgown?

Barging into Royce’s bedroom?

A clock somewhere tolled the quarter hour; he’d been standing there watching the door for over fifteen minutes. Minerva wasn’t coming out.

She was the reason Royce had dismissed the countess.

“Well, well, well, well, well.” Lips curving, he slowly turned and walked on to Susannah’s room.