Mastered By Love

Two

A rmor of the sort she needed wasn’t easy to find. Glancing at the clock in the duchess’s morning room, Minerva told herself she’d simply have to manage. It was just over an hour since she’d left Royce; she couldn’t hide forever.

Sighing, she stood, smoothing down her dull black skirts. She’d be wearing her mourning gowns for the next three months; luckily the color suited her well enough.

A small piece of reassurance to cling to.

Picking up the documents she’d prepared, she headed for the door. Royce should be in the study and settled by now; she stepped into the corridor, hoping she’d given him enough time. Courtesy of her infatuation and consequent close observation of him whenever they’d been in the same place-which covered all the time he’d spent at Wolverstone or in the London house from the age of fourteen, when she’d joined the household as a six-year-old and on setting eyes on him had been instantly smitten, to when he’d reached twenty-two-she knew him much better than he could possibly guess. And she’d known his father even better; the matters they had to discuss, the decisions Royce had to make that day and over those following, would not be easy, not without emotional cost.

She’d been in London with his mother at the time of the confrontation in White’s; they’d heard enough reports to have a fairly clear idea of what had, beneath the words, really happened. Given Royce’s puzzlement on hearing when his father had moved out of the ducal apartments, she wasn’t at all sure he-Royce-had as clear a vision of that long-ago debacle as she. Aside from all else, he would have been in a shocking temper-nay, fury-at the time. While his intellect was formidable and his powers of observation normally disconcertingly acute, when in the grip of a Varisey rage she suspected his higher faculties didn’t work all that well.

His father’s certainly hadn’t, as that long-ago day had proved.

Regardless, it was time to beard the lion in his den. Or in this case, prod the new wolf in his study.

The corridors of the huge house were often quiet, but today the staff crept even more silently; not even distant sounds disturbed the pall.

She walked calmly on through the unnatural stillness.

She’d spent the last hour assuring herself that her eruption of unwelcome awareness had been due to shock-because he’d come upon her unawares and nearly mown her down. That her reaction was due solely to the unexpectedness of feeling his hard hands curl over her shoulders-and then he’d lifted her, literally off her feet, and set her aside.

And then he’d walked on.

That was the key point she had to remember-that all she’d felt was in her head. As long as it stayed there, and he remained unaware of it, all would be well. Just because her long-ago-as she’d thought long-dead-infatuation had chosen this thoroughly inconvenient moment to surge back to life, didn’t mean she had to indulge it. Twenty-nine was too old for infatuations. She was, absolutely and undeniably, too wise to obsess over a gentleman, let alone a nobleman-and she well knew the distinction-like him.

If he ever guessed her susceptibility, he would use it ruthlessly for his own ends, and then she and her mission would be in very deep trouble.

The study door appeared ahead, Jeffers standing dutifully alongside; eyeing the closed panel, she wasn’t overly surprised to feel a certain wariness building. The truth was…if she’d considered herself free to do as she pleased, instead of acting as Royce’s dutiful chatelaine and easing him into his new role, she would be spending the afternoon penning letters to her friends around the country inquiring if it would be convenient for her to visit. But she couldn’t leave yet-wasn’t free to flee yet.

She’d made a vow-two vows actually, but they were the same vow so it was really only one. First to his mother when she’d died three years ago, and she’d made the same vow last Sunday to his father. She found it interesting-indeed, revealing-that two people who hadn’t shared much over the last twenty years should have had the same dying wish. Both had asked her to see Royce settled and properly established as the next Duke of Wolverstone. What they’d meant by “properly established” was, given the subject, plain enough; they’d wanted her to ensure that he was fully informed of all aspects of the dukedom, and that he understood and put in place all that was required to secure his position.

So on top of all else, she would need to see him wed.

That event would mark the end of her debt to the Variseys. She knew how much she owed them, how beholden to them she was. She’d been a six-year-old stray-no pauper, and as wellborn as they, but with no relatives to watch over her, and no claim on them-yet with negligent grace they’d taken her in, made her one of the family in all but name, included her in a way she’d had no right to expect. They hadn’t done it expecting anything from her in return-which was one reason she was determined to carry out the late duke’s and duchess’s last wishes to the letter.

But once Royce’s bride was established as his duchess and was able to take over the reins she currently managed, her role here would end.

What she did next, what she would make of her life, was a prospect that, until last Sunday night, she’d spent no time dwelling on. She still had no idea what she would do when her time at Wolverstone came to a close, but she had more than sufficient funds to keep herself in the luxury to which, thanks to the Variseys, she was now accustomed, and there was a whole world beyond Coquetdale and London to explore. There were all sorts of exciting prospects to consider, but that was for later.

Right now she had a wolf-quite possibly bruised and inclined to be savage-to deal with.

Halting before the study door, she inclined her head to Jeffers, tapped once, and went in.

Royce was sitting behind the huge oak desk. The desktop was unnaturally neat and clear, devoid of the usual papers and documents commensurate with it being the administrative heart of a massive estate. Long-fingered hands, palms flat, on the desk, he glanced up as she entered; for a fleeting instant she thought he looked…lost.

Shutting the door, she glanced at the document uppermost in her hand as she walked across the rug-and spoke before he could. “You need to approve this.” Halting before the desk, she held out the sheet. “It’s a notice for the Gazette. We also have to inform the palace and the Lords.”

Expression impassive, he looked at her, then lifted one hand and took the notice. While he read it, she sat in one of the chairs before the desk, settled her skirts, then arranged her prepared sheets in her lap.

He shifted and she looked up-watched as he reached for a pen, glanced at the nib, flipped open the ink pot, dipped, then applied the pen to her notice, slowly and deliberately crossing out one word.

After blotting it, he inspected the result, then reached across the desk and handed it back to her. “With that correction, that will do for the news sheets.”

He’d crossed out the word “beloved” in the phrase “beloved father of.” She suppressed the impulse to raise her brows; she should have anticipated that. Variseys, as she’d been told often enough and had seen demonstrated for decades, did not love. They might be seething cauldrons of emotion in all other respects, but not one of them had ever laid claim to love. She nodded. “Very well.”

Putting that sheet at the bottom of her pile, she lifted the next, looked up-and saw him regarding her enigmatically. “What?”

“You’re not ‘Your Grace’-ing me.”

“I didn’t ‘Your Grace’ your father, either.” She hesitated, then added, “And you wouldn’t like it if I did.”

The result was an almost inhuman purr, a sound that slid across her senses. “Do you know me that well, then?”

“That well, yes.” Even though her heart was now in her throat, she kept firm control over her voice, her tone. She held out the next sheet. “Now, for the Lords.” She had to keep him focused and not let him stray into disconcerting diversions; it was a tactic Variseys used to distract, and then filch the reins.

After a pregnant moment, he reached out and took the sheet. They thrashed out a notification for the Lords, and an acceptably worded communication for the palace.

While they worked, she was aware of him watching her, his dark gaze sharp, as if he were studying her-minutely.

She steadfastly ignored the effect on her senses-prayed it would wane soon. It had to, or she’d go mad.

Or she’d slip and he’d notice, and then she’d die of embarrassment.

“Now, assuming your sisters arrive tomorrow, and the people from Collier, etcetera, as well, given we expect your aunts and uncles to arrive on Friday morning, then if you’re agreeable, we could have the will read on Friday, and that would be one thing out of the way.” Looking up from tidying her documents, she arched a brow at him.

He’d slumped back, outwardly relaxed in the large admi ral’s chair; he regarded her impassively for several long moments, then said, “We could-if I was agreeable-have the funeral on Friday.”

“No, we couldn’t.”

Both his brows slowly rose. “No?” There was a wealth, a positive surfeit of intimidation packed into the single, softly uttered word. In this case, on multiple counts, it was misplaced.

“No.” She met his gaze, held it. “Think back to your mother’s funeral-how many attended?”

His stillness was absolute; his gaze didn’t shift from hers. After another long silence, he said, “I can’t remember.” His tone was even, but she detected a roughness, a slight weakness; he honestly couldn’t recall, quite possibly didn’t like thinking of that difficult day.

With him banished from his father’s lands, but the church and graveyard at Alwinton enclosed within Wolverstone’s boundaries, he’d literally driven around his father’s edict; his groom had driven his curricle to the church’s lych-gate, and he’d stepped directly onto hallowed ground.

Neither he nor his father had spoken to anyone-let alone exchanged so much as a glance-through the long service and the subsequent burial. That he couldn’t remember how many had been in the church testified that he hadn’t been looking around, unaffected; his normally extremely observant faculties hadn’t been functioning.

Calmly, she recited, “There were over two hundred counting only family and members of the ton. For your father, that number will be more like three hundred. There’ll be representatives of the king, and Parliament, quite aside from family and friends-let alone all those who will make a point of coming all the way up here simply to register their connection, however tenuous, with the dukedom.”

He pulled a face, then in an explosion of movement sat up. “How soon can it be arranged?”

Relief slid through her veins. “The notice of death will run in the Gazette on Friday. Tomorrow, once your sisters are here to consult, we should send off a notice about the funeral-that will then run in the Saturday editions. Realistically, given so many will be coming from the south, the earliest we could hold the funeral would be the following Friday.”

He nodded, reluctant but accepting. “Friday, then.” He hesitated, then asked, “Where’s the body being kept?”

“In the icehouse, as usual.” She knew better than to suggest he should view his father’s body; he either would of his own accord, or wouldn’t. It would be better if he did, but there were some areas into which, with him, she wasn’t prepared to stray; it was simply too dangerous.

Royce watched as she shuffled through the papers in her lap-eyed her hair, lustrous and gleaming. Wondered how it would look draped over her very white skin when said skin was bare and flushed with passion.

He shifted in the chair. He desperately needed distraction. He was about to ask for a list of staff-she was so damned efficient he would wager his sanity she would have one in her pile-when heavy footsteps approached the door. An instant later, it opened, admitting a majestic butler.

The butler’s gaze fixed on him. Framed in the doorway, he bowed low. “Your Grace.” Straightening, he bowed more shallowly to Minerva, who rose to her feet. “Ma’am.”

Refocusing on Royce, who, as Minerva was standing, rose, too, the stately personage intoned, “I am Retford, Your Grace. I am the butler here. On behalf of the staff, I wish to convey our condolences on the death of your father, and extend our welcome to you on your return.”

Royce inclined his head. “Thank you, Retford. I believe I recall you as underbutler. Your uncle always had you polishing the silver.”

Retford perceptibly thawed. “Indeed, Your Grace.” He glanced again at Minerva. “You wished me to inform you when luncheon was ready, ma’am.”

Royce noted the meaningful look the pair exchanged before his chatelaine said, “Indeed, Retford. Thank you. We’ll be down directly.”

Retford bowed to them both, then with another “Your Grace,” withdrew.

Still standing, Royce caught Minerva’s eye. “Why are we going down directly?”

She blinked her eyes wide. “I was sure you’d be hungry.” When he remained unmoving, patently waiting, her lips lifted fractionally. “And you need to allow the staff to formally greet you.”

He summoned a not-entirely-feigned expression of horror. “Not the whole damned lot of them?”

She nodded and turned to the door. “Every last one. Names and positions-you know the drill. This is a ducal residence, after all.” She watched as he came around the desk. “And if you’re not hungry now, I can guarantee you’ll be in dire need of sustenance by the time we’re finished.”

Moving past her, he opened the door, held it. “You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you? Seeing me floundering.”

As he followed her into the corridor, she shook her head. “You won’t flounder-I’m your chatelaine. I’m not allowed to let you flounder at such moments-that’s my job.”

“I see.” He quelled an urge to take her arm; she clearly didn’t expect him to-she was already walking briskly toward the main stairs. Sinking his hands in his trouser pockets, he fixed his gaze on the floor before their feet. “So how, exactly, do you propose to do your job?”

By whispering in his ear.

She remained immediately on his left all the way down the long line of eager staff, murmuring their names and positions as he nodded to each one.

He could have done without the distraction. The temptation. The all but constant taunting, however unintentional, of his less civilized self.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Cranshaw-Cranny as he’d always called her-blushed rosily when he smiled and called her by that long-ago nickname. Other than Retford and Milbourne, there were no others who hailed from the last time he’d been there.

They finally reached the end of the long line. After the last scullery maid had blushed and bobbed, Retford, who had followed behind them radiating approval as much as a butler of his station ever did, stepped forward and bowed them into the smaller dining salon.

Royce would have gone to his customary chair halfway down the table, but Retford swept to the large carver at its head and held it…he smoothly continued up the table and sat in his father’s place.

Now his-a fact he was going to have to get used to.

Jeffers sat Minerva on his left; from her and Jeffers’s behavior, that was her customary position.

He remembered his need to create distance between them, remembered his question about the staff, but she’d left her papers upstairs.

Luckily, as soon as the platters had been set before them and the majority of footmen withdrew, she asked, “One thing we-Retford, Milbourne, Cranny, and I-need to know is what staff you have, and which household you wish them attached to.”

A safe, sensible question. “I have a valet-Trevor. He was with me before.”

Staring ahead, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s younger than you, slightly tubby-at least he was.”

A reasonable if brief description of Trevor.

She glanced at Retford, standing back on Royce’s right; the butler nodded, indicating that he, too, remembered Trevor. “That’s fortuitous, as I doubt Walter, your father’s valet, would suit. However, that leaves us with the question of what to do with Walter-he won’t want to leave Wolverstone, or the family’s service.”

“Leave that to me.” Royce had long ago learned to value experience. “I have an idea for a position that might suit him.”

“Oh?” She looked her question, but when he didn’t reply, but instead served himself from a platter of cold meats, she frowned, then asked, “Is Henry still your groom?”

He nodded. “I’ve already spoken with Milbourne-Henry should arrive tomorrow. He’ll remain my personal groom. The only other to join the household here will be Handley.” He met Minerva’s gaze. “My secretary.”

He’d wondered how she would take that news. Somewhat to his surprise, she beamed. “Excellent. That will absolve me of dealing with your correspondence.”

“Indeed.” A good first step in edging her out of his daily orbit. “Who dealt with my father’s correspondence?”

“I did. But there are so many communications crossing a duke’s desk, and so much I have to attend to as chatelaine, if we’d entertained more, there would have been problems. As it was, things often didn’t get dealt with as expeditiously as I would have liked.”

He was relieved she truly was prepared to let his correspondence pass out of her hands. “I’ll tell Handley to check with you if he has any questions.”

She nodded, absorbed with peeling a fig. He watched her take the first bite, saw her lips glisten-quickly looked down at the apple he was coring.

When next he glanced up, she was staring across the table, frowning in an abstracted way. As if sensing his gaze, she asked, still without looking at him, “Is there anyone else we should expect to accommodate?”

It took a moment for him to catch her meaning; it was the word “accommodate” that finally impinged, confirmed by the faint blush tinting her cheeks. “No.” Just to ensure she-and Retford, too-were quite clear on the point, he stated, “I don’t have a mistress. At present.”

He’d tacked on the “at present” to make sure they believed him. Rapidly canvassing the possible eventualities, he added, “And unless I inform you otherwise, you should act on the assumption that that situation remains unchanged.”

Mistresses, for him, constituted a certain danger, something he’d learned before he’d reached twenty. Because he’d been heir to one of the wealthiest dukedoms, his mistresses-due to his tastes, inevitably drawn from the ton-had shown a marked tendency to develop unrealistic ideas.

His declaration had tweaked Minerva’s curiosity, but she merely nodded, still not meeting his eyes. She finished her fig, and laid down her fruit knife.

He pushed back from the table. “I need a list of the stewards and agents for each of the various properties.”

She rose as Jeffers drew out her chair. “I have a list prepared-I left it on my desk. I’ll bring it to the study.”

“Where is your lair?”

She glanced at him as they headed for the stairs. “The duchess’s morning room.”

He didn’t say anything, but walked by her side up the stairs and into the keep, to the room that, centuries ago, had been a solar. Its oriel window looked out over the rose garden to the south and west of the keep.

Following her into the room, he halted just over the threshold. While she went to a bureau against one wall, he scanned the room, searching for some sense of his mother. He saw the tapestry cushions she’d loved to make idly cast on the sofas, but other than that the room held few lingering hints of her. It was light, airy, distinctly feminine, with two vases of fresh flowers scenting the air.

Minerva turned and walked toward him, perusing a number of lists. She was so alive, so anchored in the here and now, he doubted any ghosts could linger near.

She looked up, saw him; a frown formed in her eyes. She glanced at the twin sofas, the only place they might sit, then faced him. “We’ll do better going over these in the study.”

She was uncomfortable having him in her domain. But she was right; the study was the more appropriate setting. Even more to the point, it had a desk behind which he could hide the worst of his reaction to her.

Stepping aside, he waved her through the door. He trailed her around the gallery, but finding his gaze transfixed by her subtly swaying hips, he lengthened his stride to walk alongside her.

Once they were ensconced in the study-once more firmly in their roles of duke and chatelaine-he went through her list of his stewards and agents, extracting every detail he deemed useful-in addition to the names and positions, physical descriptions and her personal opinion of each man. At first she balked at voicing the latter, but when he insisted proved his point by providing a comprehensive and astute character study for each incumbent.

His memories of her from long ago weren’t all that detailed; what he had was an impression of a no-nonsense female uninclined to histrionics or flights of fancy, a girl with her feet firmly planted on the ground. His mother had trusted her implicitly, and from all he was learning, so had his sire.

And his father had never trusted easily, no more than he.

By the time they reached the end of her lists, he was convinced that he, too, could trust her. Implicitly. Which was a huge relief. Even keeping her at a physical distance, he would need her help to get through the next days, possibly weeks. Possibly even months. Knowing that her loyalties lay firmly with the dukedom-and thus with him as the duke-was reassuring.

Almost as if he could trust her to protect his back.

Which was a distinctly odd notion for a man like him to have of a woman. Especially a lady like her.

Unknowingly underscoring his conclusion, having re-gathered her scattered papers, leaving those he’d appropriated, she hesitated. When he caught her eye and arched a brow, she said, “Your father’s man of business is Collier-not the same Collier as Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, but their cousin.”

He could now read her tone. “Whom you don’t trust.”

“Not so much don’t trust as have no confidence that he knows all that much about managing money. Heaven knows, I don’t, but I’ve seen the returns on the dukedom’s investments, and they don’t impress. I get significantly better returns on my funds, which are handled by another firm.”

He nodded. “I have my own man of business-Montague, in the city. He does get impressive returns. I’ll instruct him to contact Collier and go through the books, then assume control.”

She smiled. “Excellent.” She shifted, looked at the lists before him. “If you don’t need me for anything else…?”

He wished he didn’t, but he had to know, and she was the only one he could ask. He focused on the pen in his hand-his father’s. “How did my father die?”

She stilled. He didn’t look up, but waited; he sensed she was ordering her thoughts. Then she said, “He had a seizure. He was perfectly well earlier-we met over breakfast-then he went into the library as he always did on Sunday mornings to read the news sheets. We don’t know when he was struck down, but when he didn’t ring for his elevenses, as he invariably did, the cook sent Jeffers to check. Jeffers found him lying on the floor behind his desk. He’d tried to reach the bellpull, but had collapsed.”

She paused, then went on, “Retford summoned me. I stayed with your father while they sent for the doctor and made a stretcher to carry him to his room. But he didn’t last that long.”

Royce glanced up. Her gaze was far away, unfocused. “You were with him when he died?”

She nodded.

He looked down, turned the pen in his fingers. “Did he say anything?”

“He was unconscious until quite close to the end. Then he stirred, and asked for you.”

“Me?” He looked up. “Not my sisters?”

“No-he’d forgotten. He thought you were here, at Wolverstone. I had to tell him you weren’t.” She refocused on him. “He passed away quite peacefully-if he had been in pain, it was before we found him.”

He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “Thank you.” After a moment, he asked, “Have you told the others?”

She knew to whom he was referring-his father’s illegitimate children.

“The girls are on one or other of the estates, so I sent letters out yesterday. Other than O’Loughlin, to whom I sent word, the males are out of reach-I’ll pen letters once we know the bequests, and you can sign them.” She looked at him. “Or Handley could do it, if you wish.”

“No. I’d appreciate it if you would handle that. You know them-Handley doesn’t. But leave O’Loughlin to me. I don’t want to start mysteriously losing sheep.”

She rose. “He wouldn’t, would he?”

“He would, if nothing else to gain my attention. I’ll deal with him.”

“Very well. If there’s nothing more you need from me, I’ll start planning the funeral, so once your sisters arrive we can proceed without delay.”

He nodded curtly. “Please God.”

He heard a soft chuckle as she glided to the door. Then she left, and he could, at last, focus on picking up the dukedom’s reins.

He spent the next two hours going over her lists and the notes he’d made, then penning letters-short, to-the-point scrawls; he was already missing Handley.

Jeffers proved invaluable, knowing the fastest route to fly his communications to each of his holdings; it appeared he needed a personal footman after all. Through Jeffers he arranged to meet with Wolverstone’s steward, Falwell, and Kelso, the agent, the following morning; both lived in Harbottle, so had to be summoned.

After that…once Jeffers had left with the last of his missives, Royce found himself standing at the window behind the desk, looking north toward the Cheviots and the border. The gorge through which the Coquet ran was visible here and there through the trees. A race had been cut into the steep bank some way north of the castle, channeling water to the castle mill; only the mill’s slate roof was visible from the study. After the mill, the race widened into an ornamental stream, a series of pools and ponds slowing the pummeling torrent until it flowed peacefully into the large manmade lake south of the castle.

Royce followed the line of the stream, his gaze fixing on the last pool before the view was cut off by the castle’s north wing. In his mind, he continued along the banks, to where the stream reached the lake, then farther around the western bank…to where the icehouse stood back from the shore in a grove of sheltering willows.

He stood for a while more, feeling rather than thinking. Then accepting the inevitable, he turned and walked to the door. Stepping out, he looked at Jeffers. “I’m going for a walk. If Miss Chesterton looks for me, tell her I’ll see her at dinner.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He turned and started walking. He supposed he’d get used to the form of address, yet…it wasn’t supposed to have been like this.

The evening, blissfully quiet though it was, felt like the lull before a storm; after dinner, sitting in the library watching Minerva embroider, Royce could sense the pressures building.

Viewing the body laid out in the icehouse hadn’t changed anything. His father had aged, yet was recognizably the same man who’d banished him-his only son-for sixteen years, the same man from whom he’d inherited name, title and estate, his height and ruthless temperament, and not much else. Yet temper, temperament, made the man; looking down on his father’s no longer animate face, harsh featured even in death, he’d wondered how different they truly were. His father had been a ruthless despot; at heart, so was he.

Sunk in the large armchair angled before the hearth wherein a small fire burned incongruously bright, he sipped the fine malt whisky Retford had poured him, and pretended that the ancient, luxurious yet comfortable surroundings had relaxed him.

Even if he hadn’t sensed storms on his horizon, having his chatelaine in the same room guaranteed he wouldn’t-couldn’t-relax.

His eyes seemed incapable of shifting for any length of time away from her; his gaze again drawn to her as she sat on the chaise, eyes on her needlework, the firelight gilding her upswept hair and casting a rosy sheen over her cheeks, he wondered anew at the oddity-the inconvenient fact-that she wasn’t attracted to him, that he apparently didn’t impinge on her awareness while he-every sense he possessed-was increasingly fixated on her.

The arrogance of the thought occurred to him, yet in his case was nothing more than the truth. Most ladies found him attractive; he usually simply took his pick of those offering, crooked his finger, and that lady was his for however long he wanted her.

He wanted his chatelaine with an intensity that surprised him, yet her disinterest precluded him from having her. He’d never pursued a woman, actively seduced a woman, in his life, and at his age didn’t intend to start.

After dressing for dinner-mentally thanking Trevor who had foreseen the necessity-he’d gone to the drawing room armed with a catechism designed to distract them both. She’d been happy to oblige, filling in the minutes before Retford had summoned them to the dining room, then continuing through the meal, reminding him of the local families, both ton and gentry, casting her net as far as Alnwick and the Percys, before segueing into describing the changes in local society-who were now the principal opinion makers, which families had faded into obscurity.

Not that much had changed; with minor adjustments, his previous view of this part of the world still prevailed.

Then Retford had drawn the covers and she’d risen, intending to leave him to a solitary glass of port. He’d opted instead to follow her to the library and the whisky his father had kept there.

Prolonging the torture of being in her presence, yet he hadn’t wanted to be alone.

When he’d commented on her using the library instead of the drawing room, she’d told him that after his mother’s death, his father had preferred her to sit with him there…suddenly recalling it was he, not his father, walking beside her, she’d halted. Before she could ask if he’d rather she repaired to the drawing room, he’d said he had further questions and waved her on.

On reaching the library, they’d sat; while Retford had fetched the whisky, he’d asked about the London house. That topic hadn’t taken long to exhaust; other than having to rethink his notion of having his butler Hamilton take over as butler there, all else was as he’d supposed.

A strangely comfortable silence had ensued; she was, it seemed, one of those rare females who didn’t need to fill every silence with chatter.

Then again, she’d spent the last three years’ evenings sitting with his father; hardly surprising she’d grown used to long silences.

Unfortunately, while the silence normally would have suited him, tonight it left him prey to increasingly illicit thoughts of her; those currently prevailing involved stripping her slowly of her weeds, unwrapping her curves, her graceful limbs, and investigating her hollows.

All of which seemed guiltily wrong, almost dishonorable.

He inwardly frowned at her-a picture of ladylike decorum as, entirely oblivious of the pain she was causing him, needle flashing she worked on a piece of the same sort of embroidery his mother had favored, petit point he thought it was called. Technically, her living unchaperoned under his roof might be termed scandalous, yet given her position and how long she’d resided there…“How long have you been chatelaine here?”

She glanced up, then returned to her work. “Eleven years. I took on the duties when I turned eighteen, but neither your mother nor your father would consent to me to being titled chatelaine, not until I turned twenty-five and they finally accepted I wouldn’t wed.”

“They’d expected you to marry.” So had he. “Why didn’t you?”

She glanced up, flashed a light smile. “Not for want of offers, but no suitor offered anything I valued enough to grant him my hand-enough to change the life I had.”

“So you’re satisfied being Wolverstone’s chatelaine?”

Unsurprised by the bald question, Minerva shrugged. She would willingly answer any question he asked-anything to disrupt the effect that him sitting there, at his languid, long-legged ease in a sprawl that was so quintessentially masculine-broad shoulders against the high back of the chair, forearms resting along the padded arms, the long fingers of one hand cradling a cut-crystal tumbler, powerful thighs spread apart-was having on her benighted senses. Her nerves were so taut his presence made them flicker and twang like violin strings. “I won’t be chatelaine forever-once you marry, your duchess will take up the reins, and then I plan to travel.”

“Travel? Where to?”

Somewhere a long way from him. She studied the rose she must have just embroidered; she couldn’t remember doing it. “Egypt, perhaps.”

“Egypt?” He didn’t sound impressed by her choice. “Why there?”

“Pyramids.”

The darkly brooding look he’d had before he’d asked when she’d become chatelaine returned. “From all I’ve heard, the area around the pyramids is rife with Berber tribesmen, barbarians who wouldn’t hesitate to kidnap a lady. You can’t go there.”

She imagined informing him that she’d long had a dream of being kidnapped by a barbarian, tossed over his shoulder, and carted into his tent, there to be dropped on a silk-draped pallet and thoroughly ravished-of course he’d been the barbarian in question-and then pointing out that he had no authority over where she went. Instead, she settled for a response he’d like even less. Smiling gently, she looked back at her work. “We’ll see.”

No, they wouldn’t. She wasn’t going anywhere near Egypt, or any other country seething with danger. Royce toyed with lecturing her that his parents hadn’t raised her to have her throw her life away on some misguided adventure…but with his temper so uncertain, and her response guaranteed to only escalate the tension, he kept his lips shut and swallowed the words.

To his intense relief, she slipped her needle into her work, then rolled the piece up and placed it into a tapestry bag that apparently lived beneath one end of the chaise. Leaning down, she tucked the bag back into position, then straightened and looked at him. “I’m going to retire.” She rose. “Don’t stir-I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

He managed a growled “good night” in reply. His eyes followed her to the door-while he fought to remain in the chair and let her go. Her idea about Egypt hadn’t helped, stirring something primitive-even more primitive-within him. Sexual hunger was a tangible ache as the door shut softly behind her.

Her room would be in the keep, somewhere not far from his new rooms; despite the ever-increasing temptation, he wasn’t going there.

She was his chatelaine, and he needed her.

Until he was solidly established as duke, the reins firmly in his hands, she was his best, most well-informed, reliable, and trustworthy source of information. He would avoid her as much as possible-Falwell and Kelso would help with that-but he would still need to see her, speak with her, on a daily basis.

He’d see her at meals, too; this was her home after all.

Both his parents had been committed to raising her; he had every intention of honoring that commitment even though they were gone. Although not formally a ward of the dukedom, she stood in much the same position…perhaps he could cast himself as in loco parentis?

That would excuse the protectiveness he felt-that he knew he would continue to feel.

Regardless, he would have to bear with her being always around, until, as she’d pointed out, he married.

That was something else he would have to arrange.

Marriage for him, as for all dukes of Wolverstone, indeed, for all Variseys, would be a cold-bloodedly negotiated affair. His parents’ and sisters’ marriages had been that, and had worked as such alliances were meant to; the men took lovers whenever they wished, and once heirs were produced, the women did the same, and the unions remained stable and their estates prospered.

His marriage would follow that course. Neither he nor any Varisey was likely to indulge in the recent fashion for love matches, not least because, as was recognized by all who knew them, Variseys, as a breed, did not love.

Not within marriage, and not, as far as anyone knew, in any other capacity, either.

Of course, once he was wed, he’d be free to take a mistress, a long-term one, one he could keep by his side…

The thought rewoke all the fantasies he’d spent the last hour trying to suppress.

With a disgusted grunt, he drained the amber liquid in his glass, then set it down, rose, adjusted his trousers, and headed off to his empty bed.