Mastered By Love

Four

R oyce strode into the breakfast parlor early the next morning, and trapped his chatelaine just as she finished her tea.

Eyes widening, fixed on him, she lowered her cup; without taking her gaze from him, she set it back on its saucer.

Her instincts were excellent. He raked her with his gaze. “Good-you’re dressed for riding.” Retford had told him she would be when he’d breakfasted even earlier. “You can show me these cottages.”

She raised her brows, considered him for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” Dropping her napkin beside her plate, she rose, picked up her riding gloves and crop, and calmly joined him.

Accepting his challenge.

Loins girded, jaw clenched, he suffered while, with her gliding beside him, he stalked to the west courtyard. He’d known his sisters would breakfast in their rooms, while their husbands would come down fashionably later, allowing him to kidnap her without having to deal with any of them.

He’d ordered their horses to be saddled. He led the way out of the house; as they crossed the courtyard toward the stables, he glanced at Minerva as, apparently unperturbed, she walked alongside. He’d steeled himself to deflect any comment about their exchange last night, but she’d yet to make one. To press her point that he didn’t have to be like his father in managing the dukedom.

That he should break with tradition and do what he felt was right.

Just as he had sixteen years ago.

Regardless of her silence, her opinion reached him clearly.

He felt as if she were manipulating him.

They reached the stable yard and found Henry holding a dancing Sword while Milbourne waited with her horse, a bay gelding, by the mounting block.

On her way to Milbourne, she glanced at the restless gray. “I see you tamed him.”

Taking the reins from Henry, Royce planted one boot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the broad back. “Yes.”

Just as he’d like to tame her.

Teeth gritted, he gathered the reins, holding Sword in as he watched her settle in her sidesaddle. Then she nodded her thanks to Milbourne, lifted the reins, and trotted forward.

He met her eyes, tipped his head toward the hills. “Lead the way.”

She did, at a pace that took some of the edge from his temper. She was an excellent horsewoman, with an excellent seat. Once he’d convinced himself she wasn’t likely to come to grief, he found somewhere else to fix his gaze. She led him over the bridge, then across the fields, jumping low stone walls as they headed north of the village. Sword kept pace easily; he had to rein the gray in to keep him from taking the lead.

But once they reached the track that meandered along the banks of Usway Burn, a tributary of the Coquet, they slowed, letting the horses find their own pace along the rocky and uneven ground. Less experienced than the gelding, Sword seemed content to follow in his wake. The track was barely wide enough for a farm cart; they followed its ruts up into the hills.

The cottages stood halfway along the burn, where the valley widened into reasonable-sized meadows. It was a small but fertile holding. As Royce recalled, it had always been prosperous. It was one of the few acreages on the estate given over to corn. With the uncertainty in supply of that staple, and the consequent increase in price, he could understand Kelso’s and Falwell’s push to increase the acreage, but…the estate had always grown enough corn to feed its people; that hadn’t changed. They didn’t need to grow more.

What they did need was to keep farmers like the Macgregors, who knew the soil they tilled, on the estate, working the land.

Three cottages-one large, two smaller-had been built in the lee of a west-facing hill. They splashed across the burn at a rough ford. As they neared the buildings, the door of the largest opened; an old man, bent and weathered, came out. Leaning on a stout walking stick, he watched without expression as Royce drew rein and dismounted.

Kicking free of her stirrups, Minerva slid to the ground; reins in one hand, she saluted the old man. “Good morning, Macgregor. His Grace has come to take a look at the cottages.”

Macgregor inclined his head politely to her. As she led her bay to a nearby fence, she reached for Royce’s reins, and he handed them over.

He walked forward, halting before Macgregor. Old eyes the color of stormy skies held his gaze with a calmness, a rooted certainty, that only age could bring.

Royce knew his father would have waited, silent and intimidating, for an acknowledgment of his station, then possibly nodded curtly before demanding Macgregor show him the cottages.

He offered his hand. “Macgregor.”

The old eyes blinked wide. Macgregor dropped his gaze to Royce’s hand; after an instant’s hesitation, he shifted his grip on the walking stick’s knobbed head, and grasped the proffered hand in a surprisingly strong grip.

Macgregor looked up as their hands parted. “Welcome home, Y’r Grace. And it’s right glad I am to see you.”

“I remember you-frankly, I’m amazed you’re still here.”

“Aye, well, some of us grow older than others. And I remember you, too-used to see you riding wild over yon hills.”

“I fear my days of wildness are past.”

Macgregor made a sound denoting abject disbelief.

Royce glanced at the buildings. “I understand there’s a problem with these cottages.”

Minerva found herself trailing the pair, entirely redundant, as Macgregor, famed crustiness in abeyance, showed Royce around, pointing out the gaps in the walls, and where the rafters and roof beams no longer met.

Exiting the larger middle cottage, they were crossing to the smaller one to the left when she heard distant hoof-beats. She halted in the yard. Royce would have heard the horse approaching, but he didn’t take his attention from Macgregor; the pair went into the smaller cottage. Raising a hand to shade her eyes, she waited in the yard.

Macgregor’s oldest son, Sean, appeared, riding one of their workhorses. He slowed, halted just inside the yard, and dismounted, leaving the traces he’d used as reins dragging. He hurried to Minerva. “The rest of the lads and me are working the upper fields. We saw you come riding in.” He looked at the smaller cottage. “Is that the new duke in there with Da?”

“Yes, but-” Before she could assure him that his father and his duke were managing perfectly well, Royce led the way out of the tiny cottage, ducking low to miss the lintel. He glanced back as Macgregor followed, then came on.

“This is Sean Macgregor, Macgregor’s oldest son. Sean, Wolverstone.” Minerva hid a grin at Sean’s astonishment when Royce nodded and, apparently without thought, offered his hand.

After a stunned instant, Sean quickly gripped it and shook.

Releasing him, Royce turned to the last cottage. “I should look at them all while I’m here.”

“Aye.” Macgregor stumped past him. “Come along, then. Not much different to the others, but there’s a crooked corner in this one.”

He beckoned Royce to follow, and he did.

Sean stood, mouth a-cock, and watched as Royce ducked through the cottage door in his father’s wake. After a moment, he said, “He’s really looking.”

“Indeed. And when he comes out, I suspect he’ll want to discuss what can be done.” Minerva looked at Sean. “Can you speak for your brothers?”

He shifted his gaze to her face, nodded. “Aye.”

“In that case, I suggest we wait here.”

Her prophecy proved correct. When Royce emerged from the dimness of the third cottage, his lips were set in a determined line. He met her gaze, then turned to Macgregor, who had followed him into the mild sunshine. “Let’s talk.”

They-Royce, Minerva, Macgregor, and Sean-sat at the deal table in the big cottage and thrashed out an arrangement that satisfied them all. While not condoning Kelso’s and Falwell’s tack, Royce made it clear that the precedent that would be set if the cottages were repaired under the current lease was not one he would countenance; instead, he offered to refashion the lease. It took them an hour to agree on the basic principles; deciding how to get the work done took mere minutes.

Somewhat to her surprise, Royce took charge. “Your lads need to give their time to the harvest first. Once that’s in, they can help with the building. You”-he looked at Macgregor-“will supervise. It’ll be up to you to make sure the work is done as it should be. I’ll come up with Hancock”-he glanced at Minerva-“I assume he’s still the castle builder?” When she nodded, he went on, “I’ll bring him here, and show him what we need done. We have less than three months before the first snow-I want all three cottages leveled and three new ones completed before winter sets in.”

Macgregor blinked; Sean still looked stunned.

When they left the cottage, Minerva was beaming. So, too, were Macgregor and Sean. Royce, in contrast, had his inscrutable mask on.

She hurried to get her horse, Rangonel. There was a convenient log by the fence for a mounting block; scrambling into her saddle, she settled her skirts.

After shaking hands with the Macgregors, Royce cast her a glance, then retrieved Sword and mounted. She urged Rangonel alongside as he turned down the track.

At the last, she waved to the Macgregors. Still beaming, they waved back. Facing forward, she glanced at Royce. “Am I allowed to say I’m impressed?”

He grunted.

Smiling, she followed him back to the castle.

“Damn it!” With the sounds of a London evening-the rattle of wheels, the clop of hooves, the raucous cries of jarveys as they tacked down fashionable Jermyn Street-filling his ears, he read the short note again, then reached for the brandy his man had fortuitously just set on the table by his elbow.

He took a long swallow, read the note again, then tossed it on the table. “The duke’s dead. I’ll have to go north to attend his funeral.”

There was no help for it; if he didn’t appear, his absence would be noted. But he was far from thrilled by the prospect. Until that moment, his survival plan had revolved around total and complete avoidance, but a ducal funeral in the family eradicated that option.

The duke was dead. More to the point, his nemesis was now the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.

It would have happened sometime, but why the hell now? Royce had barely shaken the dust of Whitehall from his elegantly shod heels-he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten the one traitor he’d failed to bring to justice.

He swore, let his head fall back against the chair. He’d always assumed time-the simple passage of it-would be his salvation. That it would dull Royce’s memories, his drive, distract him with other things.

Then again…

Straightening, he took another sip of brandy. Perhaps having a dukedom to manage-one unexpectedly thrust upon him immediately following an exile of sixteen years-was precisely the distraction Royce needed to drag and hold his attention from his past.

Royce had always had power; his inheriting the title changed little in that regard.

Perhaps this really was for the best?

Time, as ever, would tell, but, unexpectedly, that time was here.

He thought, considered; in the end he had no choice.

“Smith! Pack my bags. I have to go to Wolverstone.”

In the breakfast parlor the following morning, Royce was enjoying his second cup of coffee and idly scanning the latest news sheet when Margaret and Aurelia walked in.

They were gowned, coiffed. With vague smiles in his direction, they headed for the sideboard.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, confirming it was early, not precisely the crack of dawn, yet for them…

His cynicism grew as they came to the table, plates in hand. He was at the head of the table; leaving one place empty to either side of him, Margaret sat on his left, Aurelia on his right.

He took another sip of coffee, and kept his attention on the news sheet, certain he’d learn what they wanted sooner rather than later.

His father’s four sisters and their husbands, and his mother’s brothers and their wives, together with various cousins, had started arriving yesterday; the influx would continue for several days. And once the family was in residence, the connections and friends invited to stay at the castle for the funeral would start to roll in; his staff would be busy for the next week.

Luckily, the keep itself was reserved for immediate family; not even his paternal aunts had rooms in the central wing. This breakfast parlor, too, on the ground floor of the keep, was family only, giving him a modicum of privacy, an area of relative calm in the center of the storm.

Margaret and Aurelia sipped their tea and nibbled slices of dry toast. They chatted about their children, their intention presumably to inform him of the existence of his nephews and nieces. He studiously kept his gaze on the news sheet. Eventually his sisters accepted that, after sixteen years of not knowing, he was unlikely to develop an interest in that direction overnight.

Even without looking, he sensed the glance they exchanged, heard Margaret draw in one of her portentous breaths.

His chatelaine breezed in. “Good morning, Margaret, Aurelia.” Her tone suggested she was surprised to find them down so early.

Her entrance threw his sisters off-balance; they murmured good mornings, then fell silent.

With his eyes, he tracked Minerva to the sideboard, taking in her plain green gown. Trevor had reported that on Saturday mornings she eschewed riding in favor of taking a turn about the gardens with the head gardener in tow.

Royce returned his gaze to the news sheet, ignoring the part of him that whispered, “A pity.” He wasn’t entirely pleased with her; it was just as well that when he rode out shortly, he wouldn’t come upon her riding his hills and dales, so he wouldn’t be able to join her, her and him alone, private in the wild.

Such an encounter would do nothing to ease his all but constant pain.

As Minerva took her seat farther down the board, Margaret cleared her throat and turned to him. “We’d wondered, Royce, whether you had any particular thoughts about a lady who might fill the position of your duchess.”

He held still for an instant, then lowered the news sheet, looked first at Margaret, then at Aurelia. He’d never gaped in his life, but…“Our father isn’t even in the ground, and you’re talking about my wedding?”

He glanced at his chatelaine. She had her head down, her gaze fixed on her plate.

“You’ll have to think of the matter sooner rather than later.” Margaret set down her fork. “The ton isn’t going to let the most eligible duke in England simply”-she gestured-“be!”

“The ton won’t have any choice. I have no immediate plans to marry.”

Aurelia leaned closer. “But Royce-”

“If you’ll excuse me”-he stood, tossing the news sheet and his napkin on the table-“I’m going riding.” His tone made it clear there was no question involved.

He strode down the table, glanced at Minerva as he went past.

He halted; when she looked up, he caught her autumn eyes. His own narrow, he pointed at her. “I’ll see you in the study when I get back.”

When he’d ridden far enough, hard enough, to get the tempest of anger and lust roiling through him under control.

Striding out, he headed for the stables.

By lunchtime on Sunday he was ready to throttle his elder sisters, his aunts, and his aunts-by-marriage, all of whom had, it seemed, not a thought with which to occupy their heads other than who-which lady-would be most suitable as his bride.

As the next Duchess of Wolverstone.

He’d breakfasted at dawn to avoid them. Now, in the wake of the ruthlessly cutting comments he’d made the previous night, silencing all such talk about the dinner table, they’d conceived the happy notion of discussing ladies, who all just happened to be young, well-bred, and eligible, comparing their attributes, weighing their fortunes and connections, apparently in the misguided belief that by omitting the words “Royce,” “marriage,” and “duchess from their comments, they would avoid baiting his temper.

He was very, very close to losing it-and inching ever closer by the second.

What were they thinking? Minerva couldn’t conceive what Margaret, Aurelia, and Royce’s aunts hoped to achieve-other than a blistering set-down which looked set to be delivered in a thunderous roar at any minute.

If one were possessed of half a brain, one did not provoke male Variseys. Not beyond the point where they grew totally silent, and their faces set like stone, and-the final warning-their fingers tightened on whatever they were holding until their knuckles went white.

Royce’s right hand was clenched about his knife so tightly all four knuckles gleamed.

She had to do something-not that his female relatives deserved saving. If it were up to her, she’d let him savage them, but…she had two deathbed vows to honor, which meant she had to see him wed-and his misbegotten relatives were turning the subject of his marriage into one he was on the very brink of declaring unmentionable in his hearing.

He could do that-and would-and would expect and insist and ensure he was obeyed.

Which would make her task all the harder.

They seemed to have forgotten who he was-that he was Wolverstone.

She glanced around; she needed help to derail the conversation.

There wasn’t much help to be had. Most of the men had escaped, taking guns and dogs and heading out for some early shooting. Susannah was there; seated on Royce’s right, she was wisely holding her tongue and not contributing to her brother’s ire in any way.

Unfortunately, she was too far from Minerva’s position halfway down the board to be easily enlisted; Minerva couldn’t catch her eye.

The only other potential conspirator was Hubert, seated opposite Minerva. She had no high opinion of Hubert’s intelligence, but she was desperate. Leaning forward, she caught his eye. “Did you say you’d seen Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold in London?”

The princess was the darling of England; her recent marriage to Prince Leopold was the only topic Minerva could think of that might trump the subject of Royce’s bride. She’d imbued her question with every ounce of breathless interest she could muster-and was rewarded with instant silence.

Every head swung to the middle of the table, every female pair of eyes followed her gaze to Hubert.

He stared at her, eyes showing the surprise of a startled rabbit. Silently she willed him to reply in the affirmative; he blinked, then smiled. “I did, as a matter of fact.”

“Where?” He was lying-she could see he was-but he was willing to dance to her tune.

“In Bond Street.”

“At one of the jewelers?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Aspreys.”

Royce’s aunt Emma, seated next to Minerva, leaned forward. “Did you see what they were looking at?”

“They spent quite a bit of time looking at brooches. I saw the attendant bring out a tray-on it were-”

Minerva sat back, a vacuous smile on her face, and let Hubert run on. He was well-launched, and with a wife like Susannah, his knowledge of the jewelry to be found in Aspreys was extensive.

All attention had swung to him.

Leaving Royce to finish his meal without further aggravation; he needed no encouragement to apply himself to the task.

Hubert had only just passed on to the necklaces the royal couple had supposedly examined when Royce pushed away his plate, waved Retford’s offer of the fruit bowl aside, dropped his napkin beside his plate, and stood.

The movement broke Hubert’s spell. All attention swung to Royce.

He didn’t bother to smile. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a dukedom to run.” He started striding down the room on his way to the door. Over the heads, he nodded to Hubert. “Do carry on.”

Drawing level, his gaze pinned Minerva. “I’ll see you in the study when you’re free.”

She was free now. As Royce strode from the room, she patted her lips, edged back her chair, waited for the footman to draw it out for her. She smiled at Hubert as she stood. “I know I’ll regret not hearing the rest of your news-it’s like a fairy tale.”

He grinned. “Never mind. There’s not much more to tell.”

She swallowed a laugh, fought to look suitably disappointed as she hurried from the room in Royce’s wake.

He’d already disappeared up the stairs; she climbed them, then walked quickly to the study, wondering which part of the estate he’d choose to interrogate her on today.

Since their visit to Usway Burn on Friday, he’d had her sitting before his desk for a few hours each day, telling him about the estate’s tenant farms and the families who held them. He didn’t ask about profits, crops, or yields, none of the things Kelso or Falwell were responsible for, but about the farms themselves, the land, the farmers and their wives, their children. Who interacted with whom, the human dynamics of the estate; that was what he questioned her on.

When she’d passed on his father’s dying message, she hadn’t known whether he’d actually had it in him to be different; Variseys tended to breed true, and along with their other principal traits, their stubbornness was legendary.

That was why she hadn’t delivered the message immediately. She’d wanted Royce to see and know what his father had meant, rather than just hear the words. Words out of context were too easy to dismiss, to forget, to ignore.

But now he’d heard them, absorbed them, and made the effort, responded to the need, and scripted a new way forward with the Macgregors. She was too wise to comment, not even to encourage; he’d waited for her to say something, but she’d stepped back and left him to define his own way.

With skill and luck, one could steer Variseys; one couldn’t lead them.

Jeffers was on duty outside the study. He opened the door and she walked in.

Royce was pacing back and forth before the window behind the desk, looking out at his lands, his every stride invested with the lethal grace of a caged jungle cat, muscles sleekly taut, shifting beneath the fine weave of his coat and his thigh-hugging buckskin breeches.

She simply stood, unable to look away; instinct wouldn’t allow her to take her eyes from such a predatory sight.

And looking was no hardship.

She could sense his whipping temper, knew he could lash out, yet was utterly sure he would never hurt her. Or any woman. Yet the turbulent emotions seething within him, swirling in powerful currents all around him, would have most women, most men, edging away.

Not her. She was attracted to the energy, to the wild and compelling power that was so intrinsic a part of him.

Her dangerous secret.

She waited. The door had closed; he knew she was there. When he gave no sign, she advanced and sat in the chair.

Abruptly, he halted. He hauled in a huge breath, then swung around, and dropped into his chair. “The farm at Lin-shields. Who holds it these days-is it still the Carews?”

“Yes, but I think you probably remember Carew senior. It’s his son who runs the farm now.”

He kept her talking for the next hour, pressing her, questions flying at a cracking pace.

Royce tried to keep his mind wholly focused on business-on the information he drew from her-yet her answers flowed so freely he had time to truly listen, not just to what she was saying but to her voice, the timbre, the faint huskiness, the rise and fall of emotions as she let them color her words.

She had no reticence, no shields, not on this subject, not any longer. He didn’t need to watch for hints of prevarica tion, or of reserve.

So his wider senses had time to dwell on the rise and fall of her breasts, the way one errant curl fell across her forehead, time to note the gold flecks that came alive in her eyes when she smiled over some recounted incident.

Eventually, his questions ended, died. His temper dissipated, he sat back in his chair. Physically relaxed, inwardly brooding. His gaze on her.

“I didn’t thank you for saving me at luncheon.”

Minerva smiled. “Hubert was a surprise. And it was your relatives we saved, not you.”

He grimaced, reached out to reposition a pencil that had rolled across the blotter. “They’re right in that I will need to marry, but I can’t see why they’re so intent on pushing the subject at this time.” He glanced at her, a question in his eyes.

“I’ve no idea why, either. I’d expected them to leave that topic for at least a few months, mourning and all. Although I suppose no eyebrows would be raised if you became betrothed within the year.”

The fingers of one hand tapping the blotter, his gaze sharpened. “I’m not of a mind to let them dictate, or even dabble in, my future. It might, therefore, be wise to get some idea of the potential…candidates.”

She hesitated, then asked, “What style of candidate are you thinking of?”

He gave her a look that said she knew better than to ask. “The usual style-a typical Varisey bride. How does it go? Suitable breeding, position, connections and fortune, passable beauty, intelligence optional.” He frowned. “Did I forget anything?”

She fought to keep her lips straight. “No. That’s more or less the full description.”

No matter that he might differ from his father in managing people and the estate, he wouldn’t differ in his requirements of a bride. The tradition of Varisey marriages predated the dukedom by untold generations, and, even more telling, suited their temperament.

She saw no reason to disagree with his assessment. The new fashion of love matches within the nobility had little to offer the Variseys. They did not love. She’d spent more than twenty years among them, and had never seen any evidence to the contrary. It was simply the way they were; love had been bred out of them centuries ago-if it had ever been in their mix at all. “If you wish, I could make a list of the candidates your relatives-and no doubt the grandes dames who come up for the funeral-mention.”

He nodded. “Their gossip may as well be useful for something. Add anything relevant you know, or hear from reliable sources.” He met her eyes. “And, no doubt, you’ll add your opinion, as well.”

She smiled sweetly. “No, I won’t. As far as I’m concerned, choosing your bride is entirely your affair. I won’t be living with her.”

He gave her another of his bland, you-should-know-better looks. “Neither will I.”

She inclined her head, acknowledging that fact. “Regardless, your bride is not a subject on which I would seek to influence you.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to promulgate that view to my sisters?”

“Sadly, I must decline-it would be a waste of breath.”

He grunted.

“If there’s nothing else, I should go and see who else has arrived. Cranny, bless her, needs to know how many will sit down to dine.”

When he nodded, she rose and headed for the door. Reaching it, she glanced back, and saw him sprawled in his chair, that brooding look on his face. “If you have time, you might like to look at the tithing from the smaller crofts. At present, it’s stated as an absolute amount, but a percentage of profit might suit everyone better.”

He arched a brow. “Another radical notion?”

She shrugged and opened the door. “Just a suggestion.”

So here he was at Wolverstone, under his nemesis’s roof. His very large roof, in this far distant corner of Northumberland, which was a point, he now realized, that worked in his favor.

The estate was so very far from London that many of the visitors, especially those who were family, would stay for a time; the castle was so huge it could accommodate a small army. So there was, and would continue to be, plenty of cover; he would be safe enough.

He stood at the window of the pleasant room he’d been given in the east wing, looking down on the castle gardens, beautifully presented and bursting with colorful life in the last gasp of the short northern summer.

He had an appreciation for beautiful things, an eye that had guided him in amassing an exquisite collection of the most priceless items the French had had to offer. In exchange he’d given them information, information that, whenever he’d been able, had run directly counter to Royce’s commission.

Whenever possible, he’d tried to harm Royce-not directly, but through the men he’d commanded.

From all he’d been able to glean, he’d failed, dismally. Just as he’d failed, over the years, over all the times he’d been held up against Royce, measured against his glorious cousin and found wanting. By his father, his uncle, most of all by his grandfather.

His lips curled; his handsome features distorted in a snarl.

Worst of all, Royce had seized his prize, his carefully hoarded treasure. He’d stolen it from him, denying him even that. For all his years of serving the French, he’d received precisely nothing-not even the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused Royce pain.

In the world of men, and all through the ton, Royce was a celebrated success. And now Royce was Wolverstone to boot.

While he…was an unimportant sprig on a family tree.

It shouldn’t be so.

Dragging in a breath, he slowly exhaled, willing his features back into the handsome mask he showed the world. Turning, he looked around the room.

His eye fell on a small bowl sitting on the mantelpiece. Not Sevres, but Chinese, quite delicate.

He walked across the room, picked up the bowl, felt its lightness, examined its beauty.

Then he opened his fingers and let it fall.

It smashed to smithereens on the floor.

By late Wednesday afternoon, all the family were in residence, and the first of the guests invited to stay at the castle had begun to arrive.

Royce had been instructed by his chatelaine to be on hand to greet the more important; summoned by Jeffers, he gritted his teeth and descended to the hall to welcome the Duchess of St. Ives, Lady Horatia Cynster, and Lord George Cynster. Although St. Ives’s estates lay in the south, the two dukedoms shared a similar history, and the families had supported each other through the centuries.

“Royce!” Her Grace, Helena, Duchess of St. Ives-or the Dowager Duchess, as he’d heard she preferred to style herself-spotted him. She glided to meet him as he stepped off the stairs. “Mon ami, such a sad time.”

He took her hand, bowed, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles-only to have her swear in French, tug him lower, stretch up on her toes, and press a kiss first to one cheek, then to the other. He permitted it, then straightened, smiled. “Welcome to Wolverstone, Your Grace. You grow lovelier with the years.”

Huge, pale green eyes looked up at him. “Yes, I do.” She smiled, a glorious expression that lit her whole face, then she let her gaze skate appreciatively down him. “And you…” She muttered something in colloquial French he didn’t catch, then reverted to English to say, “We had expected to have you return to our salons-instead, you are now here, and no doubt plan to hide yourself away.” She wagged a delicate finger at him. “It will not do. You are older than my recalcitrant son, and must marry soon.”

She turned to include the lady beside her. “Horatia-tell him he must let us help him choose his bride tout de suite.”

“And he’ll pay as much attention to me as he will you.” Lady Horatia Cynster, tall, dark-haired, and commanding, smiled at him. “Condolences, Royce-or should I say Wolverstone?” She gave him her hand, and like Helena, pulled him nearer to touch cheeks. “Regardless of what you might wish, your father’s funeral is going to focus even more attention on your urgent need of a bride.”

“Let the poor boy find his feet.” Lord George Cynster, Horatia’s husband, offered Royce his hand. After a firm handshake, he shooed his wife and sister-in-law away. “There’s Minerva looking harassed trying to sort out your boxes-you might help her, or you might end with each other’s gowns.”

The mention of gowns had both grandes dames’ attention shifting. As they moved to where Minerva stood surrounded by a bewildering array of boxes and trunks, George sighed. “They mean well, but it’s only fair to warn you you’re in for a time of it.”

Royce raised his brows. “St. Ives didn’t come up with you?”

“He’s following in his curricle. Given what you just experienced, you can understand why he’d take rain, sleet, and even snow over spending days in the same carriage as his mother.”

Royce laughed. “True.” Beyond the open doors, he saw a procession of three carriages draw up. “If you’ll excuse me, some others have arrived.”

“Of course, m’boy.” George clapped him on the back. “Escape while you can.”

Royce did, going out through the massive doors propped open in welcome and down the shallow steps to where the three carriages were disgorging their passengers and baggage amid a chaos of footmen and grooms.

A pretty blond in a fashionable pelisse was directing a footman to take care of her boxes, unaware of Royce’s approach. “Alice-welcome.”

Alice Carlisle, Viscountess Middlethorpe, turned, wide-eyed. “Royce!” She embraced him, tugging him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. “What an unexpected event-and before you’d even returned.”

Gerald, her husband, heir to the earldom of Fyfe, stepped down from the carriage, Alice’s shawl in one hand. “Royce.” He held out his other hand. “Commiserations, old man.”

The others had heard, and quickly gathered, offering condolences along with strong hands, or scented cheeks and warm embraces-Miles Ffolliot, Baron Sedgewick, heir to the earldom of Wrexham, and his wife, Eleanor, and the Honorable Rupert Trelawny, heir to the Marquess of Rid-dlesdale, and his wife, Rose.

They were Royce’s closest friends; the three men had been at Eton with him, and the four had remained close through the subsequent years. Throughout his self-imposed social exile, theirs had been the only events-dinners, select soirees-that he’d attended. Over the last decade, he’d first encountered each of his many lovers at one or other of these three ladies’ houses, a fact of which he was sure they were aware.

These six made up his inner circle, the people he trusted, those he’d known the longest. There were others-the members of the Bastion Club and now their wives-whom he would likewise trust with his life, but these three couples were the people he shared closest connection with; they were of his circle, and understood the pressures he faced, his temperament, understood him.

Minerva was one he could now add to that circle; she, too, understood him. Unfortunately, as he was reminded every time he saw her, he needed to keep her at a distance.

With Miles, Rupert, and Gerald there, he felt much more…himself. Much more certain of who he really was, what he really was. Of what was important to him.

For the next several minutes, he let himself slide into the usual cacophony that resulted whenever all three couples and he were together. He led them inside and introduced them to his chatelaine, relieved when it became obvious that Minerva, and Alice, Eleanor, and Rose, would get on. He would ensure that his three friends were entertained, but given the way the next days looked set to go, he was planning on avoiding all gatherings of ladies; knowing Minerva would watch over his friends’ wives meant their entertainment would likewise be assured, and their stay at Wolverstone as comfortable as circumstances permitted.

He was about to accompany them up the main stairs when the rattle of carriage wheels had him glancing into the forecourt. Slowing, a carriage rolled into view, then halted; he recognized the crest on its door.

He nudged Miles’s arm. “Do you remember the billiard room?”

Miles, Gerald, and Rupert had visited before, long ago. Miles arched a brow. “You can’t imagine I’d forget the place of so many of your defeats?”

“Your memory’s faulty-they were your defeats.” Royce saw Gerald and Rupert looking down at him, questions in their eyes. “I’ll meet you there once you’ve settled in. Some others have arrived who I need to greet.”

With nods and waves, the men followed their wives up the stairs. Royce turned back into the front hall. More guests were arriving; Minerva had her hands full. The hall was continually awash with trunks and boxes even though a company of footmen were constantly ferrying loads upstairs.

Leaving them to it, Royce walked outside. He’d last seen the couple descending from the latest carriage mere weeks ago; he’d missed their wedding, deliberately, but he’d known they would come north to support him.

The lady turned and saw him. He held out a hand. “Letitia.”

“Royce.” Lady Letitia Allardyce, Marchioness of Dearne, took his hand and stretched up to kiss his cheek; she was tall enough to do so without tugging him down. “The news was a shock.”

She stepped back while he exchanged greetings with her husband, Christian, one of his ex-colleagues, a man of similar propensities as he, one who had dealt in secrets, violence, and death in their country’s defense.

The three turned toward the castle steps, the men flanking Letitia. She looked into Royce’s face. “You weren’t expecting to have the dukedom thrust upon you like this. How’s your temper holding up?”

She was one of the few who would dare ask him that. He slanted her an unencouraging look.

She grinned and patted his arm. “If you want any advice on restraining temper, just ask the expert.”

He shook his head. “Your temper’s dramatic. Mine’s…not.”

His temper was destructive, and much more powerful.

“Yes, well.” She fixed her gaze on the door, fast drawing near. “I know this isn’t something you want to hear, but the next days are going to be much worse than you imagine. You’ll learn why soon enough, if you haven’t already. And for what it’s worth, my advice, dear Royce, is to grit your teeth and reinforce the reins on your temper, because they’re about to be tested as never before.”

Expressionless, he stared at her.

She smiled brightly back. “Shall we go in?”

Minerva saw the trio enter, and walked over to greet the newcomers. She and Letitia knew each other well, which, she realized, surprised Royce. She hadn’t met Dearne before, but approved of his presence, and especially his statement that he was there in part representing Royce’s closest ex-colleagues from his years in Whitehall.

He added to Royce, “The others asked us to convey their regards.”

Royce nodded in acknowledgment; despite his perpetual mask, she sensed he was…touched. That he appreciated the support.

She’d already assigned rooms to all those expected; handing Letitia and Dearne over to Retford to magisterially guide upstairs, she watched them ascend. Felt Royce’s gaze on her face. “I know Letitia from all the years I spent with your mother in London.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod; that was what he’d wanted to know.

She’d met Miles, Rupert, and Gerald when they’d visited years ago, had met them and their wives in more recent times, too, although only in passing at ton entertainments. She’d been intrigued to learn-relieved to learn-that they’d stood by Royce over the years. She’d often wondered just how alone he’d been. Not completely, thank heaven, yet she was starting to suspect, his friends aside, that he wasn’t as socially adept as he was going to need to be.

The next days were going to be a strain on him, in more ways than she thought he realized.

Turning from the stairs, she surveyed the hall, still a bustling hive of activity. At least there were no guests waiting to be greeted; for the moment, she and Royce were alone amid the sea of luggage.

“You should know,” she murmured, “that there’s something afoot regarding your wedding. I haven’t yet learned exactly what-and your friends’ wives don’t know, either, but they’ll keep their ears open. I’m sure Letitia will.” She glanced at his face. “If I hear anything definite, I’ll let you know.”

His lips twisted in a partially suppressed grimace. “Letitia warned me that something I wouldn’t like was coming-she didn’t specify what. It sounded as if she, too, wasn’t entirely sure.”

Minerva nodded. “I’ll speak with her later. Perhaps, together, we can work it out.”

Another carriage rolled to a halt beyond the steps; she cast him a glance, then went out to greet his guests.

Late that evening, on returning to his rooms after soundly thrashing Miles at billiards, Royce stripped off his coat and tossed it to Trevor. “I want you to keep your ears open on the subject of my marriage.”

Trevor raised his brows, then took his waistcoat from him.

“Specifically”-Royce gave his attention to unraveling his cravat-“my bride.” He met Trevor’s gaze in the mirror above the tallboy. “See what you can learn-tonight if possible.”

“Naturally, Your Grace.” Trevor grinned. “I’ll bring the pertinent information with your shaving water in the morning.”

The next day was the day before the funeral. Royce spent the morning riding with his friends; on returning to the stables, he stopped to speak with Milbourne while the others went ahead. A few minutes later, he followed them back into the castle, seizing the moment alone to review the scant information Trevor had relayed that morning.

The grandes dames were fixated on the necessity of him marrying and getting an heir. What neither Trevor nor his chatelaine, whom he’d seen over breakfast, had as yet ascertained was why there was such intensity, well beyond the merely prurient, almost an air of urgency behind the older ladies’ stance.

Something definitely was afoot; his instincts, honed by years of military plotting, ducking, and weaving, were more than pricking.

He strode into the front hall, the necessity of gathering better intelligence high in his mind.

“Good morning, Wolverstone.”

The commanding female tones jerked him out of his thoughts. His gaze met a pair of striking hazel eyes. It took him an instant to place them-a fact the lady noted with something akin to exasperation.

“Lady Augusta.” He went forward, took the hand she offered him, half bowed.

To the gentleman beside her, he offered his hand. “My lord.”

The Marquess of Huntly smiled benignly. “It’s been a long time, Royce. Sad that we have to meet again in such circumstances.”

“Indeed.” Lady Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, one of the most influential ladies of the ton, eyed him measuringly. “But circumstances aside, we’ll need to talk, my lad, about your bride. You must marry, and soon-you’ve been dragging your heels for the past decade, but now the time has come, and you’ll have to choose.”

“We’re here to bury my father.” Royce’s accent made the statement a none-too-subtle rebuke.

Lady Augusta snorted. “Indeed.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Which is precisely my point. No mourning for you-in the circumstances the ton will excuse you, and gladly.”

“Lady Augusta!” Minerva hurried down the main stairs, all but tripping in her haste to rescue them all. “We were expecting you yesterday and wondered what had happened.”

“Hubert happened, or rather Westminster called, and he was delayed, so we set out rather later than I’d wished.” Augusta turned to envelop her in a warm embrace. “And how are you, child? Managing with the son as well as you did with the father, heh?”

Minerva shot Royce a look, prayed he’d keep his mouth shut. “I’m not sure about that, but do come upstairs, both of you.” She linked her arm with Augusta’s, then did the same with Hubert on her other side. “Helena and Horatia are already here. They’re in the upstairs salon in the west wing.”

Chatting easily, she determinedly towed the pair up the stairs. As she turned them along the gallery, she glanced down and saw Royce standing where they’d left him, an expression like a thundercloud on his usually impassive face.

Meeting his eyes, she fleetingly shrugged, brows high; she had yet to learn what was fueling the grandes dames’ avid interest in the matter of his bride.

Correctly interpreting her look, Royce watched her guide the pair out of his sight, even more certain that Letitia had been right.

Whatever was coming, he wasn’t going to like it.