Mastered By Love

Five

That evening, Royce walked into the great drawing room in no good mood; neither he, Minerva, nor Trevor had yet managed to learn exactly what was going on. The large room was crowded, not just with family but also with the elite of the ton, including representatives of the Crown and the Lords, all gathered for the funeral tomorrow, and talking in hushed tones as they waited for the summons to dine.

Halting just over the threshold, Royce surveyed the assembly-and instantly perceived the answer to his most pressing need. The most powerful grande dame of them all, Lady Therese Osbaldestone, was seated between Helena and Horatia on the chaise before the fireplace. She might have been a mere baroness in the company of duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses, yet she wielded more power, political and social, than any other lady of the ton.

More, she was on excellent terms with said duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses; whatever she decreed, they would support. Therein lay much of her power, especially over the male half of society.

Royce had always treated her with respect. Power, the amassing and wielding of it, was something he understood; it was bred in his marrow-something her ladyship appreciated.

She must have arrived while he was out riding.

He walked to the chaise, inclined his head to her companions, then to her. “Lady Osbaldestone.”

Intensely black eyes-true obsidian-fixed on his face. She nodded, trying to read him, and failing. “Wolverstone.”

It was the first time she’d called him that-the first time he’d felt the weight of the mantle on his shoulders. Taking the hand she offered, he bowed, careful not to overdo the observance; she respected those who knew their place, knew what was due to them.

“My condolences on your father’s death. Sadly, it comes to us all, although in his case the timing could have been better.”

He inclined his head, declined to rise to the lure.

She uttered a soft “humph.” “We need to talk-later.”

He acquiesced with a half bow. “Later.”

Swallowing his impatience, he moved away, letting those of his relatives and connections he’d thus far avoided have at him. Weathering their greetings and accepting their condolences grated on his nerves; he was relieved when Minerva joined the circle about him and set about distracting those he’d already spoken with, subtly but effectively moving them on.

Then Retford announced that dinner was served. Minerva caught his eye, whispered as she passed close, “Lady Augusta.”

He assumed that was who he was to lead in to dinner; he located the marchioness-yet his senses, ensorcelled simply by Minerva passing so close, continued to track her.

She wasn’t doing anything to attract his notice. In her weeds, she should have faded into the sea of black surrounding him; instead she-just she-seemed to shine in his awareness. The dull black suited her golden loveliness. With an effort hauling his mind from slaveringly dwelling on the loveliness inside the dull black, he surrendered to duty and strolled to Lady Augusta, while trying to push the lingering, elusive, wantonly feminine scent of his chatelaine from his brain.

The conversations in the drawing room had been muted. Continuing the trend, dinner proved an unexpectedly somber meal, as if everyone had suddenly recalled why they were there-and who no longer was. For the first time since he’d viewed the body, he felt touched by his father’s absence, sitting in the great carver where his sire used to sit, looking down the long table, lined by more than sixty others, to Margaret sitting at the other end.

A different perspective, one not previously his.

His gaze tracked back to Minerva, seated toward the table’s center, opposite Susannah, and surrounded by his cousins. There were nine male cousins present from both sides of his family, Variseys and Debraighs; given the numbers attending, his younger female cousins weren’t expected.

His maternal uncle, the Earl of Catersham, was seated on Margaret’s right, while the eldest of his paternal aunts, Winifred, Countess Barraclough, sat on Royce’s left. Beyond her sat his heir, Lord Edwin Varisey, the third brother of his grandfather’s generation, while on his right, next to Lady Augusta and facing Edwin, was his cousin several times removed, Gordon Varisey, eldest son of the late Cameron Varisey, Edwin’s younger brother; after the childless Edwin, Gordon stood next in line for the ducal crown.

Edwin was an ancient fop. Gordon was dark and dour, but underneath a sound man. Neither expected to inherit the dukedom, which was just as well; despite his resistance to discussing the subject with all and sundry, Royce had every intention of marrying and siring an heir to whom he would pass the title. What he failed to comprehend was why he needed the help of the grandes dames to achieve that goal, and why it had to be achieved so urgently.

Luckily, the mood of the dinner, with the ladies in dull black, gray, or deep purple, with no jewels beyond jet and no fans or furbelows, and the gentlemen in black coats, many sporting black cravats, had suppressed all talk of his nuptials. Conversations continued to be low-voiced, constant, yet no one laughed, or smiled other than wistfully; across him, Augusta, Winifred, and Edwin swapped tales of his father, to which he pretended to pay attention.

Then the covers were drawn, and Margaret rose and led the ladies back to the drawing room, leaving the men to enjoy port and brandy in relative peace. Some of the formality eased as gentlemen moved to form groups along the table. Royce’s cousins congregated in the center, while the older men gravitated to flank his uncle Catersham at the far end.

His friends came to join him, filling the chairs the ladies and Edwin and Gordon had vacated. Joining them, Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, passing behind his chair, briefly clasped his shoulder. His pale green eyes met Royce’s as he glanced up. Devil had lost his father and succeeded to his dukedom when he’d been fifteen. With a nod, Devil moved on, leaving Royce reflecting that at least he was shouldering the burden at a significantly older age; then again, Devil had had his uncle, George, to rely on, and George Cynster was a wise, knowledgeable, and capable man.

Devil took the seat next to Christian, easily sliding into the camaraderie of the group; they all opted for whisky, and sat savoring the smoky liquor, lazily exchanging the latest sporting news, and a few salaciously risquй on-dits.

With his impatience to learn what Lady Osbaldestone would tell him steadily mounting, as soon as it was reasonable he led the gentlemen back to the drawing room. Devil ambled beside him; they stopped shoulder to shoulder just inside the room, letting the other men pass by.

Royce surveyed the gathering; from the glances that came his way, many conversations had reverted to the subject of his bride. “At least no one’s expecting you to marry tomorrow.”

Devil’s black brows rose. “You obviously haven’t spoken to my mother on that subject.”

“She called you recalcitrant.”

“Indeed. And you have to remember she’s French, which is the excuse she uses to be as outrageous as she pleases in pursuit of her goal.”

“You’re hardly in your dotage,” Royce returned. Devil was six years younger than he. “And you’ve a string of acceptable heirs. What’s the rush?”

“Precisely my question,” Devil purred, his green eyes fixed on someone in the crowd. Then he slanted a glance at Royce, one brow arching. “Your chatelaine…?”

A fist clamped about his heart. The effort not to react-not to snarl and show his teeth-almost stole his breath. He waited a heartbeat, his eyes locked with Devil’s, then quietly murmured, “No.” After an instant, he added, “I believe she’s spoken for.”

“Is she?” Devil held his gaze for an instant longer, then he glanced across the room-at Minerva. “Earlier, she just frowned and told me to go away.”

“Unlike most ladies, she probably meant it.” Royce couldn’t stop himself from adding, “If I were you, I’d take her at her word. Heaven knows, I do.” He imbued the last words with sufficient masculine long-suffering to have Devil grin once more.

“Ah, well-I won’t be here that long.”

“Abstinence, they say, is good for the soul.”

Devil shot him a look as if asking who he thought he was fooling, then wandered off into the crowd.

Royce watched him go, and muttered to himself, “However, abstinence is hell on the temper.” And his was worse that most to begin with.

In search of relief, he located Lady Osbaldestone and would have immediately gone to her side, except for the numerous guests who lined up to waylay him.

Not family, but the ton’s elite, including Lord Haworth, representing the Crown, and Lord Hastings, representing the Lords. None were people he could dismiss with just a word, not even a word and a smile; he had to interact, engage in social exchanges all too often layered with multiple mean ings…he was reaching, had come close to socially stumbling, when Minerva appeared beside him, serenely calm, a stately smile on her lips, and the hints he needed ready on her tongue.

After just a few words, he realized she was an adept in this sphere, and gratefully, if reluctantly, attached himself to her apron strings. The alternative was too damning to permit him to indulge in any pretense.

He needed her. So he had to metaphorically grit his teeth and bear the sexual abrasion of her nearness-it was that or come to social grief, and he’d be damned if he did that. Failure in anything had never been an option, yet this arena was not one in which he’d had any real experience. Yet now he was Wolverstone, people expected him to simply take on the mantle; they seemed to have forgotten the sixteen years he’d spent outside their pale.

For the next half hour, Minerva was his anchor, his guide, his savior.

Courtesy of her vows, she had to be, or, damn him, he’d founder on the social shoals, or come to grief on the jagged rocks of political repartee.

She managed the glib exchanges with half her brain-the other half was entirely consumed by something akin to panic. A frenzied awareness of what would happen if he brushed her shoulder with his arm, if, for some benighted reason, he thought to take her hand. Beneath her smiles, underneath her ready replies, ran an expectation of disaster that clenched her lungs tight, leaving her nearly breathless, every nerve taut, ready to leap with hypersensitive reaction.

At one point, after she’d excused them from a group where the exchanges had looked set to grow too pointed for his-or her-good, he seized the moment of fleeting privacy to lower his head, lower his voice, and ask, “Was my father any good at this?”

Ruthlessly suppressing the effect of the subtle caress of his breath over her ear, she shot him a glance. “Yes, he was.”

His lips twisted in a grimace. “So I’m going to have to learn how to manage this, too.”

It was the look in his eyes as he glanced around, more than his words, that had her feeling sorry for him; he’d had to take on the business of the dukedom unprepared, and he had made and was making a huge effort in that regard, and succeeding. But this arena of high-level political and social games was one in which he also had to perform, and for that his exile-from the age of twenty-two to thirty-seven-had left him even less well prepared.

“You’re Wolverstone now, so yes, you’ll have to learn.” She had every confidence that, if he applied himself-his incredible intellect, his excellent memory, and his well-honed will-he would succeed. To ensure he accepted the challenge, she added, “And I won’t be forever by your side.”

He met her gaze at that, his eyes so dark she couldn’t read anything in them. Then he nodded and looked ahead as the next wave of guests approached.

The next time they moved on, Royce murmured, “I’ve been commanded to attend Lady Osbaldestone.” Her ladyship was conversing with one of his cousins at the side of the room just ahead of them. “I can manage her if you’ll keep the rest at bay. I need to speak with her alone.”

Minerva caught his eye. “About this bride business?”

He nodded. “She knows the reason-and once I prostrate myself before her, will take great delight in informing me of it, no doubt.”

“In that case, go.” She smoothly stepped forward to intercept the next couple seeking an audience with him.

Lady Osbaldestone saw him approaching, and with a few words dismissed his cousin Rohan; hands folded over the head of the cane she didn’t really need, she waited before one of the long windows for him to join her.

She arched a brow as he halted before her. “I take it you have, by now, been informed of the need for you to wed with all speed.”

“Indeed. In various ways, by a number of your cronies.” He fixed his eyes on hers. “What I don’t understand is the reason behind the supreme urgency.”

She stared at him for a moment, then blinked. She regarded him for an instant more, then murmured, “I suppose, having been in social exile…then you were summoned back here before…” Lips compressing, she narrowed her eyes. “I suppose it’s conceivable that, omniscient though you are rumored to be, you might not have been alerted to the recent developments.”

“Obviously not. I will be eternally grateful if you would enlighten me.”

She snorted. “You won’t be grateful, but clearly someone must. Consider these facts. One, Wolverstone is one of the wealthiest duchies in England. Two, it was created as a marcher lordship. Three, your heir is Edwin, already one step away from senile, and after him, Gordon, who while arguably a legally entitled heir, is nevertheless sufficiently distant to be challenged.”

He frowned. “By whom?”

“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “The source of the threat.” She held his gaze. “The Crown.”

His eyes narrowed. “Prinny?” His voice was flat, his tone disbelieving.

“He’s neck-deep in debt, and sinking ever faster. I won’t bore you with the details, but I and others have heard from reliable sources close to our dear prince that the search for plunderable funds is on in earnest, and Wolverstone has been mentioned, specifically along the lines of, if anything should, heaven forbid, happen to you, then as matters stand it might be possible to press for the title, and all its entailed wealth, to revert to the Crown in escheat.”

He could understand the reasoning, but…“There’s a significant difference between Prinny, or more likely one of those panderers close to him, making such a suggestion, and it actually being acted upon, even were something to mysteriously happen to me.”

Lady Osbaldestone frowned; something like exasperated alarm showed briefly in her eyes. “Don’t shrug this off. If you were married, Prinny and his vultures would lose interest and look elsewhere, but while you aren’t…” She closed a clawlike hand about his arm. “Royce, accidents happen-you of all people know how easily. And there are those around the Regent who are already looking to the day he’ll be king, and how he might reward those who can put him in their debt.”

When he continued to regard her impassively, she released him and arched a brow. “Did Haworth say anything beyond the expected comments on your father’s demise?”

He frowned. “He asked if I had suffered any injury during my service to the Crown.”

“I thought you served from behind a desk in Whitehall.”

“Not always.”

Her brows rose. “Indeed? And who knew that?”

Only Prinny and his closest advisors.

She knew the answer without him saying. She nodded. “Precisely. ’Ware, Wolverstone. That’s who you now are, and your duty is clear. You have to marry without delay.”

He studied her eyes, her face, for several heartbeats, then inclined his head. “Thank you for telling me.”

He turned and walked away.

The actual funeral-the event he and the castle’s household had spent the last week and more preparing for, that a good portion of the ton had traveled into Northumbria for-was something of an anticlimax.

Everything went smoothly. Royce had arranged for Hamish and Molly to be given seats at the front of the side chapel, ahead of those reserved for the senior household staff and various local dignitaries. He saw them there, exchanged nods across the church. The nave was filled with the nobility and aristocracy; even using the side aisles, there was barely room enough for all the visitors.

The family spread over the front pews to both sides of the central aisle. Royce stood at the center end of the first pew, conscious of his sisters and their husbands ranged beside him, of his father’s sisters and Edwin in the pew across the aisle. Even though the ladies were veiled, there was not a single tear to be found among them; Variseys all, they stood stone-faced, unmoved.

Minerva also wore a fine black veil. She was at the center end of the pew one row back and opposite his. He could see her, watch her, from the corner of his eye. His uncle Catersham and his wife were beside her; his uncle had given Minerva his other arm into the church and up the aisle.

As the service rolled on, he noted that her head remained bowed, that her hand remained clenched tight about a handkerchief-putting sharp creases in the limp, damp square of lace-edged linen. His father had been a martinet, an arrogant despot, a tyrant with a lethal temper. Of all those here, she had lived most closely with him, been most frequently exposed to his flaws, yet she was the only one who truly mourned him, the only one whose grief was deeply felt and sincere.

Except, perhaps, for him, but males of his ilk never cried.

As was customary, only the gentlemen attended the burial in the churchyard while a procession of carriages ferried the ladies back to the castle for the wake.

Royce was among the last to arrive back; with Miles beside him, he walked into the drawing room, and found all proceeding as smoothly as the funeral itself. Retford and the staff had all in hand. He looked around for Minerva, and found her arm-in-arm with Letitia, looking out of one window, their heads bent close.

He hesitated, then Lady Augusta beckoned and he went to hear what she wished to say. Whether the grandes dames had issued a directive he didn’t know, but not one lady had mentioned marriage, not even any eligible candidate, at least not within his hearing, at any time that day.

Grateful, he circulated, imagining his chatelaine would say he ought to…he missed hearing her words, missed having her beside him, subtly, and if he didn’t respond not so subtly, steering him.

The wake didn’t end so much as dissolve. Some guests, including all those who had to hasten back to political life, had arranged to depart at its close; they left as their carriages were announced. He shook their hands, bade them Godspeed, and watched their coaches dwindle with relief.

Those who intended to remain-a core of the ton including most of the grandes dames as well as many of the family-drifted off in twos and threes, going out to stroll the lawns, or to sit in groups and slowly, gradually, let their customary lives, their usual interests, reclaim them.

After waving the last carriage away, then seeing Minerva step onto the terrace with Letitia and Rupert’s Rose, Royce escaped to the billiard room, unsurprised to find his friends, and Christian and Devil, already there.

They played a few sets, but their hearts weren’t in it.

As the sun slowly sank, streaking the sky with streamers of red and purple, they lounged in the comfortable chairs about the fireplace, punctuating the silence with the occasional comment about this or that.

It was into that enfolding, lengthening silence that Devil eventually murmured, “About your wedding…”

Slumped in a wing chair, Royce slowly turned his head to regard Devil with an unblinking stare.

Devil sighed. “Yes, I know-I’m the last one to talk. But George and Catersham both had to leave-and both apparently had been asked to bring the matter to your attention. Both tapped me on the shoulder to stand in their stead. Odd, but there you have it.”

Royce glanced at the five men slumped in various poses around him; there wasn’t one he wouldn’t trust with his life. Letting his head fall back, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “Lady Osbaldestone spun me a tale of a hypothetical threat to the title that the grandes dames have taken it into their heads to treat seriously-hence they believe I should marry with all speed.”

“Wise money says the threat isn’t entirely hypothetical.”

It was Christian who spoke; Royce felt a chill touch his spine. Of those present, Christian would best appreciate how Royce would feel about such a threat. He also had the best intelligence of dark deeds plotted in the capital.

Keeping his gaze on the ceiling, Royce asked, “Has anyone else heard anything of this?”

They all had. Each had been waiting for a moment to speak with him privately, not realizing the others had similar warnings to deliver.

Then Devil pulled a letter from his pocket. “I have no idea what’s in this. Montague knew I was coming north and asked me to give this to you-into your hand-after the funeral. Specifically after, which seems to be now.”

Royce took the letter and broke the seal. The others were silent while he read the two sheets it contained. Reaching the end, he slowly folded the sheets; his gaze on them, he reported, “According to Montague, Prinny and his merry men have been making inquiries over how to effect the return of a marcher lord title and estate in escheat. The good news is that such a maneuver, even if successfully executed, would take a number of years to effect, given the claim would be resisted at every turn, and the escheat challenged in the Lords. And as we all know, Prinny’s need is urgent and his vision short-term. However, invoking all due deference, Montague suggests that it would be wise were my nuptials to occur within the next few months, because some of Prinny’s men are not so shortsighted as their master.”

Lifting his head, Royce looked at Christian. “In your professional opinion, do I stand in any danger of being assassinated to bolster Prinny’s coffers?”

Christian grinned. “No. Realistically, for Prinny to claim the estate your death would need to look like an accident, and while you’re at Wolverstone, that would be all but impossible to arrange.” He met Royce’s gaze. “Especially not with you.”

Only Christian and the other members of the Bastion Club knew that one of Royce’s less well-known roles over the past sixteen years had been as secret executioner for the government; given his particular skills, killing him would not be easy.

Royce nodded. “Very well-so it seems the threat is potentially real, but the degree of urgency is perhaps not as great as the grandes dames think.”

“True.” Miles caught Royce’s eyes. “But that’s not going to make all that much difference, is it? Not to the grandes dames.”

The day had finally come to an end. Minerva had one last duty to perform before she retired to her bed; she felt wrung out, more emotionally exhausted than she’d expected, yet once everyone else had retired to their rooms, she forced herself to go to the duchess’s morning room, retrieve the folio, then walk through the darkened corridors of the keep to the study.

She was reaching for the doorknob when she realized someone was inside. There was no lamplight showing beneath the door, but the faint line of moonlight was broken by a shadow, one that moved repetitively back and forth…

Royce was there. Pacing again.

Angry.

She looked at the door-and simply knew, as if she could somehow sense his mood even through the oak panel. She wondered, felt the weight of the folio in her hand…raising her free hand, she rapped once, then gripped the knob, opened the door, and went in.

He was a dense, dark shadow before the uncurtained window. He whirled as she entered. “Leave-”

His gaze struck her. She felt its impact, felt the dark intensity as his eyes locked on her. Realized that, courtesy of the faint moonlight coming through the window, he could see her, her movements, her expression, far better than she could his.

Moving slowly, deliberately, she closed the door behind her.

He’d stilled. “What is it?” His tone was all lethal, cutting fury, barely leashed.

Cradling the folio in her arms, resisting the urge to clutch it to her chest, she said, “Lady Osbaldestone told me the reason the grandes dames believe you need to wed as soon as practicable. She said she’d told you.”

He nodded tersely. “She did.”

Minerva could sense the depth of the anger he was, temporarily, suppressing; to her, expert in Varisey temper that she was, it seemed more than the situation should have provoked. “I know this has to be the last thing you expected to face, to have forced on you at this time, but…” She narrowed her eyes, trying to see his expression through the wreathing shadows. “You’d expected to marry-most likely in a year’s time. This brings the issue forward, but doesn’t materially change all that much…does it?”

Royce watched her trying to understand-to comprehend his fury. She stood there, not the least afraid when most men he knew would be edging out of the door-indeed, wouldn’t have come in in the first place.

And of all those he considered friend, she was the only one who might understand, probably would understand…

“It’s not that.” He swung back to stare out of the window-at the lands it was his duty to protect. To hold. “Consider this.” He heard the harshness in his voice, the bitterness, felt all his pent-up, frustrated anger surge; he gripped the windowsill tightly. “I spent the last sixteen years of my life essentially in exile-a social exile I accepted as necessary so that I could serve the Crown, as the Crown requested, and as the country needed. And now…the instant I resign my commission, and unexpectedly inherit the title, I discover I have to marry immediately to protect that title and my estate…from the Crown.”

He paused, dragged in a huge breath, let it out with “Could it be any more ironic?” He had to move; he paced, then turned, viciously dragged a hand through his hair. “How dare they? How…” Words failed him; he gestured wildly.

“Ungrateful?” she supplied.

“Yes!” That was it, the core fueling his fury. He’d served loyally and well, and this was how they repaid him? He halted, stared out again.

Silence descended.

But not the cold, uncaring, empty silence he was used to.

She was there with him; this silence held a warmth, an enfolding comfort he’d never before known.

She hadn’t moved; she was a good ten and more feet away, safely separated from him by the bulk of the desk, yet he could still feel her, sense her…feel an effect. As if her just being there, listening and understanding, was providing some balm to his excoriated soul.

He waited, but she said nothing, didn’t try to make light of what he’d said-didn’t make any comment that would provoke him to turn his temper-currently a raging, snarling beast-on her.

She really did know what not to do-and to do. And when.

He was about to tell her to go, leaving him to his now muted, less anguished thoughts, when she spoke, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Tomorrow I’ll start making a list of likely candidates. While the grandes dames are here, and inclined to be helpful, we may as well make use of their knowledge and pick their brains.”

It was the sort of comment he might have made, uttered with the same cynical inflection. He inclined his head.

He expected her to leave, but she hesitated…He remembered the book she’d held in her hands just as she said, “I came here to leave you this.”

Turning his head, he watched her walk forward and lay the book-a folio-on his blotter. Stepping back, she clasped her hands before her. “I thought you should have it.”

He frowned; leaving the window, he pushed his chair aside and stood looking down at the black folio. “What is it?” Reaching out, he opened the front cover, then shifted so the moonlight fell on the page revealed. The sheet was inscribed with his full name, and the courtesy title he’d previously used. Turning that page, he found the next covered with sections cut from news sheets, neatly stuck, with dates written beneath in a hand he recognized.

Minerva drew breath, said, “Your mother started it. She used to read the news sheets after your father had finished with them. She collected any piece that mentioned you.”

Although the details of his command had been secret, the fact of it hadn’t been, and he’d never been backward in claiming recognition for the men who’d served under him. Wellington, in particular, had been assiduous in mentioning the value of the intelligence provided, and the aid rendered, by Dalziel’s command; notices of commendations littered the folio’s pages.

He turned more leaves. After a moment, he said, “This is your writing.”

“I was her amanuensis-I stuck the pieces in and noted the dates.”

He did as she’d thought he would, and flipped forward to where the entries ended. Paused. “This is the notice from the Gazette announcing the end of my commission. It ran…” His finger tapped the date. “Two weeks ago.” He glanced at her. “You continued after my mother died?”

Her eyes had adjusted; she held his gaze. This was the difficult part. “Your father knew.” His face turned to stone, but…he kept listening. “I think he’d always known, at least for many years. I kept the folio, so I knew when it moved. Someone was leafing through it-not the staff. It always happened late at night. So I kept watch, and saw him. Every now and then he’d go to the morning room very late, and sit and go through it, reading the latest about you.”

He looked down, and she went on, “After your mother died, he insisted I kept it up. He’d circle any mention as he went through the news sheets, so I wouldn’t miss any relevant article.”

A long silence ensued; she was about to step back, and leave him with his parents’ memento of his last sixteen years, when he said, his voice low, soft, “He knew I was coming home.”

He was still looking down. She couldn’t see his face. “Yes. He was…waiting.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “He didn’t know how you would feel, but he…wanted to see you. He was…eager. I think that’s why he got confused, thinking you were here, that you’d already come, because he’d been seeing you here again in his mind.”

Her throat closed up. There wasn’t anything more she had to say.

She forced herself to murmur, “Tomorrow I’ll bring you that list once I’ve made it.”

Turning, she walked to the door, went through without looking back, and left him to his parents’ memories.

Royce heard her go, despite the sorrow pouring through him, wished she’d stayed. Yet if she had…

She could make her list, but there was only one lady he wanted in his bed.

Reaching out blindly, he found his chair, drew it closer, then sat and stared at the folio. In the quiet darkness, no one could see if he cried.

By eleven the next morning, Minerva had made an excellent start on a list of potential candidates for the position of Duchess of Wolverstone.

Sitting in the duchess’s morning room, she wrote down all she’d thus far gleaned of the young ladies and why each in particular had been suggested.

She felt driven, after last night even more so, to see the matter of Royce’s wedding dealt with as expeditiously as possible. What she felt for him…it was ridiculous-she knew it was-yet her infatuation-obsession was only growing and deepening. The physical manifestations-and the consequent difficulties-were bad enough, but the tightness in her chest, around her heart, the sheer sorrow she’d felt last night, not for his dead father but for him, the nearly overwhelming urge to round his damned desk and lay a hand on his arm, to comfort him-even in the dangerous state he’d been in to recklessly offer comfort…

“No, no, no, and no!” Lips set, she added the latest name Lady Augusta had suggested to her neat list.

He was a Varisey, and she, better than anyone, knew what that meant.

A tap sounded on the door.

“Come!” She glanced up as Jeffers looked in.

He smiled. “His Grace asked if you could attend him, ma’am. In his study.”

She looked down at her list; it was complete to this moment. “Yes.” She rose and picked it up. “I’ll come right away.”

Jeffers accompanied her across the keep and held open the study door. She walked in to find Royce sitting behind his desk, frowning at the uncluttered expanse.

“I spoke with Handley this morning-he said that as far as he knew there were no estate matters pending.” He fixed her with an incipient glare. “That can’t be right.”

Handley, his secretary, had arrived earlier in the week, and to her immense relief had proved to be a thoroughly dependable, extremely efficient, exemplarily loyal man in his early thirties; he’d been a huge help through the preparations and the funeral itself. “Handley’s correct.” She sat in the chair before the wide desk. “We dealt with all matters likely to arise last week. Given we were going to have so many visitors at the castle, it seemed wise to clear your desk.” She looked at the expanse in question. “There’s nothing likely to land on it before next week.”

She looked at the list in her hand. “Except, of course, for this.” She held it out to him.

He hesitated, then, reluctantly, reached out and took it. “What is it?”

“A list of potential candidates for the position you need to fill.” She gave him a moment to cast his eyes over the page. “It’s only a partial list at present-I haven’t had a chance to check with Helena and Horatia yet-but you could start considering these ladies, if there’s any one that stands out…”

He tossed the list on his blotter. “I don’t wish to consider this subject now.”

“You’re going to have to.” She had to get him married so she could escape. “Aside from all else, the grandes dames are staying until Monday, and I have a strong suspicion they expect to hear a declaration from you before they leave.”

“They can go to the devil.”

“The devil wouldn’t have them, as you well know.” She dragged in a breath, reached for patience. “Royce, you know you have to decide on your bride. In the next few days. You know why.” She let her gaze fall to the list before him. “You need to make a start.”

“Not today.” Royce fixed her with a glare, one powerful enough to have her pressing her lips tight against the words he sensed were on her tongue.

The situation…was insupportable. Literally. He felt tense, edgy; his restlessness had developed an undercurrent with which he was familiar-he’d been without a woman too long.

Except he hadn’t. That wasn’t, exactly, the problem. His problem was sitting across his desk wanting to lecture him about the necessity of choosing some mindless ninnyhammer as his bride. As the lady who would share his bed.

Instead of her.

He needed…to get away from her before his temper-or his restlessness, both were equally dangerous-slipped its leash. Before she succeeded in prodding him to that extent. Unfortunately, his friends and their wives had left that morning; he’d wanted to beg them to stay, but hadn’t-they all had young families awaiting them at home, and had been eager to get back.

Devil had left, as well, driving himself down the Great North Road. He wished he could have gone, too; they could have raced each other back to London…except all he wanted, all he now needed, was here, at Wolverstone.

A good part of what he wanted sat across the desk, waiting to see what he was going to do, ready to counter it, to pressure him into making his choice…

He narrowed his eyes on her face. “Why are you so keen to assist the grandes dames in this matter”-he let his voice soften, grow quieter-“even against my wishes?” Eyes locked on hers, he raised his brows. “You’re my chatelaine, are you not?”

She held his gaze, then fractionally, instinctively, raised her chin. “I’m Wolverstone’s chatelaine.”

He was a master interrogator; he knew when he hit a vein. He considered her for a moment, then evenly said, “I am Wolverstone, a fact you haven’t forgotten, so what exactly do you mean?”

Her debating-whether-to-tell-him expression surfaced; he waited, outwardly patient, knowing she’d conclude that she had to.

Eventually, she dragged in a breath. “I made a vow-two vows. Or rather, the same vow twice. Once to your mother before she died, and then before he died, you father asked me for the same promise, which I gave.” Her eyes, a medley of autumn browns, held his. “I promised them I’d see you settled and properly established as the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.”

Minerva waited to hear his response to that-her unarguable excuse for pressing him to follow the grandes dames’ advice and choose a bride forthwith.

From the instant he’d started questioning her, his face-never all that informative-had become impossible to read. His expression was all stone, revealing no hint of his thoughts, much less his feelings.

Abruptly he pushed away from the desk.

Startled, she blinked, surprised when he stood. She got to her feet as he rounded the desk.

“I’m going riding.”

The growled words froze her where she stood.

For one instant, his eyes, full of dark fire and unreadable emotion, pinned her, then he stalked past her, flung open the door, and was gone.

Utterly stunned, she stared at the open doorway. And listened to his footsteps, angry and quick, fade away.

Hamish laughed so hard he fell off the wall.

Disgusted, when his half brother continued to chortle, Royce nudged his shoulder with his boot. “If you don’t stop, I’ll have to get down and thrash you to within an inch of your life.”

“Och, aye.” Hamish hauled in a breath and wiped tears from his eyes. “You and which sassenach army?”

Royce looked down at him. “We always won.”

“True.” Hamish struggled to tamp down his mirth. “You won the wars, but not every battle.” Staggering to his feet, he wheezed; one hand held to his side, he hoisted himself back up beside Royce.

They both looked out across the hills.

Hamish shook his curly head. “I still keep wanting to laugh-oh, not about why you need to bed your bride with all urgency-that’s the sort of thing our ancestors went to war over-but the notion of you-you-being hounded by these great ladies, all waving lists and wanting you to choose…heh, lad, you have to admit it’s funny.”

“Not from where I sit-and as yet it’s only Minerva waving a list.” Royce looked at his hands, loosely clasped between his knees. “But that’s not the worst of it. Choosing a bride, having a wedding-doing it all now-that’s merely an irritation. But…I’m not sure I can manage the estate, and everything that’s bound up in that-the social, the political, the business, the people-without Minerva, but she’s not going to stay once I marry.”

Hamish frowned. “That would be a loss.” A moment passed, then he said, “Nay-I can’t see it. She’s more Wolverstone than you. She’s lived here, what? Twenty years? I can’t see her leaving, not unless you want her to.”

Royce nodded. “So I thought, but I’ve since learned better. When I first returned, she told me she wouldn’t be my chatelaine forever, that when I married and she could pass the keys to my wife, she’d leave. That sounded reasonable at the time, but since then I’ve learned how important she is to the estate, how much she contributes to its management even outside the castle, and how vital she is to me-I honestly couldn’t have survived the last days without her, not socially. I’d have fallen on my face more than once if she hadn’t been there, literally by my side, to get me over the hurdles.” He’d already explained about the social handicap his exile had saddled him with.

He looked out across the hills toward those that were his. “This morning she told me of the deathbed vows she’d made to my parents-to see me established as duke, which includes seeing me appropriately wed. They are what’s holding her here. I’d assumed she…wasn’t averse to being my chatelaine, that if I asked, she would stay.”

He’d thought she liked being his chatelaine, that she enjoyed the challenge he posed to her management skills, but…after hearing of her vows, he no longer felt he had any claim at all on her, on her loyalty, her…affection.

Given his continued desire for her, and her continued lack of desire for him, the news of those vows had shaken him-and he wasn’t accustomed to that sort of shaking. Never had he felt such a hollow, desolate feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t suppose,” Hamish suggested, looking toward Wolverstone, too, “that there’s an easy way out of this?”

“What easy way?”

“Mayhap Minerva’s name could find its way onto your list?”

“Would that it could, but neither she nor anyone else will put it there. This morning’s list named six young ladies, all of whom have significant fortunes and hail from the senior noble families in the realm. Minerva’s well-bred, but not in that league, and her fortune can’t compare. Not that any of that matters to me, but it does to society, and therefore to her because of her damned vows.” He drew breath, held it. “But aside from all that-and I swear if you laugh at this I will hit you-she’s one of those rare females who have absolutely no interest in me.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hamish suck in his lips, trying manfully not to be hit. A very long pregnant moment passed, then Hamish dragged in a huge breath, and managed to get out, “Mayhap she’s grown hardened to the Varisey charm, seeing as she’s lived among you so long.”

His voice had quavered only a little, not enough for Royce to retaliate. It had been decades since he’d felt that going a few rounds with Hamish-one of the few men he’d have to work to fight-might make him feel better. Might let him release some of the tension inside.

That tension sang in his voice as he replied, “Presumably. Regardless, all those facts rule out the easy way-I want no reluctant, sacrificial bride. She’s not attracted to me, she wants me to marry appropriately so she can leave, yet if I offer for her, in the circumstances she might feel she has to, against all her expectations and inclinations, agree. I couldn’t stomach that.”

“Och, no.” Hamish’s expression suggested he couldn’t stomach it, either.

“Unfortunately, her resistance to the Varisey charm rules out the not-quite-so-easy way, too.”

Hamish frowned. “What’s that?”

“Once I fill the position of my duchess, I’ll be free to take a mistress, a long-term lover I can keep by my side.”

“You’d think to make Minerva your lover?”

Royce nodded. “Yes.”

He wasn’t surprised by the silence that followed, but when it lengthened, he frowned and glanced at Hamish. “You were supposed to clout me over the ear and tell me I shouldn’t have such lecherous thoughts about a lady like Minerva Chesterton.”

Hamish glanced at him, then shrugged. “In that depart ment, who am I to judge? I’m me, you’re you, and our father was something else again. But”-tilting his head, he stared toward Wolverstone-“strange to say, I could see it might work-you marrying one of those hoity ton misses, and having Minerva as your lover-cum-chatelaine.”

Royce grunted. “It would work, if she wasn’t unresponsive to me.”

Hamish frowned. “About that…have you tried?”

“To seduce her? No. Just think-I have to work closely with her, need to interact with her on a daily basis. If I made an advance and she rejected me, it would make life hellishly awkward for us both. And what if, after that, she decided to leave immediately despite her vows? I can’t go that route.”

He shifted on the wall. “Besides, if you want the honest truth, I’ve never seduced a woman in my life-I wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it.”

Hamish overbalanced and fell off the wall again.

Where was Royce? What was his nemesis up to?

Although the bulk of the guests had left, Allardyce, thank heaven, among them, enough remained for him to feel confident he still had sufficient cover, but the thinning crowd should have made his cousin easier to see, to keep track of.

In the billiard room with his male cousins, he played, laughed, and joked, and inwardly obsessed over what Royce might be doing. He wasn’t with Minerva, who was sitting with the grandes dames, and he wasn’t in his study because his footman wasn’t standing outside the door.

He hadn’t wanted to come to Wolverstone, but now he was there, the opportunity to linger, mingling with his other cousins who, together with Royce’s sisters, were planning what would amount to a highly select house party to capitalize on the fact they were there, together and out of sight of the ton, and, more importantly, their spouses, was tempting.

Yet his long-standing fear-that if Royce were to see him, were to look at him often enough, those all-seeing dark eyes would strike through his mask and Royce would see the truth, would know and act-remained, the nearness to his nemesis keeping it forever fermenting in one part of his brain.

From the first step he’d taken down the long road to becoming the successful-still living-traitorous spy he was, he’d known that the one being above all others he had to fear was Royce. Because once Royce knew, Royce would kill him without remorse. Not because he was an enemy, a traitor, not because he’d struck at Royce, but because he was family. Royce would not hesitate to erase such a blot on the family’s escutcheon.

Royce was far more like his father than he believed.

For years he’d carried his fear inside him, held close, a smoldering, cankerous coal forever burning a hole in his gut.

Yet now temptation whispered. While so many of his cousins remained at Wolverstone, he, too, could stay.

And over the years of living with his fear, of coming to know it so intimately, he’d realized there was, in fact, one way to make the living torment end.

For years he’d thought it could only end with his death.

Recently he’d realized it could end with Royce’s.