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 department, 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.”