Mastered by Love

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

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

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

  Three pairs of eyes narrowed; three expressions grew flinty.

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

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

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

  All three frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

  With an irritated “humph!” Letitia went.

  Closing the door, he turned back to his desk.

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

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

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

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

  He bowed. “Jack Warnefleet, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “At once, ma’am.”

  She looked at Jack Warnefleet. “Sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Minerva felt mildly relieved.

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

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

  Letitia’s face blanked. “Oh.”

  “Ah…” Penny grimaced.

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

  Minerva exhaled. “Precisely.” They understood.

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

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

  The others watched her, waited.

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

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

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

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

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

  Letitia frowned. “When did he decide that?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Of course he told you.” Penny humphed.

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

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

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

  Their expressions stated that they fully understood.

  “So what happened last night?” Clarice asked.

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

  Complete silence reigned for several minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

  They didn’t rush to reassure her.

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

  Clarice grimaced. Penny did, too.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Excellent advice,” Clarice affirmed.

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

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

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

  “Yes.” She slowly nodded. “He might.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Over seventeen years, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “He didn’t?”

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

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

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

  Penny nodded. “Something more cut and dried.”

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

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

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

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

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

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