Mastered By Love (10 page)

 

His sisters, by comparison, were a minor irritation.

 

Minerva was…a serious problem.

 

Especially as everything she said, everything she urged, everything she was, appealed to him—not the cold, calm, calculating, and risk-averse duke, but the other side of him—the side that rode young stallions just broken to the saddle over hill and dale at a madman’s pace.

 

The side that was neither cold, nor risk-averse.

 

He didn’t know what to do with her, how he could safely manage her.

 

He glanced at the clock on a bureau by the wall, then looked at Retford. “Show Collier up.”

 

Retford bowed and withdrew.

 

Royce looked at Minerva. “It’s nearly time to dress for dinner. I’ll see Collier, and arrange for him to read the will after dinner. If you can organize with Jeffers to show him to a room, and to have him fed…?”

 

“Yes, of course.” She rose, met his gaze as he came to his feet. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

 

She turned and walked to the door; Royce watched while she opened it, then went out, then he exhaled and sank back into his chair.

 

 

Dinner was consumed in a civil but restrained atmosphere. Margaret and Aurelia had decided to be careful; both avoided subjects likely to irritate him, and, in the main, held their tongues.

 

Susannah made up for their silence by relating a number of the latest on-dits, censored in deference to their father’s death. Nevertheless, she added a welcome touch of liveliness to which his brothers-in-law responded with easy good humor.

 

They dined in the family dining room. Although much smaller than the one in the main dining salon, the table still sat fourteen; with only eight of them spread along the board, there remained plenty of space between each place, further assisting Royce’s hold on his temper.

 

The meal, the first he’d shared with his sisters for sixteen years, passed better than he’d hoped. As the covers were drawn, he announced that the reading of the will would take place in the library.

 

Margaret frowned. “The drawing room would be more convenient.”

 

He raised his brows, set his napkin beside his plate. “If
you wish you may repair to the drawing room. I, however, am going to the library.”

 

She compressed her lips, but rose and followed.

 

Collier, a neat individual in his late fifties, bespectacled, brushed, and burnished, was waiting, a trifle nervous, but once they’d settled on the chaise and chairs, he cleared his throat, and started to read. His diction was clear and precise enough for everyone to hear as he read through clause after clause.

 

There were no surprises. The dukedom in its entirety, entailed and private property and all invested funds, was left to Royce; aside from minor bequests and annuities, some new, others already in place, it was his to do with as he pleased.

 

Margaret and Aurelia sat silently throughout. Their handsome annuities were confirmed, but not increased; Minerva doubted they’d expected anything else.

 

When Collier finished, and had asked if there were any questions, and received none, she rose from the straight-backed chair she’d occupied and asked Margaret if she would like to repair to the drawing room for tea.

 

Margaret thought, then shook her head. “No, thank you, dear. I think I’ll retire…” She glanced at Aurelia. “Perhaps Aurelia and I could have tea in my room?”

 

Aurelia nodded. “What with the travel and this sad business, I’m greatly fatigued.”

 

“Yes, of course. I’ll have them send up a tray.” Minerva turned to Susannah.

 

Who smiled lightly. “I believe I’ll retire, too, but I don’t want tea.” She paused as her elder sisters rose, then, arm in arm, passed on their way to the door, then she turned back to Minerva. “When are the rest of the family arriving?”

 

“Your aunts and uncles are expected tomorrow, and the rest will no doubt follow.”

 

“Good. If I’m to be trapped here with Margaret and Aurelia, I’m going to need company.” Susannah glanced around, then sighed. “I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Minerva spoke to Hubert, who asked for a tisane to be
sent to his room, then retreated. Peter and David had helped themselves to whisky from the tantalus, while Royce was talking with Collier by the desk. Leaving them all to their own devices, she left to order the tea tray and the tisane.

 

That done, she headed back to the library.

 

Peter and David passed her in the corridor; they exchanged good nights and continued on.

 

She hesitated outside the library door. She hadn’t seen Collier leave. She doubted Royce needed rescuing, yet she needed to ascertain if he required anything further from her that night. Turning the knob, she opened the door and stepped quietly inside.

 

The glow from the desk lamps and those by the chaise didn’t reach as far as the door. She halted in the shadows. Royce was still speaking with Collier, both standing in the space between the big desk and the window behind it, looking out at the night as they conversed.

 

She drew nearer, quietly, not wishing to intrude.

 

And heard Royce ask Collier for his opinion on the leasing arrangements for tied cottages.

 

“The foundation of the nation, Your Grace. All the great estates rely on the system—it’s been proven for generations, and is, legally speaking, solid and dependable.”

 

“I have a situation,” Royce said, “where it’s been suggested that some modification of the traditional form of lease might prove beneficial to all concerned.”

 

“Don’t be tempted, Your Grace. There’s much talk these days of altering traditional ways, but that’s a dangerous, potentially destructive road.”

 

“So your considered advice would be to leave matters as they are, and adhere to the standard, age-old form?”

 

Minerva stepped sideways into the shadows some way behind Royce’s back. She wanted to hear this, preferably without calling attention to her presence.

 

“Indeed, Your Grace. If I may make so bold”—Collier puffed out his chest—“you could not do better than to follow your late father’s lead in all such matters. He was a stickler
for the legal straight and narrow, and preserved and grew the dukedom significantly over his tenure. He was shrewd and wise, and never one for tampering with what worked well. My counsel would be that whenever any such questions arise, your best tack would be to ask yourself what your sire would have done, and do precisely that. Model yourself upon him, and all will go well—it’s what he would have wished.”

 

Hands clasped behind his back, Royce inclined his head. “Thank you for your advice, Collier. I believe you’ve already been given a room—if you encounter any difficulty relocating it, do ask one of the footmen.”

 

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Collier bowed low. “I wish you a good night.”

 

Royce nodded. He waited until Collier had closed the door behind him, before saying, “You heard?”

 

He knew she was there, behind him in the shadows. He’d known the instant she’d walked into the room.

 

“Yes, I heard.”

 

“And?” He made no move to turn from the window and the view of the dark night outside.

 

Drifting closer to the desk, Minerva drew a tight breath, then stated, “He’s wrong.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Your father didn’t wish you to be like him.”

 

He stilled, but didn’t turn around. After a moment, he asked, voice quiet, yet intense, “What do you mean?”

 

“In his last moments, when I was with him here, in the library, he gave me a message for you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you, so you would understand what he meant.”

 

“Tell me now.” A harsh demand.

 

“He said: ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’”

 

A long silence ensued, then he asked, voice soft, quietly deadly, “And what, in your opinion, am I to understand by that?”

 

She swallowed. “He was speaking in the most general terms. The widest and broadest terms. He knew he was dying, and that was the one thing he felt he had to say to you.”

 

“And you believe he wished me to use that as a guide in dealing with the cottages?”

 

“I can’t say that—that’s for you to decide, to interpret. I can only tell you what he said that day.”

 

She waited. His fingers had clenched, each hand gripping the other tightly. Even from where she stood, she could feel the dangerous energy of his temper, eddies swirling and lashing, a tempest coalescing around him.

 

She felt an insane urge to go closer, to raise a hand and lay it on his arm, on muscles that would be tight and tensed, more iron than steel beneath her palm. To try, if she could, to soothe, to drain some of that restless energy, to bring him some release, some peace, some surcease.

 

“Leave me.” His tone was flat, almost grating.

 

Even though he couldn’t see, she inclined her head, then turned and walked—calmly, steadily—to the door.

 

Her hand was on the knob when he asked, “Is that all he said?”

 

She glanced back. He hadn’t moved from his stance before the window. “That was all he told me to tell you. ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’ Those, exactly those, were his last words.”

 

When he said nothing more, she opened the door, went out, and shut it behind her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.