Mastered By Love (18 page)

 

Was she arguing because of her burgeoning feelings for him—was she trying to protect him, and if so, from what and why?—or was she right in thinking that them banding together in such a fashion and laying before him what he would certainly interpret—marcher lord that he was—as an ultimatum, was a very unwise, not to say outright bad, idea?

 

She now knew the answer. Very bad idea.

 

No one had seen him since that meeting in his study the previous afternoon. He hadn’t come down to dinner, electing to dine alone in his apartments, and then this morning he’d—so she’d learned—got up at dawn, breakfasted in the kitchens, then gone to the stables, taken Sword, and disappeared.

 

He could be anywhere, including Scotland.

 

She stood in the front hall surrounded by the grandes dames’ boxes and trunks, and took in the set, determined, positively mulish faces of those selfsame grandes dames as they perched on said trunks and boxes, having vowed not to stir a step further until Wolverstone—not one of them was calling him by his given name—gave them his decision.

 

They’d been sitting there for fully half an hour. Their carriages were lined up in the forecourt, ready to carry them away, but if they didn’t leave soon, they wouldn’t reach any major town before nightfall, so they would have to remain another night…she didn’t know if their tempers or hers would stand it; she didn’t want to think about Royce’s.

 

Her hearing was more acute than theirs; she heard a distant creak, then a thump—the west courtyard door opening and closing. Quietly, she turned and slipped into the corridor behind her, the one leading to the west wing.

 

Once out of sight of the front hall, she picked up her skirts
and hurried.

 

She rushed around a corner—and just managed not to collide with him again. His face still carved granite, he looked at her, then stepped around her and strode on.

 

Hauling in a breath, she whirled and hurried even more to catch up with him. “Royce—the grandes dames are waiting to leave.”

 

His stride didn’t falter. “So?”

 

“So you have to give them your decision.”

 

“What decision?”

 

She mentally cursed; his tone was far too mild. “The name of which lady you’ve chosen as your bride.”

 

The front hall loomed ahead. Voices carried in the corridors; the ladies had heard. They stirred, rising to their feet, looking at him expectantly.

 

He glanced back at her, then looked stonily at them. “No.”

 

The word was an absolute, incontestable negative.

 

Without breaking his stride, he inclined his head coldly as he strode past the assembled female might of the ton. “I wish you Godspeed.”

 

With that, he swung onto the main stairs, rapidly climbed them, and disappeared into the gallery above.

 

Leaving Minerva, and all the grandes dames, staring after him.

 

A moment of stunned silence ensued.

 

Dragging in a breath, she turned to the grandes dames—and discovered every eagle eye riveted on her.

 

Augusta gestured up the stairs. “Do you want to? Or should we?”

 

“No.” She didn’t want him saying something irretrievable and alienating any of them; they were, despite all, well disposed toward him, and their support would be invaluable—to him and even more to his chosen bride—in the years to come. She swung back to the stairs. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

Lifting her skirts, she climbed quickly up, then hurried after him into the keep. She needed to seize the moment,
engage with him now, and get him to make some acceptable statement, or the grandes dames would stay. And stay. They were as determined as he was stubborn.

 

She assumed he would make for the study, but…“Damn!” She heard his footsteps change course for his apartments.

 

His
private
apartments; she recognized the implied warning, but had to ignore it. She’d failed to dissuade the grandes dames, so here she now was, chasing a snarling wolf into his lair.

 

No choice.

 

Royce swept into his sitting room, sending the door swinging wide. He fetched up in the middle of the Aubusson rug, listened intently, then cursed and left the door open; she was still coming on.

 

A very unwise decision.

 

All the turbulent emotions of the previous evening, barely calmed to manageable levels by his long, bruising ride, had roared back to furious, aggressive life at the sight of the grandes dames camped in his front hall—metaphorically at his gates—intent on forcing him to agree to marry one of the ciphers on their infernal list.

 

He’d studied the damned list. He had no idea in any personal sense of who any of the females were—they were all significantly younger than he—but how—
how?
—could the grandes dames imagine he could simply—so cold-bloodedly—just choose one, and then spend the rest of his life tied to her, condemning her to a life tied to him…

 

Condemning them both to living—no, existing—in exactly the same sort of married life his father and his mother had had.

 

Not the married life his friends enjoyed, not the supportive unions his ex-colleagues had forged, and nothing like the marriage Hamish had.

 

No. Because he was Wolverstone, he was to be denied any such comfort, condemned instead to the loveless union his family had traditionally engaged in, simply because of the
name he bore.

 

Because they—all of them—thought they knew him, thought that, because of his name, they knew what sort of man he was.

 

He
didn’t know what sort of man he truly was—how could they?

 

Uncertainty had plagued him from the moment he’d stepped away from the created persona of Dalziel, then been compounded massively by his accession to the title so unexpectedly, so unprepared. At twenty-two he’d been entirely certain who Royce Henry Varisey was, but when he’d looked again sixteen years later…none of his previous certainties had fitted.

 

He no longer fitted the construct of the man, the duke, he’d thought he would be.

 

Duty, however, was one guiding light he’d always recognized, and still did. So he’d tried. He’d spent all night poring over their list, trying to force himself to toe the expected line.

 

He’d failed. He couldn’t do it—couldn’t force himself to choose a woman he didn’t want.

 

And the prime reason he couldn’t was about to enter the room behind him.

 

He hauled in a massive breath, then snarled and flung himself into one of the large armchairs set before the windows, facing the open doorway.

 

Just as she sailed in.

 

Minerva knew from long experience of Variseys that this was no time for caution, much less meekness. The sight that met her eyes as she came to a halt inside the ducal sitting room—the wall of fury that assailed her senses—confirmed that; he’d roll right over her, smother her, if she gave him half a chance.

 

She fixed him with an exasperated, aggravated gaze. “You have to make a choice, make it and declare it—or else give me something I can take downstairs that will satisfy the ladies, or they’re not going to leave.” She folded her arms
and stared him down. “And you’ll like that even less.”

 

A long silence ensued. She knew he used silences to undermine; she didn’t budge an inch, just waited him out.

 

His eyes narrowed. Eventually, one dark, diabolically winged brow rose. “Are you really that keen to explore Egypt?”

 

She frowned. “What?” Then she made the connection. Tightened her lips. “Don’t try to change the subject. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s your bride.”

 

His gaze remained fixed on her face, on her eyes. “Why are you so keen to have me declare who I’ll wed?” His voice had lowered, softened, his tone growing strangely, insidiously suggestive. “Are you so eager to escape from Wolverstone and your duties, and all those here?”

 

The implication pricked a spot she hadn’t, until that instant, realized was sensitive. Her temper flared, so quickly and completely she had no chance to rein it back. “As you know damned well”—her voice dripped fury, her eyes, she knew, would be all golden scorn—“Wolverstone is the only home I’ve ever known. It
is
my home. While you might know every rock, every stone, I know every single man, woman, and child on this estate.” Her voice deepened, vibrating with emotion. “I know the seasons, and how each affects us. I know every facet of the dynamics of the castle community and how it runs. Wolverstone has been my
life
for more than twenty years, and loyalty to—and love for—it and its people is what has kept me here so long.”

 

She dragged in a tight breath. His eyes dropped briefly to her breasts, mounding above her neckline; uncaring, she trapped his gaze as it returned to her face. “So no, I’m
not
keen to leave—I would much rather stay—but leave I must.”

 

“Why?”

 

She flung up her hands. “Because you
have to marry
one of the ladies on that damned list! And once you do, there’ll be no place for me here.”

 

If he was taken aback by her outburst, she saw no hint of
it; his face remained set, the lines chiseled stone. The only sense she gained from him was one of implacable, immovable opposition.

 

His gaze shifted from her to the mantelpiece, following the long line of armillary spheres she’d kept dusted and polished. His dark gaze rested on them for a long moment, then he murmured, “You’re always telling me to go my own road.”

 

She frowned. “This
is
your own road, the one you would naturally take—it’s only the timing that’s changed.”

 

He looked at her; she tried, but, as usual, could read nothing in his dark eyes. “What,” he asked, his voice very soft, “if that’s not the road I want to take?”

 

She sighed through her teeth. “Royce, stop being difficult for the sake of it. You know you’re going to choose one of the ladies on that list. The list is extensive, indeed complete, so those are your choices. So just tell me the name and I’ll take it downstairs, before the grandes dames decide to barge in here.”

 

He studied her. “What about your alternative?”

 

It took her a moment to follow, then she held up her hands, conceding. “Fine—give me something to tell them that will satisfy them instead.”

 

“All right.”

 

She suppressed a frown. His gaze fixed on her, he looked like he was thinking, the wheels of his diabolical mind churning.

 

“You may announce to the ladies downstairs”—the words were slow, even, his tone dangerously mild—“that I’ve made up my mind which lady I’ll wed. They can expect to see the announcement of our betrothal in a week or so, once the lady I’ve chosen agrees.”

 

Her eyes locked with his, she replayed the declaration; it would, indeed, satisfy the grandes dames. It sounded sensible, rational—in fact, exactly what he should say.

 

But…she knew him far too well to accept the words at face value. He was up to something, but she couldn’t think
what.

 

Royce surged to his feet—before she could question him. Shrugging out of his hacking jacket, he walked toward his bedroom. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change.”

 

She frowned, annoyed by his refusal to let her probe, but with no choice offering, she stiffly inclined her head, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind her.

 

Tugging loose his neckerchief, he watched the door shut, then strode into his bedroom. She would learn the answer to her question soon enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seven

 

 

 

 

T
he next morning, garbed in her riding habit, Minerva
sat in the private breakfast parlor and consumed her marmaladed toast as quickly as she daintily could; she was intent on getting out on Rangonel as soon as possible.

 

She hadn’t seen Royce since he’d sent her off with his response to the grandes dames’ demand. He hadn’t joined the guests still remaining for dinner; she hadn’t been surprised. But she wasn’t in any hurry to meet him, not until she felt more like herself, hence her wariness as, toast finished, tea drunk, she rose and headed for the stables.

 

Retford had confirmed that His Grace had breakfasted earlier and gone riding; he was most likely far away by now, but she didn’t want to run into him if he’d cut short his ride and was returning to the keep. Avoiding the west courtyard, his favored route, she exited via the castle’s east wing, and set off through the gardens.

 

She’d spent an unsettled evening, and an even more restless night, going over in her mind the ladies on the list, trying to predict whom he’d chosen. She’d met some of them during the seasons she and his mother had spent in the capital; while she couldn’t imagine any of them as his duchess, that lack of enthusiasm didn’t explain the hollow, deadening feeling that had, over the last days, been growing
inside her.

 

That had intensified markedly after she’d delivered his declaration to the grandes dames and waved them on their way.

 

Certainly, being forced to state out aloud her unhappiness over leaving Wolverstone, giving voice to what she truly felt, hadn’t helped. By the time she’d retreated to her room last night, that unexpected, welling emotion was approaching desolation. As if something was going
horribly
wrong.

 

It was nonsensical. She’d done what she’d had to do—what her vows had committed her to do—and she’d
succeeded.
Yet her emotions had swung crazily in the opposite direction; she didn’t feel as if she’d won, but as if she’d lost.

 

Lost something vital.

 

Which was silly. She’d always known the time would come when she’d have to leave Wolverstone.

 

It had to be some irrational twisting of her emotions caused by the increasingly fraught battle she constantly had to wage to keep her frustrating and irritating, infatuation-obsession-driven physical reactions to Royce completely hidden—hidden so completely not even he would see.