Mastered By Love (3 page)

 

That more primitive side of him saw it as only right that this female—whoever she was—should be walking just there, at just that time, and was just the right female to render him that singular service.

 

Anger, even rage, could convert into lust; he was familiar with the transformation, yet never had it struck with such speed or strength. Never before had the result threatened his control.

 

The consuming lust he felt for her in that instant was so intense it shocked even him.

 

Enough to have him slapping the urge down, clenching his jaw, tightening his grip, and bodily setting her aside.

 

He had to force his hands to release her.

 

“My apologies.” His voice was close to a growl. With a curt nod in her direction, without again meeting her eyes, he strode on, swiftly putting distance between them.

 

Behind him he heard the hiss of an indrawn breath, heard the rustle of skirts as she swung and stared.

 

“Royce! Dalziel—whatever you call yourself these days—stop!”

 

He kept walking.

 

“Damn it, I am not going to—
refuse to
—scurry after you!”

 

He halted. Head rising, he considered the list of those who would dare address him in such words, in such a tone.

 

The list wasn’t long.

 

Slowly, he half turned and looked back at the lady, who patently didn’t know in what danger she stood. Scurry after him? She should be fleeing in the opposite direction. But…

 

Long-ago recollection finally connected with present fact. Those rich autumn eyes were the key. He frowned. “Minerva?”

 

Those fabulous eyes were no longer wide, but narrowed in irritation; her lush lips had compressed to a grim line.

 

“Indeed.” She hesitated, then, clasping her hands before her, lifted her chin. “I gather you aren’t aware of it, but I’m chatelaine here.”

 

Contrary to Minerva’s expectation, the information did not produce any softening in the stony face regarding her. No easing of the rigid line of his lips, no gleam of recognition in his dark eyes—no suggestion that he’d realized she was someone he needed to help him, even though, at last, he’d placed her: Minerva Miranda Chesterton, his mother’s childhood friend’s orphaned daughter. Subsequently his mother’s amanuensis, companion, and confidante, more recently the same to his father, although that was something he most likely didn’t know.

 

Of the pair of them, she knew precisely who she was, what she was, and what she had to do. He, in contrast, was probably uncertain of the first, even more uncertain of the second, and almost certainly had no clue as to the third.

 

That, however, she’d been prepared for. What she wasn’t prepared for, what she hadn’t foreseen, was the huge problem that now faced her. All six-plus feet of it, larger and infinitely more powerful in life than even her fanciful imagination had painted him.

 

His stylish greatcoat hung from shoulders that were broader and heavier than she recalled, but she’d last seen him when he’d been twenty-two. He was a touch taller, too, and there was a hardness in him that hadn’t been there before, investing the austere planes of his face, his chiseled features, the rock-hard body that had nearly sent her flying.

 

Had sent her flying, more than physically.

 

His face was as she remembered it, yet not; gone was any hint of civilized guise. Broad forehead above striking slashes of black brows that tilted faintly, diabolically, upward at the outer ends, a blade of a nose, thin mobile lips guaranteed to dangerously fascinate any female, and well-set eyes of such a deep dark brown they were usually unreadable. The long
black lashes that fringed those eyes had always made her envious.

 

His hair was still solidly sable, the thick locks fashionably cropped to fall in waves about his well-shaped head. His clothes, too, were fashionably elegant, restrained, understated, and expensive. Even though he’d been traveling hard, all but racing for two days, his cravat was a subtle work of art, and beneath the dust, his Hessians gleamed.

 

Regardless, no amount of fashion could screen his innate masculinity, could dim the dangerous aura any female with eyes could detect. The passing years had honed and polished him, revealing rather than concealing the sleekly powerful, infinitely predatory male he was.

 

If anything, that reality seemed enhanced.

 

He continued to stand twenty feet away, frowning as he studied her, making no move to come closer, giving her witless, swooning, drooling senses even more time to slaver over him.

 

She’d thought she’d outgrown her infatuation with him. Sixteen years of separation should surely have seen it dead.

 

Apparently not.

 

Her mission, as she viewed it, had just become immeasurably more complicated. If he learned of her ridiculous susceptibility—perhaps excusable in a girl of thirteen, but hideously embarrassing in a mature lady of twenty-nine—he’d use the knowledge, ruthlessly, to stop her from pressuring him into doing anything he didn’t wish to do. At that moment, the only positive aspect to the situation was that she’d been able to disguise her reaction to him as understandable surprise.

 

Henceforth she would need to continue to hide that reaction from him.

 

Simple…was one thing that wasn’t going to be.

 

Variseys as a breed were difficult, but she’d been surrounded by them from the age of six, and had learned how to manage them. All except
this
Varisey…oh, this was
not good. Unfortunately not one, but two deathbed promises bound her to her path.

 

She cleared her throat, tried hard to clear her head of the disconcerting distraction of her still jangling senses. “I didn’t expect you so early, but I’m glad you made such good time.” Head high, eyes locked on his face, she walked forward. “There’s a huge number of decisions to be made—”

 

He shifted, turning away, then restlessly turned back to her. “I daresay, but at present, I need to wash off the dust.” His eyes—dark, fathomless, his gaze impossibly sharp—scanned her face. “I take it you’re in charge?”

 

“Yes. And—”

 

He swung away, was off again, his long legs carrying him swiftly around the gallery. “I’ll come and find you in an hour.”

 

“Very well. But your room’s not that way.”

 

He halted. Once again stood facing away for the space of three heartbeats, then, slowly, he turned.

 

Again she felt the dark weight of his gaze, this time pinning her more definitely. This time, rather than converse over the yawning gap that once again separated them, a gap she now would have preferred to maintain, he walked, stalked, slowly back to her.

 

He kept walking until no more than a foot remained between them, which left him towering over her. Physical intimidation was second nature to male Variseys; they learned it from the cradle. She would have liked to say the ploy had no effect, and in truth it didn’t have the effect he intended. The effect was something quite other, and more intense and powerful than she’d ever dreamed. Inside she quaked, trembled; outwardly she held his gaze and calmly waited.

 

First round.

 

He lowered his head slightly so he could look directly into her face. “The keep hasn’t rotated in all the centuries since it was built.” His voice had lowered, too, but his diction had lost nothing of its lethal edge. If anything that had
sharpened. “Which means the west tower lies around the gallery.”

 

She met his dark gaze, knew better than to nod. With Variseys one never conceded the slightest point; they were the sort that, if one surrendered an inch, took the whole county. “The west tower lies that way, but your room is no longer there.”

 

Tension rippled through him; the muscle in the side of his jaw tightened. His voice, when he spoke, had lowered to a warning growl. “Where are my things?”

 

“In the ducal apartments.” In the central part of the keep, facing south; she didn’t bother telling him what he already knew.

 

She stepped back, just far enough to wave him to join her as, greatly daring, she turned her back on him and started strolling farther into the keep. “You’re the duke now, and those are your rooms. The staff have slaved to have everything in readiness there, and the west tower room has been converted into a guest chamber. And before you ask”—she heard him reluctantly follow her, his longer legs closing the distance in a few strides—“
everything
that was in the west tower room is now in the duke’s rooms—including, I might add, all your armillary spheres. I had to move every single one myself—the maids and even the footmen refuse to touch them for fear they’ll fall apart in their hands.”

 

He’d amassed an exquisite collection of the astrological spheres within spheres; she hoped mention of them would encourage him to accept the necessary relocation.

 

After a moment of pacing silently beside her, he said, “My sisters?”

 

“Your father passed away on Sunday, a little before noon. I dispatched the messenger to you immediately, but I wasn’t sure what you wished, so I held back from informing your sisters for twenty-four hours.” She glanced at him. “You were the farthest away, but we needed you here first. I expect they’ll arrive tomorrow.”

 

He glanced at her, met her eyes. “Thank you. I appreci
ate the chance to find my feet before having to deal with them.”

 

Which, of course, was why she’d done it. “I sent a letter with the messenger to you for Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe.”

 

“I sent it on with a covering letter from me, asking them to attend me here, with the will, at the earliest opportunity.”

 

“Which means they’ll arrive tomorrow, too. Late afternoon, most likely.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

They turned a corner into a short hall just as a footman closed the massive oak door at the end. The footman saw them, bowed low, then retreated.

 

“Jeffers will have brought up your bags. If you need anything else—”

 

“I’ll ring. Who’s the butler here these days?”

 

She’d always wondered if he’d had anyone in the household feeding him information; obviously not. “Retford the younger—old Retford’s nephew. He was the underbutler before.”

 

He nodded. “I remember him.”

 

The door to the duke’s apartments neared. Clinging to her chatelaine’s glamour, she halted beside it. “I’ll join you in the study in an hour.”

 

He looked at her. “Is the study in the same place?”

 

“It hasn’t moved.”

 

“That’s something, I suppose.”

 

She inclined her head, was about to turn away when she noticed that, although his hand had closed about the doorknob, he hadn’t turned it.

 

He was standing staring at the door.

 

“If it makes any difference, it’s been over a decade since your father used this room.”

 

That got her a frowning look. “Which room did he use?”

 

“He moved to the east tower room. It’s remained untouched since he died.”

 

“When did he move there?” He looked at the door before
him. “Out of here.”

 

It wasn’t her place to hide the truth. “Sixteen years ago.” In case he failed to make the connection, she added, “When he returned from London after banishing you.”

 

He frowned, as if the information made no sense.

 

Which made her wonder, but she held her tongue. She waited, but he asked no more.

 

Brusquely he nodded in dismissal, turned the knob, and opened the door. “I’ll see you in the study in an hour.”

 

With a serene inclination of her head, she turned and walked away.

 

And felt his dark gaze on her back, felt it slide down from her shoulders to her hips, eventually to her legs. Managed to hold back her inner shiver until she was out of his acutely observant sight.

 

Then she picked up her pace, walking swiftly and determinedly toward her own domain—the duchess’s morning room; she had an hour to find armor sufficiently thick to protect her against the unexpected impact of the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.

 

 

Royce halted just inside the duke’s apartments; shutting the door, he looked around.

 

Decades had passed since he’d last seen the room, but little had changed. The upholstery was new, but the furniture was the same, all heavy polished oak, glowing with a rich, golden patina, the edges rounded by age. He circled the sitting room, running his fingers over the polished tops of sideboards and the curved backs of chairs, then went into the bedroom—large and spacious with a glorious view south over the gardens and lake to the distant hills.

 

He was standing before the wide window drinking in that view when a tap on the outer door had him turning. He raised his voice. “Come.”

 

The footman he’d seen earlier appeared in the doorway from the sitting room carrying a huge china urn. “Hot water, Your Grace.”

 

He nodded, then watched as the man crossed the room and went through the doorway into the dressing room and bathing chamber.

 

He’d turned back to the window when the footman reappeared. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but would you like me to unpack your things?”

 

“No.” Royce looked at the man. He was average in everything—height, build, age, coloring. “There’s not enough to bother with…Jeffers, is that right?”

 

“Indeed, Your Grace. I was the late duke’s footman.”

 

Royce wasn’t sure he’d need a personal footman, but nodded. “My man, Trevor, will be arriving shortly—most likely tomorrow. He’s a Londoner, but he’s been with me for a long time. Although he has been here before, he’ll need help to remember his way.”

 

“I’ll be happy to keep an eye out for him and assist in whatever way I can, Your Grace.”

 

“Good.” Royce turned back to the window. “You may go.”

 

When he heard the outer door click shut, he quit the window and headed for the dressing room. He stripped, then washed; drying himself with the linen towel left ready on the washstand, he tried to think. He should be making mental lists of all he had to do, juggling the order in which to do them…but all he seemed able to do was feel.