Mastered By Love (40 page)

 

An extremely modish hat sat atop Lady Ashton’s sleek head. Her carriage gown was the latest in fashionable luxury, beautifully cut from ivory silk twill with magenta silk trimming; the skirts swished as, an easy smile curving delicately tinted lips, her ladyship came forward to meet Minerva.

 

Stepping down from the last step, Minerva smiled. “Lady Ashton? I’m Miss Chesterton—I act as chatelaine here. Welcome to Wolverstone Castle.”

 

“Thank you.” Of similar height to Minerva, Lady Ashton possessed classical features, a porcelain complexion, and a pleasant, confident demeanor. “I gather Susannah is out gadding about, leaving me to impose on you.”

 

Minerva’s smile deepened. “It’s no imposition, I assure you. It’s been some years since the castle hosted a house party—the household is quite looking forward to the challenge.”

 

The countess tilted her head. “House party?”

 

Minerva hesitated. “Yes—didn’t Susannah mention it?”

 

A faint smile on her lips, the countess glanced down. “No, but there was no reason she should. She invited me to another end.”

 

“Oh.” Minerva wasn’t sure what was going on. “I’m sure Susannah will tell you about the party when she returns. Meanwhile, if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your room.”

 

The countess consented to climb the stairs beside her. Halfway up, she grew aware of Lady Ashton’s sideways glance, and turned her head to meet it.

 

Her ladyship pulled a wry face. “I didn’t like to ask the butler, but is Royce—I suppose I should call him Wolverstone, shouldn’t I? Is he about?”

 

“I believe he’s out riding at present.”

 

“Ah.” The countess looked ahead, then shrugged. “He’ll have to cope with us meeting again with others about, then—or if you see him, you might mention I’m here. Susannah sent for me well over a week ago, but I wasn’t in London, so it’s taken a while for me to arrive.”

 

Minerva wasn’t sure what to make of that. She fastened on the most pertinent fact. “You know Royce.”

 

The countess smiled, her face transforming into that of a stunning seductress. “Yes, indeed.” Her voice lowered to a purr. “Royce and I know each other very well.” She glanced at Minerva. “I’m sure that’s no real surprise to you, my dear—you must know what he’s like. And while it was Susannah who penned the invitation to me, she made it clear it was for Royce that she summoned me.”

 

A cold, iron fist gripped Minerva’s heart; her head spun. “I…see.” The countess must be the lady Royce had chosen. Yet Susannah had asked if Minerva knew…but perhaps that was before he’d had Susannah write to the countess.

 

But why Susannah, rather than Handley?

 

And surely the countess was married…no, she wasn’t; Minerva recalled hearing that the Earl of Ashton had died several years ago.

 

They’d strolled past the short corridor to the ducal apartments and into the west wing. Halting before the door of the room the countess had been assigned, Minerva dragged in a breath past the constriction banding her chest, and turned to her ladyship. “If you would like tea, I can have a tray brought up. Otherwise, the luncheon gong will ring in about an hour.”

 

“I’ll wait, I think. I take it Wolverstone will return for lunch?”

 

“I really can’t say.”

 

“No matter—I’ll wait and see.”

 

“The footmen will bring up your trunk. A maid will be with you shortly.”

 

“Thank you.” With an inclination of her head and a perfectly gracious smile, the countess opened the door and went inside.

 

Minerva turned away. Her head was spinning, but that was the least of it. She literally felt ill…because her heart was chilled and aching—and it wasn’t supposed to be.

 

 

Neither Royce nor Susannah nor the rest of the company returned for luncheon, leaving Minerva to entertain the countess by herself.

 

Not that that was a difficult task; Lady Ashton—Helen as she asked to be called—was an extremely beautiful, sophisticated lady with an even temperament, gracious manners, and a ready smile.

 

No matter the circumstances, no matter the sudden agonies of her foolish, foolish heart, no matter her instinctive inclination, Minerva found it difficult to dislike Helen; she was, in the very essence of the word, charming.

 

Leaving the dining room, Helen smiled rather wistfully. “I wonder, Minerva, if I may truly impose on you and ask for a quick tour—or as quick a tour as can be—of this enormous pile?” She looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the front hall as it opened before them. “It’s rather daunting to consider…”

 

She trailed off, shot a look at Minerva, then sighed. “I’ve
never been much of a hand at subterfuge, so I may as well be plain. I have no idea where I stand with Royce, and I freely admit to a certain nervousness—which is really not my style.”

 

Minerva frowned. “I thought…” She wasn’t at all sure what to think. She led the way to the principal drawing room.

 

The countess strolled beside her. As they paused inside the long formal room, Helen continued, “I assume you know of his inviolable rule—that he never spends more than five nights with any lady?”

 

Expressionless, Minerva shook her head. “I hadn’t heard.”

 

“I assure you it’s true—there are any number of ladies within the ton who can attest to his refusal to bend on that score, no matter the inducement. Five nights are all he allows any woman.” The countess grimaced. “I suppose it was one way to ensure none of us ever got any ideas, as one might say, above our station.”

 

Surreptitiously, Minerva counted on her fingers; last night had been her fifth—and therefore last—night. She hadn’t even known. Inwardly reeling, she stepped back into the hall, then led the way toward the formal dining room.

 

Helen kept pace. “I was his lover before he left London—for just four nights. I hoped for a fifth, but then he disappeared from town. Later I heard about his father’s death, and so believed our liaison was over—until I received Susannah’s note. She seemed to think…and then I heard about the grandes dames and their decree, but no announcement came…” She glanced at Minerva. “Well, I did wonder.” She shrugged. “So here I am, come to throw my hat in the ring, if there is a ring, that is. But he does have to marry, and we get along well enough…and I do want to marry again. Ashton and I weren’t in love, but we liked each other. There’s a great deal to be said for companionship I’ve discovered, now I no longer have it.”

 

Helen gave a cynical laugh. “Of course, all depends on the whim of one Royce Varisey, but I thought he should know that he does have alternatives to the giddy young misses.”

 

Thrusting her reeling emotions deep and slamming a mental door on them, Minerva forced herself to consider Helen’s words. And who was she to answer for Royce? For all she knew, he might feel some real connection to Helen; it wasn’t hard to picture her on his arm, as his duchess.

 

Dragging in a breath, she held it, then managed a mild smile. “If you like, I can show you around the main areas of the castle.” As Royce had to marry someone, she’d rather it was Helen than some witless miss.

 

 

Later that evening, Minerva sat midway down the long dining table, conversing blithely with those around her while surreptitiously watching Helen sparkle, effervesce, and charm from her position at Royce’s left.

 

The lovely countess had usurped her place there, and, it seemed, had displaced her in other ways, too. Royce hadn’t spared so much as a glance for her since he’d walked into the drawing room and laid eyes on Helen, a stunning vision in rose-pink silk.

 

Feeling dull and drab in her weeds, she’d stood by the wall and watched, no longer sure of where
she
stood with Royce, and utterly unsure what to do.

 

She’d started her tour with Helen imagining there was, in the matter of Royce’s bride, no worse candidate than a giddy young miss. After an hour of listening to Helen’s views on the castle and the estate, and most importantly its people, she’d revised that opinion.

 

Helen would never rule as Royce’s duchess at Wolverstone. Quite aside from all else, she didn’t want to. She’d assumed Royce would spend most of his time in London, but he’d already declared he would follow in his father’s and grandfather’s—and even great-grandfather’s—footsteps. His home would be here, not in the capital.

 

When she’d mentioned that, Helen had shrugged, smiled, and said, “We’ll see.” Helen couldn’t imagine she would change Royce’s mind, which had left Minerva wondering just what sort of marriage Helen envisioned—quite possibly
one that might well suit Royce.

 

Which would compound the more serious problem, namely that Helen had absolutely no feeling for, no empathy with, the estate in general, much less the people on it. She’d already hinted that she assumed Minerva would stay on as chatelaine. Minerva couldn’t, wouldn’t, but she’d always imagined handing her keys to some woman with a heart, with compassion and interest in her staff and the wider community of which the castle was the hub.

 

Glancing up the table again, she saw Royce, lips subtly curving, incline his head to the countess in response to some sally. Forcing her gaze to Rohan, seated opposite her, she smiled and nodded; she hadn’t heard a word of his latest tale. She had to stop torturing herself; she had to be realistic—as realistic as the countess. But what did reality demand?

 

On a purely worldly level, she ought to step quietly aside and let Helen claim Royce, if he was willing. She’d already had her five nights with him, and, unlike her, Helen would make him an excellent wife within the parameters he’d set for his marriage.

 

On another level, however, one based on the emotional promptings of her witless heart, she’d like to haul Helen away and send her packing; she was wrong—all wrong—for the position of Royce’s bride.

 

Yet when she rose and, with the other ladies, filed behind Margaret to the door, she let her senses open wide…and knew Royce didn’t even glance at her. In the doorway, she glanced swiftly back, and saw the countess very prettily taking her leave of him; his dark eyes were all for her.

 

Minerva had had her five nights; he’d already forgotten her existence.

 

In that instant, she knew that no matter how much of a fool she would think him if he accepted Helen’s transparent invitation and offered her his duchess’s coronet, she wouldn’t say a word against his decision.

 

On that subject, she could no longer claim to hold an un
biased opinion.

 

Turning away, she wondered how long she would have to endure in the drawing room until the tea tray arrived.

 

 

The answer was, a lot longer than she wanted. More than long enough to dwell on Royce’s iniquities; from his continuing obliviousness, her time with him had come to an absolute end—he’d just forgotten to tell her. The fiend.

 

She was in no good mood, but clung to the knots of others as they chatted about this and that, and hid her reaction as best she could; there was no value in letting anyone else sense or suspect. She wished she didn’t have to think about it herself, that she could somehow distance herself from the source of her distress, but she could hardly cut out her own heart. Contrary to her misguided hopes and beliefs, she could no longer pretend it had escaped involvement.

 

There was no other explanation for the deadening feeling deep in her chest, no other cause for the leaden lump that unruly organ had become.

 

Her own fault, of course, not that that made the dull twisting pain any less. She’d known from the start the dangers of falling in love—even a little bit in love—with him; she just hadn’t thought it could happen so quickly, hadn’t even realized it had.

 

“I say, Minerva.”

 

She focused on Henry Varisey as he leaned conspiratorially close.

 

His gaze was fixed across the room. “Do you think the beautiful countess has any chance of learning what no one else yet has?”

 

It took a moment to realize he was alluding to the name of Royce’s bride. She followed Henry’s gaze to where Helen all but hung on Royce’s arm. “I wish her luck—on that subject he’s been as close-mouthed as an oyster.”

 

Henry glanced at her, arched a brow. “You haven’t heard anything?”

 

“Not a hint—no clue at all.”

 

“Well.” Straightening, Henry looked back across the room. “It appears our best hopes lie with Lady Ashton.”

 

Assuming Lady Ashton’s wasn’t the name in question…Minerva frowned; Henry, at least, didn’t see Helen as even a possibility as Royce’s chosen bride.

 

Across the room, Royce forced himself to keep his gaze on Helen Ashton, or whoever else was near, and not allow his eyes to deflect to Minerva, as they constantly wanted to. He’d walked into the drawing room before dinner, anticipating another delightful evening of enjoying his chatelaine, only to find himself faced with Helen. The very last woman he’d expected to see.

 

He’d inwardly sworn, plastered on an unruffled expression, and battled not to seek help from the one person in the room he’d actually wanted to see. He had to deal with Helen first. An unwanted, uninvited irritation; he hadn’t understood why the hell she was there until he’d heard her story.

 

Susannah. What the hell his sister had been thinking of he had no clue. He’d find out later. For that evening, however, he had to toe a fine line; Helen and too many others—all those who knew she’d been his recent mistress—expected him to pay attention to her now she was there.

 

Because as far as they knew, he hadn’t had a woman in weeks. He didn’t have a mistress at Wolverstone. True, and yet not.

 

With everyone watching him and Helen, if he so much as glanced at Minerva, someone would see—and someone would wonder. While he was working toward making their connection public through getting her to convince herself to accept his suit, he wasn’t yet sure of success, and had no intention of risking his future with her because of his ex-mistress.

 

So he had to bide his time until he could confirm Helen’s status directly with her. As she was the senior lady present, he’d had no choice but to escort her into dinner and seat her at his left—in some ways a boon, for that had kept Minerva