Mastered By Love (5 page)

 

He’d slumped back, outwardly relaxed in the large admi
ral’s chair; he regarded her impassively for several long moments, then said, “We could—if I was agreeable—have the funeral on Friday.”

 

“No, we couldn’t.”

 

Both his brows slowly rose. “No?” There was a wealth, a positive surfeit of intimidation packed into the single, softly uttered word. In this case, on multiple counts, it was misplaced.

 

“No.” She met his gaze, held it. “Think back to your mother’s funeral—how many attended?”

 

His stillness was absolute; his gaze didn’t shift from hers. After another long silence, he said, “I can’t remember.” His tone was even, but she detected a roughness, a slight weakness; he honestly couldn’t recall, quite possibly didn’t like thinking of that difficult day.

 

With him banished from his father’s lands, but the church and graveyard at Alwinton enclosed within Wolverstone’s boundaries, he’d literally driven around his father’s edict; his groom had driven his curricle to the church’s lych-gate, and he’d stepped directly onto hallowed ground.

 

Neither he nor his father had spoken to anyone—let alone exchanged so much as a glance—through the long service and the subsequent burial. That he couldn’t remember how many had been in the church testified that he hadn’t been looking around, unaffected; his normally extremely observant faculties hadn’t been functioning.

 

Calmly, she recited, “There were over two hundred counting only family and members of the ton. For your father, that number will be more like three hundred. There’ll be representatives of the king, and Parliament, quite aside from family and friends—let alone all those who will make a point of coming all the way up here simply to register their connection, however tenuous, with the dukedom.”

 

He pulled a face, then in an explosion of movement sat up. “How soon can it be arranged?”

 

Relief slid through her veins. “The notice of death will run in the
Gazette
on Friday. Tomorrow, once your sisters
are here to consult, we should send off a notice about the funeral—that will then run in the Saturday editions. Realistically, given so many will be coming from the south, the earliest we could hold the funeral would be the following Friday.”

 

He nodded, reluctant but accepting. “Friday, then.” He hesitated, then asked, “Where’s the body being kept?”

 

“In the icehouse, as usual.” She knew better than to suggest he should view his father’s body; he either would of his own accord, or wouldn’t. It would be better if he did, but there were some areas into which, with him, she wasn’t prepared to stray; it was simply too dangerous.

 

Royce watched as she shuffled through the papers in her lap—eyed her hair, lustrous and gleaming. Wondered how it would look draped over her very white skin when said skin was bare and flushed with passion.

 

He shifted in the chair. He desperately needed distraction. He was about to ask for a list of staff—she was so damned efficient he would wager his sanity she would have one in her pile—when heavy footsteps approached the door. An instant later, it opened, admitting a majestic butler.

 

The butler’s gaze fixed on him. Framed in the doorway, he bowed low. “Your Grace.” Straightening, he bowed more shallowly to Minerva, who rose to her feet. “Ma’am.”

 

Refocusing on Royce, who, as Minerva was standing, rose, too, the stately personage intoned, “I am Retford, Your Grace. I am the butler here. On behalf of the staff, I wish to convey our condolences on the death of your father, and extend our welcome to you on your return.”

 

Royce inclined his head. “Thank you, Retford. I believe I recall you as underbutler. Your uncle always had you polishing the silver.”

 

Retford perceptibly thawed. “Indeed, Your Grace.” He glanced again at Minerva. “You wished me to inform you when luncheon was ready, ma’am.”

 

Royce noted the meaningful look the pair exchanged before his chatelaine said, “Indeed, Retford. Thank you.
We’ll be down directly.”

 

Retford bowed to them both, then with another “Your Grace,” withdrew.

 

Still standing, Royce caught Minerva’s eye. “Why are we going down directly?”

 

She blinked her eyes wide. “I was sure you’d be hungry.” When he remained unmoving, patently waiting, her lips lifted fractionally. “And you need to allow the staff to formally greet you.”

 

He summoned a not-entirely-feigned expression of horror. “Not the whole damned lot of them?”

 

She nodded and turned to the door. “Every last one. Names and positions—you know the drill. This is a ducal residence, after all.” She watched as he came around the desk. “And if you’re not hungry now, I can guarantee you’ll be in dire need of sustenance by the time we’re finished.”

 

Moving past her, he opened the door, held it. “You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you? Seeing me floundering.”

 

As he followed her into the corridor, she shook her head. “You won’t flounder—I’m your chatelaine. I’m not allowed to let you flounder at such moments—that’s my job.”

 

“I see.” He quelled an urge to take her arm; she clearly didn’t expect him to—she was already walking briskly toward the main stairs. Sinking his hands in his trouser pockets, he fixed his gaze on the floor before their feet. “So how, exactly, do you propose to do your job?”

 

 

By whispering in his ear.

 

She remained immediately on his left all the way down the long line of eager staff, murmuring their names and positions as he nodded to each one.

 

He could have done without the distraction. The temptation. The all but constant taunting, however unintentional, of his less civilized self.

 

The housekeeper, Mrs. Cranshaw—Cranny as he’d always called her—blushed rosily when he smiled and
called her by that long-ago nickname. Other than Retford and Milbourne, there were no others who hailed from the last time he’d been there.

 

They finally reached the end of the long line. After the last scullery maid had blushed and bobbed, Retford, who had followed behind them radiating approval as much as a butler of his station ever did, stepped forward and bowed them into the smaller dining salon.

 

Royce would have gone to his customary chair halfway down the table, but Retford swept to the large carver at its head and held it…he smoothly continued up the table and sat in his father’s place.

 

Now his—a fact he was going to have to get used to.

 

Jeffers sat Minerva on his left; from her and Jeffers’s behavior, that was her customary position.

 

He remembered his need to create distance between them, remembered his question about the staff, but she’d left her papers upstairs.

 

Luckily, as soon as the platters had been set before them and the majority of footmen withdrew, she asked, “One thing we—Retford, Milbourne, Cranny, and I—need to know is what staff you have, and which household you wish them attached to.”

 

A safe, sensible question. “I have a valet—Trevor. He was with me before.”

 

Staring ahead, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s younger than you, slightly tubby—at least he was.”

 

A reasonable if brief description of Trevor.

 

She glanced at Retford, standing back on Royce’s right; the butler nodded, indicating that he, too, remembered Trevor. “That’s fortuitous, as I doubt Walter, your father’s valet, would suit. However, that leaves us with the question of what to do with Walter—he won’t want to leave Wolverstone, or the family’s service.”

 

“Leave that to me.” Royce had long ago learned to value experience. “I have an idea for a position that might suit
him.”

 

“Oh?” She looked her question, but when he didn’t reply, but instead served himself from a platter of cold meats, she frowned, then asked, “Is Henry still your groom?”

 

He nodded. “I’ve already spoken with Milbourne—Henry should arrive tomorrow. He’ll remain my personal groom. The only other to join the household here will be Handley.” He met Minerva’s gaze. “My secretary.”

 

He’d wondered how she would take that news. Somewhat to his surprise, she beamed. “Excellent. That will absolve me of dealing with your correspondence.”

 

“Indeed.” A good first step in edging her out of his daily orbit. “Who dealt with my father’s correspondence?”

 

“I did. But there are so many communications crossing a duke’s desk, and so much I have to attend to as chatelaine, if we’d entertained more, there would have been problems. As it was, things often didn’t get dealt with as expeditiously as I would have liked.”

 

He was relieved she truly was prepared to let his correspondence pass out of her hands. “I’ll tell Handley to check with you if he has any questions.”

 

She nodded, absorbed with peeling a fig. He watched her take the first bite, saw her lips glisten—quickly looked down at the apple he was coring.

 

When next he glanced up, she was staring across the table, frowning in an abstracted way. As if sensing his gaze, she asked, still without looking at him, “Is there anyone else we should expect to accommodate?”

 

It took a moment for him to catch her meaning; it was the word “accommodate” that finally impinged, confirmed by the faint blush tinting her cheeks. “No.” Just to ensure she—and Retford, too—were quite clear on the point, he stated, “I don’t have a mistress. At present.”

 

He’d tacked on the “at present” to make sure they believed him. Rapidly canvassing the possible eventualities, he added, “And unless I inform you otherwise, you should act on the
assumption that that situation remains unchanged.”

 

Mistresses, for him, constituted a certain danger, something he’d learned before he’d reached twenty. Because he’d been heir to one of the wealthiest dukedoms, his mistresses—due to his tastes, inevitably drawn from the ton—had shown a marked tendency to develop unrealistic ideas.

 

His declaration had tweaked Minerva’s curiosity, but she merely nodded, still not meeting his eyes. She finished her fig, and laid down her fruit knife.

 

He pushed back from the table. “I need a list of the stewards and agents for each of the various properties.”

 

She rose as Jeffers drew out her chair. “I have a list prepared—I left it on my desk. I’ll bring it to the study.”

 

“Where is your lair?”

 

She glanced at him as they headed for the stairs. “The duchess’s morning room.”

 

He didn’t say anything, but walked by her side up the stairs and into the keep, to the room that, centuries ago, had been a solar. Its oriel window looked out over the rose garden to the south and west of the keep.

 

Following her into the room, he halted just over the threshold. While she went to a bureau against one wall, he scanned the room, searching for some sense of his mother. He saw the tapestry cushions she’d loved to make idly cast on the sofas, but other than that the room held few lingering hints of her. It was light, airy, distinctly feminine, with two vases of fresh flowers scenting the air.

 

Minerva turned and walked toward him, perusing a number of lists. She was so alive, so anchored in the here and now, he doubted any ghosts could linger near.

 

She looked up, saw him; a frown formed in her eyes. She glanced at the twin sofas, the only place they might sit, then faced him. “We’ll do better going over these in the study.”

 

She was uncomfortable having him in her domain. But she was right; the study was the more appropriate setting. Even more to the point, it had a desk behind which he could hide
the worst of his reaction to her.

 

Stepping aside, he waved her through the door. He trailed her around the gallery, but finding his gaze transfixed by her subtly swaying hips, he lengthened his stride to walk alongside her.

 

Once they were ensconced in the study—once more firmly in their roles of duke and chatelaine—he went through her list of his stewards and agents, extracting every detail he deemed useful—in addition to the names and positions, physical descriptions and her personal opinion of each man. At first she balked at voicing the latter, but when he insisted proved his point by providing a comprehensive and astute character study for each incumbent.

 

His memories of her from long ago weren’t all that detailed; what he had was an impression of a no-nonsense female uninclined to histrionics or flights of fancy, a girl with her feet firmly planted on the ground. His mother had trusted her implicitly, and from all he was learning, so had his sire.

 

And his father had never trusted easily, no more than he.

 

By the time they reached the end of her lists, he was convinced that he, too, could trust her. Implicitly. Which was a huge relief. Even keeping her at a physical distance, he would need her help to get through the next days, possibly weeks. Possibly even months. Knowing that her loyalties lay firmly with the dukedom—and thus with him as the duke—was reassuring.

 

Almost as if he could trust her to protect his back.

 

Which was a distinctly odd notion for a man like him to have of a woman. Especially a lady like her.

 

Unknowingly underscoring his conclusion, having re-gathered her scattered papers, leaving those he’d appropriated, she hesitated. When he caught her eye and arched a brow, she said, “Your father’s man of business is Collier—not the same Collier as Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, but their cousin.”

 

He could now read her tone. “Whom you don’t trust.”

 

“Not so much don’t trust as have no confidence that he knows all that much about managing money. Heaven knows, I don’t, but I’ve seen the returns on the dukedom’s investments, and they don’t impress. I get significantly better returns on my funds, which are handled by another firm.”

 

He nodded. “I have my own man of business—Montague, in the city. He does get impressive returns. I’ll instruct him to contact Collier and go through the books, then assume control.”

 

She smiled. “Excellent.” She shifted, looked at the lists before him. “If you don’t need me for anything else…?”