Mastered By Love (52 page)

 

“He’s very predictable in some ways. I simply pointed out that our marriage should, by rights, be a major local event, and how disappointed everyone on the estate would be to be shortchanged.”

 

Letitia grinned. “Oh, yes—I can see that would work.” She gave a delighted quiver. “Ooh! You’ve no idea how much good it does to see the master manipulator manipulated.”

 

“But he knows I’m doing it,” Minerva pointed out.

 

“Yes, indeed, and that makes it all the more delightful.” Letitia set down her cup. “My dear, is there anything else, anything at all, that we can help you with before we leave?”

 

Minerva thought, then said, “If you will, answer me this: What moved your husbands to recognize they loved you?”

 

“You mean what wrung that word from their lips?” Letitia grimaced. “I was dangling from battlements, literally held from Death’s jaws by his grip alone, before he thought to utter the word. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

 

Clarice frowned. “In my case, too, it was after a brush with death—with the iniquitous last traitor’s henchman. Again, not an activity I’d recommend.”

 

“As I recall,” Penny said, “it was after we assisted Royce in apprehending a murderous French spy. There was a certain amount of life-threatening danger, none of which came to pass, but it opened
my
eyes, so I declared I would marry him—and then he was quite put out that I hadn’t forced a grand declaration from him. He considered the point obvious, but had convinced himself that I’d claim my due.” She smiled, sipped. “He gave it to me, anyway.” Lowering her cup, she added, “Then again, he’s half French.”

 

Minerva frowned. “There seems to be a consistent trend with our sort of men.”

 

Clarice nodded. “They seem to require a life-and-death situation to prod them into listening to their hearts.”

 

Penny frowned. “But you already know Royce is head-over-ears in love with you, don’t you? It really is rather blatantly obvious.”

 

“Yes,
I
know.” Minerva sighed. “I know, you know, even
his sisters are starting to see it. But the one person who doesn’t yet know is the tenth Duke of Wolverstone himself. And I honestly don’t know how to open his eyes.”

 

 

Three full weeks had come and gone. Sitting in the keep’s breakfast parlor, Royce was quietly amazed; he’d thought the time would drag, but instead, it had flown.

 

On his left, a sunbeam glinting in her hair, Minerva was engrossed in yet more lists; he smiled, savoring as he did countless times a day the warmth and enfolding comfort of what he mentally termed his new existence.

 

His life as the tenth Duke of Wolverstone; it would be radically different from that of his father’s, and the cornerstone of that difference was his impending marriage.

 

Minerva humphed. “Thank heavens Prinny balked at the distance. Accommodating him and his toadies would have been a nightmare.” She glanced up, smiled as Hamilton placed a fresh teapot before her. “We’ll finalize the assignment of rooms this morning—Retford will need a list by noon.”

 

“Indeed, ma’am. Retford and I have devised a plan of the castle, which will help.”

 

“Excellent! If you come to the morning room once you’re finished here, that should give me time to finish with Cranny, and check the mail to make sure we have no unexpected additions.” She glanced at Royce. “Unless you need Hamilton?”

 

He shook his head. “I’ll be finalizing matters with Killsythe this morning.” His solicitors, Killsythe and Killsythe, had finally wrested control of the last legal matters pertaining to the dukedom from Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, so at last such issues were proceeding smoothly. “Incidentally”—with his finger he tapped a missive he’d earlier read—“Montague sent word that all is in place. He was very complimentary about your previous agent’s efforts, but believes he can do better.”

 

Minerva smiled. “I have high expectations.” Reaching for
the teapot, she surveyed the seven lists arrayed before her. “I can barely recall when I last had a chance to think of such mundane things as investments.”

 

Royce raised his coffee cup, hid a smile. One thing he’d learned about his wife-to-be was that she thrived on challenge. As with his father’s funeral, the principal guests would be accommodated at the castle, as would the majority of both sides of his family, virtually all of whom had sent word they would attend. While he’d been engulfed in legal and business matters, some still pending from his father’s death but most part of the preparation necessary for the execution of the marriage settlements, Minerva’s time had been swallowed up by preparations for the wedding itself.

 

Hamilton had proved a godsend; after discussions with Minerva and Retford, Royce had summoned him north to act as his personal butler, freeing Retford for the wider castle duties, increased dramatically because of the wedding. As Hamilton was younger and perfectly willing to defer to Retford, the arrangement was working well, to everyone’s benefit.

 

Royce turned to the social page of yesterday’s
Gazette
; he’d religiously perused every column inch devoted to their upcoming union ever since the news had broken. Far from being cast in any unflattering light, somewhat to his disgust their wedding was being touted as the romantic event of the year.

 

“What’s today’s effort like?” Minerva didn’t take her eyes from her lists. When he’d first remarked on the slant all the news sheets had taken, she’d merely said, “I did wonder what they’d do.” She’d been referring to the grandes dames.

 

Royce perused the five inches of column devoted to their event, then snorted. “This one goes even further. It reads like a fairy tale—wellborn but orphaned beauty slaves for decades as the chatelaine of a ducal castle, then on the death of the crusty old duke, catches the roving eye of said duke’s mysterious exiled son, now her new lord, and a marcher lord at that, but instead of suffering the indignity of a slip on the
shoulder, as one might expect, she succeeds in winning the hardened heart of her new duke and ends as his duchess.”

 

With a sound very like “pshaw,” he tossed the paper on the table. Regarded it with open disgust. “While that might contain elements of the truth, they’ve reduced it to the bizarre.”

 

Minerva grinned. At one point she’d wondered whether he might realize the fundamental truth underlying the reports—that dissecting news sheet inanity might reveal to him what she and many others already knew of him—but it hadn’t happened. As the days passed, it seemed increasingly likely that nothing less than long, frequent, and deepening exposure to his own emotions was likely to open his eyes.

 

Eyes that were so sharply observant when trained on anyone and anything else, but when it came to himself, to his inner self, simply did not see.

 

Sitting back, she considered her own efforts; ducal weddings in the country had to top the list of the most complicated events to manage. He rose to leave; she looked up, pinned him with a direct look. “You’ll need to be available from noon today, and throughout tomorrow and the next day, to greet the more important guests as they arrive.”

 

He held her gaze, then looked at Jeffers and Hamilton, standing by the wall behind her chair. “Send one of the footmen, one who can recognize crests, up to the battlements with a spyglass.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jeffers hesitated, then added, “If I might suggest, we could send one of the lads to the bridge with a list of those it would be helpful to know are approaching—he could wave a flag. That would be easily seen from the battlements.”

 

“An excellent idea!” Seeing Royce’s nod, Minerva turned to Hamilton. “Once we’ve done the rooms, you and Retford could make up a list. I’ll check it, then Handley can make copies.” She glanced at Royce, brows rising.

 

He nodded. “Handley will be with me in the study for most of the day, but he’ll have time in the afternoon to do the lists.”

 

Minerva smiled. Letitia had been right; there was very little she couldn’t overcome—not with Royce, and the entire household, at her back. There was something intensely satisfying about being the general at the head of the troops; she’d always loved her chatelaine role, but she was going to enjoy being a duchess even more.

 

Royce’s eyes held hers, then his lips kicked up at the ends. With a last glance, and a salute, he left her. Reaching for her cup, she returned to her lists.

 

 

The next morning they tumbled out of his bed early, and together rode up Usway Burn. Against everyone’s but Royce’s expectations, the cottages were nearing completion; after glancing over the improvements, Minerva sat on a bench against the front wall of the largest cottage while Royce made a more detailed inspection, old Macgregor at his elbow.

 

Of the major projects Royce had approved since he’d taken up the ducal reins, the footbridge over the Coquet had had first call on Hancock’s time. The bridge was now a proper footbridge, raised higher to avoid bores, rebuilt, and properly braced. The cottages had come next, and they were nearly finished; another week would see them done. After that, Hancock and his team would start on the mill—not a moment too soon, but luckily the weather had held, and all the wood and even more importantly the glass had already been procured. The mill would be sealed before winter, which, aside from all the rest, was a great deal more than she’d thought to achieve before his father had died.

 

She looked up, watched as Royce and Macgregor, deep in discussion, paced slowly across to the cottage on the left. She smiled as they disappeared, then let her mind slide to its present preoccupation.

 

The first guests, all family, had arrived yesterday. Today, his friends and hers would drive up. He’d chosen Rupert, Miles, Gerald, and Christian as his groomsmen; against that, she’d chosen Letitia, Rose, an old friend Ellen, Lady Am-
bervale, and Susannah as her matrons-of-honor. She’d felt obliged to have one of his sisters, and despite Susannah’s idiotic attempt at manipulation, she’d meant well, and Margaret or Aurelia would have been too grim.

 

All three of his sisters had arrived yesterday; all three were being very careful around her, aware that not only did she now have their all-powerful brother’s ear, she also knew virtually all their secrets. Not that she was likely to do anything with the knowledge, but they didn’t know that.

 

One part of the guest list that he’d supplied had pleased her enormously; he’d invited eight of his ex-colleagues. From Letitia, Penny, and Clarice she’d heard much about the group—the members of the Bastion Club plus Jack, Lord Hendon, and all their wives; she’d heard that Royce had declined to attend their weddings, and hadn’t been the least surprised to receive instant acceptances from the respective ladies. She suspected they intended to make a point by dancing joyously at
his
wedding.

 

Regardless, she was looking forward to meeting them all, those who had been closest to Royce professionally over the last years.

 

Over the few hours they’d managed to steal for their own—those not spent in his bed—she’d encouraged him to tell her more of the activities that had filled his lost years, those years of his life that had been lost to her, and his parents. After an initial hesitation, he’d gradually relaxed his guard, speaking increasingly freely of various missions, and the numerous threads he’d woven into a net for gathering intelligence, both military and civilian.

 

He’d described it all well enough for her, knowing him, to see it, feel it, understand how and in what way the activity of those years had impacted on him. He’d admitted he’d killed, in cold blood, not on foreign soil, but here in England. He’d expected her to be shocked, had tensed, but had relaxed, relieved, when, after he’d confirmed such deaths had been essential for national safety, she’d merely blinked,
and nodded.

 

He’d told her of the Bastion Club members’ recent adventures. He’d also told her about the man they’d termed “the last traitor”—the fiend Clarice had mentioned—an Englishman, a gentleman of the ton, most likely someone with a connection to the War Office, who’d betrayed his country for French treasure, and had killed and killed again to escape Royce and his men.

 

After the war’s end, Royce had lingered in London, pursuing every last avenue in an attempt to learn the last traitor’s identity. He’d cited that as his only failure.

 

To her relief, he’d clearly put that unfulfilled chase behind him; he spoke of it as history, not a current activity. That he could accept such a failure was reassuring; she knew enough to appreciate that, in a man as powerful as he, knowing when to walk away was a strength, not a weakness.

 

That over the last weeks he’d talked to her so openly, and in return had elicited from her details of how she’d spent the same years, had left her feeling increasingly confident of the strength that would underpin their marriage—had left her ever more secure in the reality of his love.

 

A love he, still, could not see.

 

Emerging from the cottage, he exchanged farewells with Macgregor, shaking the old man’s hand. Turning to her, he met her eyes, arched a brow. “Are you ready?”

 

She smiled, rose, and gave him her hand. “Yes. Lead on.”

 

 

He was back at Wolverstone, under his nemesis’s roof once more. Even though he had to share a room with Rohan, he didn’t care. He was there, close, and invisible among the gathering throng. Everyone could see him, yet no one really could—not the real him. He was hidden, forever concealed.

 

No one would ever know.

 

His plans were well advanced, at least in theory. All he had to do now was find the right place to stage his ultimate victory.

 

It shouldn’t be too hard; the castle was huge, and there were various buildings people paid little attention to dotted through the gardens. He had two days to find the perfect place.

 

Two days before he would act.

 

And finally win free of the torment.

 

Of the black, corrosive fear.