On reaching the library, they’d sat; while Retford had fetched the whisky, he’d asked about the London house. That topic hadn’t taken long to exhaust; other than having to rethink his notion of having his butler Hamilton take over as butler there, all else was as he’d supposed.
A strangely comfortable silence had ensued; she was, it seemed, one of those rare females who didn’t need to fill every silence with chatter.
Then again, she’d spent the last three years’ evenings sitting with his father; hardly surprising she’d grown used to long silences.
Unfortunately, while the silence normally would have suited him, tonight it left him prey to increasingly illicit thoughts of her; those currently prevailing involved stripping her slowly of her weeds, unwrapping her curves, her graceful limbs, and investigating her hollows.
All of which seemed guiltily wrong, almost dishonorable.
He inwardly frowned at her—a picture of ladylike decorum as, entirely oblivious of the pain she was causing him, needle flashing she worked on a piece of the same sort of embroidery his mother had favored, petit point he thought it was called. Technically, her living unchaperoned under his roof might be termed scandalous, yet given her position and how long she’d resided there…“How long have you been chatelaine here?”
She glanced up, then returned to her work. “Eleven years. I took on the duties when I turned eighteen, but neither your mother nor your father would consent to me to being titled chatelaine, not until I turned twenty-five and they finally accepted I wouldn’t wed.”
“They’d expected you to marry.” So had he. “Why didn’t you?”
She glanced up, flashed a light smile. “Not for want of offers, but no suitor offered anything I valued enough to grant him my hand—enough to change the life I had.”
“So you’re satisfied being Wolverstone’s chatelaine?”
Unsurprised by the bald question, Minerva shrugged. She would willingly answer any question he asked—anything to disrupt the effect that him sitting there, at his languid, long-legged ease in a sprawl that was so quintessentially masculine—broad shoulders against the high back of the chair, forearms resting along the padded arms, the long fingers of one hand cradling a cut-crystal tumbler, powerful thighs spread apart—was having on her benighted senses. Her nerves were so taut his presence made them flicker and twang like violin strings. “I won’t be chatelaine forever—once you marry, your duchess will take up the reins, and then I plan to travel.”
“Travel? Where to?”
Somewhere a long way from him. She studied the rose she must have just embroidered; she couldn’t remember doing it. “Egypt, perhaps.”
“Egypt?” He didn’t sound impressed by her choice. “Why there?”
“Pyramids.”
The darkly brooding look he’d had before he’d asked when she’d become chatelaine returned. “From all I’ve heard, the area around the pyramids is rife with Berber tribesmen, barbarians who wouldn’t hesitate to kidnap a lady. You can’t go there.”
She imagined informing him that she’d long had a dream of being kidnapped by a barbarian, tossed over his shoulder, and carted into his tent, there to be dropped on a silk-draped pallet and thoroughly ravished—of course he’d been the barbarian in question—and then pointing out that he had no authority over where she went. Instead, she settled for a response he’d like even less. Smiling gently, she looked back at her work. “We’ll see.”
No, they wouldn’t. She wasn’t going anywhere near Egypt, or any other country seething with danger. Royce toyed with lecturing her that his parents hadn’t raised her to have her throw her life away on some misguided adventure…but with his temper so uncertain, and her response guaranteed to only escalate the tension, he kept his lips shut and swallowed the words.
To his intense relief, she slipped her needle into her work, then rolled the piece up and placed it into a tapestry bag that apparently lived beneath one end of the chaise. Leaning down, she tucked the bag back into position, then straightened and looked at him. “I’m going to retire.” She rose. “Don’t stir—I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”
He managed a growled “good night” in reply. His eyes followed her to the door—while he fought to remain in the chair and let her go. Her idea about Egypt hadn’t helped, stirring something primitive—even more primitive—within him. Sexual hunger was a tangible ache as the door shut softly behind her.
Her room would be in the keep, somewhere not far from his new rooms; despite the ever-increasing temptation, he wasn’t going there.
She was his chatelaine, and he needed her.
Until he was solidly established as duke, the reins firmly in his hands, she was his best, most well-informed, reliable, and trustworthy source of information. He would avoid her as much as possible—Falwell and Kelso would help with that—but he would still need to see her, speak with her, on a daily basis.
He’d see her at meals, too; this was her home after all.
Both his parents had been committed to raising her; he had every intention of honoring that commitment even though they were gone. Although not formally a ward of the dukedom, she stood in much the same position…perhaps he could cast himself as in loco parentis?
That would excuse the protectiveness he felt—that he knew he would continue to feel.
Regardless, he would have to bear with her being always around, until, as she’d pointed out, he married.
That was something else he would have to arrange.
Marriage for him, as for all dukes of Wolverstone, indeed, for all Variseys, would be a cold-bloodedly negotiated affair. His parents’ and sisters’ marriages had been that, and had worked as such alliances were meant to; the men took lovers whenever they wished, and once heirs were produced, the women did the same, and the unions remained stable and their estates prospered.
His marriage would follow that course. Neither he nor any Varisey was likely to indulge in the recent fashion for love matches, not least because, as was recognized by all who knew them, Variseys, as a breed, did not love.
Not within marriage, and not, as far as anyone knew, in any other capacity, either.
Of course, once he was wed, he’d be free to take a mistress, a long-term one, one he could keep by his side…
The thought rewoke all the fantasies he’d spent the last hour trying to suppress.
With a disgusted grunt, he drained the amber liquid in his glass, then set it down, rose, adjusted his trousers, and headed off to his empty bed.
Three
At nine the next morning, Royce sat at the head of the table in the breakfast parlor, and, alone, broke his fast. He’d slept better than he’d expected—deeply, if not dreamlessly—and his dreams hadn’t been of his past, but rather fantasies that would never come to be.
All had featured his chatelaine.
If not always entirely naked, then at least less than clothed.
He’d woken to discover Trevor crossing the bedroom, ferrying hot water to the bathing chamber beyond. The keep had been built in an era when keeping doors to a minimum had been a wise defense; clearly knocking a door between the corridor and his dressing room and bathing chamber was an urgent necessity. He’d made a mental note to tell his chatelaine.
He’d wondered if she would ask why.
While he’d lain back and waited for the inevitable effect of his last dream to fade, he’d rehearsed various answers.
He’d walked into the breakfast parlor with a keen sense of anticipation, disappointingly doused when, despite the late hour, she hadn’t been there.
Perhaps she was one of those females who breakfasted on tea and toast in her room.
Curbing his misplaced curiosity about his chatelaine’s habits, he’d sat and allowed Retford to serve him, determinedly suppressing a query as to her whereabouts.
He was working his way through a plate of ham and sausages when the object of his obsession swept in—gowned in a gold velvet riding habit worn over a black silk
blouse with a black ribbon tied above one elbow and a black riding hat perched atop her golden head.
Wisps of hair had escaped her chignon, creating a fine nimbus beneath the hat. Her cheeks glowed with sheer vitality.
She saw him and smiled, halting and briskly tugging off her gloves. A crop was tucked under one arm. “Two demon-bred black horses have arrived in the stables with Henry. I recognized him, amazingly enough. The entire stable staff are milling about, fighting to lend a hand to get your beasts settled.” She arched a brow at him. “How many more horses should we expect?”
He chewed slowly, then swallowed. She enjoyed riding, he recalled; there was a taut litheness to her form as she stood poised just inside the door, as if her body were still thrumming to the beat of hooves, as if the energy stirred by the ride still coursed her veins.
The sight of her stirred him to an uncomfortable degree.
What had she asked? He raised his eyes to hers. “None.”
“None?” She stared at him. “What did you ride in London? A hired hack?”
Her tone colored the last words as utterly unthinkable—which they were.
“The only activities one can indulge in on horseback in the capital don’t, in my book, qualify as riding.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s true.” She studied him for a moment.
He returned his attention to his plate. She was debating whether to tell him something; he’d already learned what that particular, assessing look meant.
“So you’ve no horse of your own. Well, except old Conqueror.”
He looked up. “He’s still alive?” Conqueror had been his horse at the time he’d been banished, a powerful gray stallion just two years old.
She nodded. “No one else could ride him, so he was put to stud. He’s more gray than ever now, but he still plods around with his mares.” Again she hesitated, then made up her mind. “There’s one of Conqueror’s offspring, another stallion. Sword’s three years old now, but while he’s broken to the bit, he refuses to be ridden—well, not for long.” She met his eyes. “You might like to try.”
With a brilliant smile—she knew she’d just delivered a challenge he wouldn’t be able to resist—she swung around and left the room.
Leaving him thinking—yet again—of another ride he wouldn’t mind attempting.
“So, Falwell, there’s nothing urgently requiring attention on the estate?” Royce addressed the question to his steward, who after wrinkling his brow and dourly pondering, eventually nodded.
“I would say, Your Grace, that while there might be the usual minor details to be attended to here and there, there is nothing outstanding that leaps to mind as necessary to be done in the next few months.” Falwell was sixty if he was a day; a quietly spoken, rather colorless individual, he bobbed his head all but constantly—making Royce wonder if he’d developed the habit in response to his sire’s blustering aggression.
Seeming to always agree, even if he didn’t.
Both steward and agent had responded to his summons, and were seated before the study desk while he attempted what was rapidly becoming a hostile interrogation. Not that they were hostile, but he was feeling increasingly so.
Suppressing his incipient frown, he attempted to tease some better understanding from them. “It’ll be winter in a few months, and then we won’t be able to attend to anything of a structural nature until March, or more likely April.” He found it difficult to believe that among all the buildings and outbuildings, nothing needed repairing. He turned his gaze on his agent. “And what of the holdings? Kelso?”
The agent was of similar vintage to Falwell, but a much harder, leaner, grizzled man. He was, however, equally dour.
“Nothing urgent that needs castle intervention, Y’r Grace.”
They’d used the phrase “castle intervention” several times, apparently meaning assistance from the ducal coffers. But they were talking of barns, fences, and cottages on his lands that belonged to the estate and were provided to tenant farmers in exchange for their labor and the major portion of the crops. Royce allowed his frown to show. “What about situations that don’t require ‘castle intervention’? Are there any repairs or work of any kind urgently needed there?” His tone had grown more precise, his diction more clipped.
They exchanged glances—almost as if the question had confused them. He was getting a very bad feeling here. His father had been old-fashioned in a blanket sense, the quintessential marcher lord of yore; he had a growing suspicion he was about to step into a briar patch of old ways he was going to find it difficult to live within.
Not without being constantly pricked.
“Well,” Kelso eventually said, “there’s the matter of the cottages up Usway Burn, but your father was clear that that was for the tenants to fix. And if they didn’t fix things by next spring, he was of a mind to demolish the cottages and plow the area under for more corn, corn prices being what they are.”
“Actually,” Falwell took up the tale, “your late father would have, indeed should have, reclaimed the land for corn this summer—both Kelso and I advised it. But I fear”—Falwell shook his head, primly condescending—“Miss Chesterton intervened. Her ideas are really not to be recommended—if the estate were to constantly step in in such matters we’d be forever fixing every little thing—but I believe your late father felt…constrained, given Miss Chesterton’s position, to at least give the appearance of considering her views.”
Kelso snorted. “Fond of her, he was. Only time in all the years I served him that he didn’t do what was best for the estate.”
“Your late father had a sound grasp of what was due the estate, and the tenants’ obligations in that regard.” Falwell smiled thinly. “I’m sure you won’t wish to deviate from that successful, and indeed traditional, path.”
Royce eyed the pair of them—and was perfectly sure he needed more information, and—damn it!—he’d need to consult his chatelaine to get it. “I can assure you that any decisions I make will be guided by what is best for the estate. As for these cottages”—he glanced from one man to the other—“I take it that’s the only outstanding situation of that ilk?”
“As far as I’m aware, Y’r Grace.” Kelso paused, then added, “If there are other matters requiring attention, they’ve yet to be brought to my notice.”
Royce fought not to narrow his eyes; Kelso knew, or at least suspected, that there were other repairs or rectification needed, but the estate people weren’t bringing them to him. He pushed back from the desk. “I won’t be making any decisions until I’ve had time to acquaint myself with the details.”
He rose; both men quickly came to their feet. “I’ll send word when next I wish to see you.”
There was enough steel in his tone to have both men murmur in acquiescence, bow low, and, without protest, head for the door, even though Falwell had earlier informed him that his father had met with them on the first Monday of every month. For Royce’s money, that was far too infrequently. His father might not have needed more frequent meetings, but information was something he couldn’t function, hated trying to function, without.
He stood staring at the door long after the pairs’ retreating footsteps had faded. He’d hoped they would provide a bulwark between him and his chatelaine in all matters pertaining to the estate, yet after speaking with them for an hour, he wasn’t prepared to accept their views as being the full story on any subject. Certainly not on the Usway Burn cottages.
He wondered what Minerva’s views were—and why his father, who’d never doted on another in his life, much less changed his behavior to appease someone, had seen fit to, because of her ideas, stay his hand.
He’d have to ask her.
Seeing his plan to keep her at a distance crumble to dust, he couldn’t hold back a growl. Swinging around the desk, he headed for the door. Jerking it open, he stepped out, startling Jeffers, who snapped to attention.
“If anyone should ask, I’ve gone riding.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Before eliciting his chatelaine’s advice about the cottages, he’d test her advice about the horse.
She’d been right.
Incontestably right. Thundering over the gently rolling landscape, letting the gray stallion have his head, he felt the air rush past his face, felt an exhilaration he’d missed shooting down his veins, sensed all around him the hills and fields of home racing past at a madman’s pace—and blessed her insightfulness.
His father had been an excellent horseman, but had never had the patience for a mount with a mind of its own. He, on the other hand, enjoyed the challenge of making a compact with a horse, persuading it that it was in its best interests to carry him—so that together they could fly before the wind.
Sword was now his. He would carry him whenever and wherever he wished simply for a chance to run like this. Without restriction, without restraint, flying over fences, leaping rocks and burns, careening between the hills on their way to the breeding fields.
On leaving the study, he’d stridden straight for the stables and asked Milbourne for the stallion. On hearing he intended to ride the recalcitrant beast, Milbourne and Henry had accompanied him to the paddock at the rear of the castle’s holding fields. They’d watched him work the stallion, patient yet demanding; the pair had grinned delightedly when Sword had finally trotted all around the paddock with Royce on his back, then Royce had put the horse at the barred gate and sailed over to their cheers.
As he’d told Minerva, he hadn’t kept a horse in London. When he’d visited friends in the country, he’d ridden mounts they’d provided, but none had been of the ilk of Sword—a heavy hunter fully up to his weight, strong, solid, yet fleet of foot. His thighs gripping the stallion’s wide barrel, he rode primarily with hands and knees, the reins lying lax, there only if needed.
Mastered by Love Page 5
