“Indeed, Your Grace. If I may make so bold”—Collier puffed out his chest—“you could not do better than to follow your late father’s lead in all such matters. He was a stickler for the legal straight and narrow, and preserved and grew the dukedom significantly over his tenure. He was shrewd and wise, and never one for tampering with what worked well. My counsel would be that whenever any such questions arise, your best tack would be to ask yourself what your sire would have done, and do precisely that. Model yourself upon him, and all will go well—it’s what he would have wished.”
Hands clasped behind his back, Royce inclined his head. “Thank you for your advice, Collier. I believe you’ve already been given a room—if you encounter any difficulty relocating it, do ask one of the footmen.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Collier bowed low. “I wish you a good night.”
Royce nodded. He waited until Collier had closed the door behind him, before saying, “You heard?”
He knew she was there, behind him in the shadows. He’d known the instant she’d walked into the room.
“Yes, I heard.”
“And?” He made no move to turn from the window and the view of the dark night outside.
Drifting closer to the desk, Minerva drew a tight breath, then stated, “He’s wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Your father didn’t wish you to be like him.”
He stilled, but didn’t turn around. After a moment, he asked, voice quiet, yet intense, “What do you mean?”
“In his last moments, when I was with him here, in the library, he gave me a message for you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you, so you would understand what he meant.”
“Tell me now.” A harsh demand.
“He said: ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’”
A long silence ensued, then he asked, voice soft, quietly deadly, “And what, in your opinion, am I to understand by that?”
She swallowed. “He was speaking in the most general terms. The widest and broadest terms. He knew he was dying, and that was the one thing he felt he had to say to you.”
“And you believe he wished me to use that as a guide in dealing with the cottages?”
“I can’t say that—that’s for you to decide, to interpret. I can only tell you what he said that day.”
She waited. His fingers had clenched, each hand gripping the other tightly. Even from where she stood, she could feel the dangerous energy of his temper, eddies swirling and lashing, a tempest coalescing around him.
She felt an insane urge to go closer, to raise a hand and lay it on his arm, on muscles that would be tight and tensed, more iron than steel beneath her palm. To try, if she could, to soothe, to drain some of that restless energy, to bring him some release, some peace, some surcease.
“Leave me.” His tone was flat, almost grating.
Even though he couldn’t see, she inclined her head, then turned and walked—calmly, steadily—to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when he asked, “Is that all he said?”
She glanced back. He hadn’t moved from his stance before the window. “That was all he told me to tell you. ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’ Those, exactly those, were his last words.”
When he said nothing more, she opened the door, went out, and shut it behind her.
Four
R oyce strode into the breakfast parlor early the next morning, and trapped his chatelaine just as she finished her tea.
Eyes widening, fixed on him, she lowered her cup; without taking her gaze from him, she set it back on its saucer.
Her instincts were excellent. He raked her with his gaze. “Good—you’re dressed for riding.” Retford had told him she would be when he’d breakfasted even earlier. “You can show me these cottages.”
She raised her brows, considered him for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” Dropping her napkin beside her plate, she rose, picked up her riding gloves and crop, and calmly joined him.
Accepting his challenge.
Loins girded, jaw clenched, he suffered while, with her gliding beside him, he stalked to the west courtyard. He’d known his sisters would breakfast in their rooms, while their husbands would come down fashionably later, allowing him to kidnap her without having to deal with any of them.
He’d ordered their horses to be saddled. He led the way out of the house; as they crossed the courtyard toward the stables, he glanced at Minerva as, apparently unperturbed, she walked alongside. He’d steeled himself to deflect any comment about their exchange last night, but she’d yet to make one. To press her point that he didn’t have to be like his father in managing the dukedom.
That he should break with tradition and do what he felt was right.
Just as he had sixteen years ago.
Regardless of her silence, her opinion reached him clearly.
He felt as if she were manipulating him.
They reached the stable yard and found Henry holding a dancing Sword while Milbourne waited with her horse, a bay gelding, by the mounting block.
On her way to Milbourne, she glanced at the restless gray. “I see you tamed him.”
Taking the reins from Henry, Royce planted one boot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the broad back. “Yes.”
Just as he’d like to tame her.
Teeth gritted, he gathered the reins, holding Sword in as he watched her settle in her sidesaddle. Then she nodded her thanks to Milbourne, lifted the reins, and trotted forward.
He met her eyes, tipped his head toward the hills. “Lead the way.”
She did, at a pace that took some of the edge from his temper. She was an excellent horsewoman, with an excellent seat. Once he’d convinced himself she wasn’t likely to come to grief, he found somewhere else to fix his gaze. She led him over the bridge, then across the fields, jumping low stone walls as they headed north of the village. Sword kept pace easily; he had to rein the gray in to keep him from taking the lead.
But once they reached the track that meandered along the banks of Usway Burn, a tributary of the Coquet, they slowed, letting the horses find their own pace along the rocky and uneven ground. Less experienced than the gelding, Sword seemed content to follow in his wake. The track was barely wide enough for a farm cart; they followed its ruts up into the hills.
The cottages stood halfway along the burn, where the valley widened into reasonable-sized meadows. It was a small but fertile holding. As Royce recalled, it had always been prosperous. It was one of the few acreages on the estate given over to corn. With the uncertainty in supply of that staple, and the consequent increase in price, he could understand Kelso’s and Falwell’s push to increase the acreage, but…the estate had always grown enough corn to feed its people; that hadn’t changed. They didn’t need to grow more.
What they did need was to keep farmers like the Macgregors, who knew the soil they tilled, on the estate, working the land.
Three cottages—one large, two smaller—had been built in the lee of a west-facing hill. They splashed across the burn at a rough ford. As they neared the buildings, the door of the largest opened; an old man, bent and weathered, came out. Leaning on a stout walking stick, he watched without expression as Royce drew rein and dismounted.
Kicking free of her stirrups, Minerva slid to the ground; reins in one hand, she saluted the old man. “Good morning, Macgregor. His Grace has come to take a look at the cottages.”
Macgregor inclined his head politely to her. As she led her bay to a nearby fence, she reached for Royce’s reins, and he handed them over.
He walked forward, halting before Macgregor. Old eyes the color of stormy skies held his gaze with a calmness, a rooted certainty, that only age could bring.
Royce knew his father would have waited, silent and intimidating, for an acknowledgment of his station, then possibly nodded curtly before demanding Macgregor show him the cottages.
He offered his hand. “Macgregor.”
/> The old eyes blinked wide. Macgregor dropped his gaze to Royce’s hand; after an instant’s hesitation, he shifted his grip on the walking stick’s knobbed head, and grasped the proffered hand in a surprisingly strong grip.
Macgregor looked up as their hands parted. “Welcome home, Y’r Grace. And it’s right glad I am to see you.”
“I remember you—frankly, I’m amazed you’re still here.”
“Aye, well, some of us grow older than others. And I remember you, too—used to see you riding wild over yon hills.”
“I fear my days of wildness are past.”
Macgregor made a sound denoting abject disbelief.
Royce glanced at the buildings. “I understand there’s a problem with these cottages.”
Minerva found herself trailing the pair, entirely redundant, as Macgregor, famed crustiness in abeyance, showed Royce around, pointing out the gaps in the walls, and where the rafters and roof beams no longer met.
Exiting the larger middle cottage, they were crossing to the smaller one to the left when she heard distant hoof-beats. She halted in the yard. Royce would have heard the horse approaching, but he didn’t take his attention from Macgregor; the pair went into the smaller cottage. Raising a hand to shade her eyes, she waited in the yard.
Macgregor’s oldest son, Sean, appeared, riding one of their workhorses. He slowed, halted just inside the yard, and dismounted, leaving the traces he’d used as reins dragging. He hurried to Minerva. “The rest of the lads and me are working the upper fields. We saw you come riding in.” He looked at the smaller cottage. “Is that the new duke in there with Da?”
“Yes, but—” Before she could assure him that his father and his duke were managing perfectly well, Royce led the way out of the tiny cottage, ducking low to miss the lintel. He glanced back as Macgregor followed, then came on.
“This is Sean Macgregor, Macgregor’s oldest son. Sean, Wolverstone.” Minerva hid a grin at Sean’s astonishment when Royce nodded and, apparently without thought, offered his hand.
After a stunned instant, Sean quickly gripped it and shook.
Releasing him, Royce turned to the last cottage. “I should look at them all while I’m here.”
“Aye.” Macgregor stumped past him. “Come along, then. Not much different to the others, but there’s a crooked corner in this one.”
He beckoned Royce to follow, and he did.
Sean stood, mouth a-cock, and watched as Royce ducked through the cottage door in his father’s wake. After a moment, he said, “He’s really looking.”
“Indeed. And when he comes out, I suspect he’ll want to discuss what can be done.” Minerva looked at Sean. “Can you speak for your brothers?”
He shifted his gaze to her face, nodded. “Aye.”
“In that case, I suggest we wait here.”
Her prophecy proved correct. When Royce emerged from the dimness of the third cottage, his lips were set in a determined line. He met her gaze, then turned to Macgregor, who had followed him into the mild sunshine. “Let’s talk.”
They—Royce, Minerva, Macgregor, and Sean—sat at the deal table in the big cottage and thrashed out an arrangement that satisfied them all. While not condoning Kelso’s and Falwell’s tack, Royce made it clear that the precedent that would be set if the cottages were repaired under the current lease was not one he would countenance; instead, he offered to refashion the lease. It took them an hour to agree on the basic principles; deciding how to get the work done took mere minutes.
Somewhat to her surprise, Royce took charge. “Your lads need to give their time to the harvest first. Once that’s in, they can help with the building. You”—he looked at Macgregor—“will supervise. It’ll be up to you to make sure the work is done as it should be. I’ll come up with Hancock”—he glanced at Minerva—“I assume he’s still the castle builder?” When she nodded, he went on, “I’ll bring him here, and show him what we need done. We have less than three months before the first snow—I want all three cottages leveled and three new ones completed before winter sets in.”
Macgregor blinked; Sean still looked stunned.
When they left the cottage, Minerva was beaming. So, too, were Macgregor and Sean. Royce, in contrast, had his inscrutable mask on.
She hurried to get her horse, Rangonel. There was a convenient log by the fence for a mounting block; scrambling into her saddle, she settled her skirts.
After shaking hands with the Macgregors, Royce cast her a glance, then retrieved Sword and mounted. She urged Rangonel alongside as he turned down the track.
At the last, she waved to the Macgregors. Still beaming, they waved back. Facing forward, she glanced at Royce. “Am I allowed to say I’m impressed?”
He grunted.
Smiling, she followed him back to the castle.
“Damn it!” With the sounds of a London evening—the rattle of wheels, the clop of hooves, the raucous cries of jarveys as they tacked down fashionable Jermyn Street—filling his ears, he read the short note again, then reached for the brandy his man had fortuitously just set on the table by his elbow.
He took a long swallow, read the note again, then tossed it on the table. “The duke’s dead. I’ll have to go north to attend his funeral.”
There was no help for it; if he didn’t appear, his absence would be noted. But he was far from thrilled by the prospect. Until that moment, his survival plan had revolved around total and complete avoidance, but a ducal funeral in the family eradicated that option.
The duke was dead. More to the point, his nemesis was now the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.
It would have happened sometime, but why the hell now? Royce had barely shaken the dust of Whitehall from his elegantly shod heels—he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten the one traitor he’d failed to bring to justice.
He swore, let his head fall back against the chair. He’d always assumed time—the simple passage of it—would be his salvation. That it would dull Royce’s memories, his drive, distract him with other things.
Then again…
Straightening, he took another sip of brandy. Perhaps having a dukedom to manage—one unexpectedly thrust upon him immediately following an exile of sixteen years—was precisely the distraction Royce needed to drag and hold his attention from his past.
Royce had always had power; his inheriting the title changed little in that regard.
Perhaps this really was for the best?
Time, as ever, would tell, but, unexpectedly, that time was here.
He thought, considered; in the end he had no choice.
“Smith! Pack my bags. I have to go to Wolverstone.”
In the breakfast parlor the following morning, Royce was enjoying his second cup of coffee and idly scanning the latest news sheet when Margaret and Aurelia walked in.
They were gowned, coiffed. With vague smiles in his direction, they headed for the sideboard.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, confirming it was early, not precisely the crack of dawn, yet for them…
His cynicism grew as they came to the table, plates in hand. He was at the head of the table; leaving one place empty to either side of him, Margaret sat on his left, Aurelia on his right.
He took another sip of coffee, and kept his attention on the news sheet, certain he’d learn what they wanted sooner rather than later.
His father’s four sisters and their husbands, and his mother’s brothers and their wives, together with various cousins, had started arriving yesterday; the influx would continue for several days. And once the family was in residence, the connections and friends invited to stay at the castle for the funeral would start to roll in; his staff would be busy for the next week.
Luckily, the keep itself was reserved for immediate family; not even his paternal aunts had rooms in the central wing. This breakfast parlor, too, on the ground floor of the keep, was family only, giving him a modicum of privacy, an area of relative calm in the center of the storm.
Margare
t and Aurelia sipped their tea and nibbled slices of dry toast. They chatted about their children, their intention presumably to inform him of the existence of his nephews and nieces. He studiously kept his gaze on the news sheet. Eventually his sisters accepted that, after sixteen years of not knowing, he was unlikely to develop an interest in that direction overnight.
Even without looking, he sensed the glance they exchanged, heard Margaret draw in one of her portentous breaths.
His chatelaine breezed in. “Good morning, Margaret, Aurelia.” Her tone suggested she was surprised to find them down so early.
Her entrance threw his sisters off-balance; they murmured good mornings, then fell silent.
With his eyes, he tracked Minerva to the sideboard, taking in her plain green gown. Trevor had reported that on Saturday mornings she eschewed riding in favor of taking a turn about the gardens with the head gardener in tow.
Royce returned his gaze to the news sheet, ignoring the part of him that whispered, “A pity.” He wasn’t entirely pleased with her; it was just as well that when he rode out shortly, he wouldn’t come upon her riding his hills and dales, so he wouldn’t be able to join her, her and him alone, private in the wild.
Such an encounter would do nothing to ease his all but constant pain.
As Minerva took her seat farther down the board, Margaret cleared her throat and turned to him. “We’d wondered, Royce, whether you had any particular thoughts about a lady who might fill the position of your duchess.”
He held still for an instant, then lowered the news sheet, looked first at Margaret, then at Aurelia. He’d never gaped in his life, but…“Our father isn’t even in the ground, and you’re talking about my wedding?”
He glanced at his chatelaine. She had her head down, her gaze fixed on her plate.
“You’ll have to think of the matter sooner rather than later.” Margaret set down her fork. “The ton isn’t going to let the most eligible duke in England simply”—she gestured—“be!”
“The ton won’t have any choice. I have no immediate plans to marry.”
Mastered by Love Page 8
