Mastered by Love
Page 13
Royce grunted. “It would work, if she wasn’t unresponsive to me.”
Hamish frowned. “About that…have you tried?”
“To seduce her? No. Just think—I have to work closely with her, need to interact with her on a daily basis. If I made an advance and she rejected me, it would make life hellishly awkward for us both. And what if, after that, she decided to leave immediately despite her vows? I can’t go that route.”
He shifted on the wall. “Besides, if you want the honest truth, I’ve never seduced a woman in my life—I wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it.”
Hamish overbalanced and fell off the wall again.
Where was Royce? What was his nemesis up to?
Although the bulk of the guests had left, Allardyce, thank heaven, among them, enough remained for him to feel confident he still had sufficient cover, but the thinning crowd should have made his cousin easier to see, to keep track of.
In the billiard room with his male cousins, he played, laughed, and joked, and inwardly obsessed over what Royce might be doing. He wasn’t with Minerva, who was sitting with the grandes dames, and he wasn’t in his study because his footman wasn’t standing outside the door.
He hadn’t wanted to come to Wolverstone, but now he was there, the opportunity to linger, mingling with his other cousins who, together with Royce’s sisters, were planning what would amount to a highly select house party to capitalize on the fact they were there, together and out of sight of the ton, and, more importantly, their spouses, was tempting.
Yet his long-standing fear—that if Royce were to see him, were to look at him often enough, those all-seeing dark eyes would strike through his mask and Royce would see the truth, would know and act—remained, the nearness to his nemesis keeping it forever fermenting in one part of his brain.
From the first step he’d taken down the long road to becoming the successful—still living—traitorous spy he was, he’d known that the one being above all others he had to fear was Royce. Because once Royce knew, Royce would kill him without remorse. Not because he was an enemy, a traitor, not because he’d struck at Royce, but because he was family. Royce would not hesitate to erase such a blot on the family’s escutcheon.
Royce was far more like his father than he believed.
For years he’d carried his fear inside him, held close, a smoldering, cankerous coal forever burning a hole in his gut.
Yet now temptation whispered. While so many of his cousins remained at Wolverstone, he, too, could stay.
And over the years of living with his fear, of coming to know it so intimately, he’d realized there was, in fact, one way to make the living torment end.
For years he’d thought it could only end with his death.
Recently he’d realized it could end with Royce’s.
Six
Royce walked into the drawing room that evening more uncertain about a woman than he’d ever been in his life.
After Hamish had staggered to his feet a second time, he’d made a number of suggestions, not all of which had been in jest. Yet the instant Royce’s gaze landed on Minerva, he rejected Hamish’s principal thesis—that his chatelaine was no more immune to him than the average lady, but was concealing her reactions.
From him? Gauging others was one of his strengths, one he’d exercised daily over the past sixteen years; she’d have to possess the most amazing control to hide such an awareness of him, from him.
As if sensing his regard, she turned and saw him; leaving the group with whom she’d been conversing, she glided to him. “Did you find the more detailed list of candidates I left on your desk?”
Her voice was cool, serene. She was annoyed with his treatment of her initial list.
“Yes.” There was nothing subtle about his tone.
Her eyes locked with his. “Have you read it?”
“No.”
Her lips tightened, but she didn’t press her luck. The drawing room was still comfortably well-populated; he’d thought more people would have left.
For an instant, she stood looking into his eyes, then she glanced around.
Backing down, thank God. He hadn’t realized before how arousing it was to have a lady cross swords with him; no other ever had.
For a moment he stood looking down at her, letting his eyes, his senses, feast, then silently cleared his throat and followed her gaze…“Bloody hell!” he muttered. “They’re all still here.”
“The grandes dames? I did tell you they were staying until Monday.”
“I thought you meant Therese Osbaldestone and maybe Helena and Horatia, not the whole damned pack.”
She glanced at him, then past him. “Regardless, here’s Retford.” She met his eyes briefly. “You have Lady Augusta again, of course.”
“Of. Course.” He bit back the acid comments burning the tip of his tongue; no point expending energy over what he couldn’t change. Besides, while the grandes dames might have stayed on, so, too, had many of his cousins, and some of his sisters’ friends. Two of his uncles and their wives were still there; they’d mentioned they’d be leaving tomorrow.
There were enough gentlemen still present for him to escape with after dinner. Until then, he would deploy his considerable skills in deflecting all inquisition on the subject of his bride.
Locating Lady Augusta, he went to claim her hand.
Royce practiced the art of avoidance throughout the following day. He didn’t disappear, but hid in plain sight.
In the morning, he confounded everyone by joining the group going to church; not one of the grandes dames was devoted to religion. He dallied after the service, chatting to the vicar and various locals, timing his return so that he walked into the castle as the luncheon gong rang.
He played the genial host throughout the informal meal, chatting easily about country pursuits. Considerate host that he was, the instant the platters were cleared he suggested a ride to a local waterfall.
His chatelaine looked at him, but said nothing.
They returned in the late afternoon. He’d managed to keep largely to himself; the others all thought that when he grew quiet, he was brooding over his father’s death. Not grieving—for that, one had to love—but angry over being denied his long-awaited confrontation with his sire.
He walked with the others into the front hall. Seeing no sign of grandes dames—or his chatelaine—he parted from the rest and went up the main stairs, and into the keep.
He headed for his study. No one had mentioned the words “marriage,” “bride,” or “wedding” in his hearing all day; he was feeling sufficiently mellow to wonder if his chatelaine had left him another amended list. If she had, she would have found her second list sitting alongside the first by his blotter. He would read them, but in his own good time, not at the behest of a pack of ladies, even be they grandes dames.
His hand was on the study doorknob, opening the door, before he registered that Jeffers wasn’t at his post. Not that he had to be when Royce wasn’t in the study, but the man had an uncanny sense of when he would be coming to the room. Pushing the door wide, he walked in—
And halted. He’d walked into an ambush.
Seven grandes dames were seated in a semicircle before his desk, the chairs carefully arranged so he hadn’t been able to see them, not until he’d walked too far in to retreat.
Only one lady—Therese Osbaldestone—turned her head to look at him. “Good afternoon, Wolverstone. We’d appreciate it if you would grant us a few minutes of your time.”
No real question, and his title, not his name; stiffly, he inclined his head.
Therese glanced behind the door, to where Jeffers stood with his back to the wall. “You may go.”
Jeffers looked at Royce. He endorsed the order with a curt nod.
As the door closed silently behind Jeffers, Royce walked forward. Slowly. Passing one end of the line of chairs, he rounded the desk, his gaze touching each determined face. Horatia, Helena, Therese, Augusta, Prin
cess Esterhazy, Lady Holland, and Lady Melbourne. Behind the chairs to one side stood Letitia and Minerva.
Combining their various connections, with Letitia representing both the Vaux and Dearne, the group commanded the collective might of the upper echelons of the ton.
These were the ton’s foremost female generals.
He inclined his head. “Ladies.”
He sat, outwardly relaxed, and regarded them impassively.
Lady Osbaldestone was their elected speaker. “I’ve already discussed with you the reason you need to marry without delay.” Her obsidian gaze lowered to the blotter, on which three sheets—a new and longer list—lay spread. “We have pooled our knowledge—we believe that list includes every gel you might consider for the position of your duchess, along with her antecedents, her expected fortune, and sundry information we thought helpful.”
Her gaze rose from the list as Royce’s did; she met and held his gaze. “You now have all the information you need to choose your bride, which, as we’ve all been at pains to impress on you, you need to do forthwith. However, what you may not yet perceive is what will occur if you do not act promptly. Should the ton not hear of your betrothal soon, then you and this castle are likely to be stormed by every even halfway eligible chit in Christendom.” She rapped the floor with her cane. “And I can assure you they will be a great deal harder to repulse than any army!”
Spine straight, she looked him in the eye. “Is that what you want? Because if you fail to act, that is precisely what will happen.”
The vision was enough to make him blanch, but…were they actually threatening him?
Lady Augusta shifted, drawing his attention. “That’s not a threat—at least, not from us. It will, however, happen precisely as Therese says, regardless of anything we may do, or indeed, anything you can do short of announcing your betrothal.”
She hesitated, then went on, her tone more conciliatory, “If your father had lived, matters would be different. But he died, and so you are now Wolverstone, unmarried and childless, and with no direct heir—your marriage is urgent regardless. But for the reasons you now know of, that urgency has become acute. The matter of you choosing your bride has now become critical. And while we, and those others who would know, already recognize the urgency, the entire ton will become aware of it—of your need of a bride—sooner rather than later.”
“Indeed,” Princess Esterhazy said, in her accented voice, “it is a wonder you have not yet had a rash of carriages breaking down outside your gates.”
“One would hope,” Lady Osbaldestone said, “that they’ll wait for at least a week after the funeral.”
Royce studied her face, checked those of the others; she wasn’t being facetious.
Helena, her normally clear eyes shadowed by concern, leaned forward. “We should perhaps make clear—we are not urging you to anything you would not at some point do. It is merely the timing that has changed.” She pulled an expressive face. “Your family have always approached marriage as a means of alliance, of furthering the dukedom. All know that Variseys do not indulge in love matches. And while that may not be to the liking of all, we are none of us suggesting you change your spots. No. All we are saying is that you must make your choice—exactly the same choice you would at some point have made, n’est-ce pas? It is simply that the choice needs to be made with greater speed than you expected, yes?” She spread her hands. “That is all.”
All? Before he could respond, Therese waved at the lists.
“Minerva gave you our initial recommendations, but these are more extensive. We’ve racked our brains, and included every possible potential candidate.” She caught his eye. “Not one young lady on that list would turn down the position of your duchess should you choose to favor her by offering it. I realize—we all realize—that this situation has been forced on you, and that these ladies are not present for you to meet. However, in terms of the decision you must make, neither of those facts is relevant.”
She drew a deep breath, held his gaze, her own weighty with the power she wielded. “We suggest you make your choice from these ladies—any one will make you an entirely acceptable bride.” She paused, then went on, “I see no point in lecturing you, of all people, on the concept of duty—I accept you might well know more than even I of that quality. Be that as it may, there is no justifiable reason for you to drag your heels in this respect.” Her hands tightened on the head of her cane. “Just do it, and it will be done.”
She rose, bringing all the others to their feet. Royce eyed them, then slowly, stiffly, stood.
None of them were blind; not one had ever been foolish. They all sensed his temper, all inclined their heads to him and on a chorus of “Your Graces,” turned, and filed out.
He stood, his face like stone, utterly expressionless, every instinct, every reaction, rigidly suppressed, and watched them go.
Minerva kept glancing at him. She was last in line for the door; she tried to hang back, but Lady Augusta, ahead of her, stepped back, took her arm in a viselike grip, and bundled her out before her.
Jeffers, in his usual position in the corridor outside, reached back and pulled the door closed; glancing back, Minerva caught a last glimpse of Royce, still standing behind his desk, looking down at her neat list.
She saw his lips curl in a soundless snarl.
She’d advised against it—the grandes dames’ ambush—firmly and quite definitely, but they hadn’t listened.
And then she’d stopped arguing because, suddenly, she hadn’t been sure of her reasons, her motives in not wanting them to push him, not like that.
Was she arguing because of her burgeoning feelings for him—was she trying to protect him, and if so, from what and why?—or was she right in thinking that them banding together in such a fashion and laying before him what he would certainly interpret—marcher lord that he was—as an ultimatum, was a very unwise, not to say outright bad, idea?
She now knew the answer. Very bad idea.
No one had seen him since that meeting in his study the previous afternoon. He hadn’t come down to dinner, electing to dine alone in his apartments, and then this morning he’d—so she’d learned—got up at dawn, breakfasted in the kitchens, then gone to the stables, taken Sword, and disappeared.
He could be anywhere, including Scotland.
She stood in the front hall surrounded by the grandes dames’ boxes and trunks, and took in the set, determined, positively mulish faces of those selfsame grandes dames as they perched on said trunks and boxes, having vowed not to stir a step further until Wolverstone—not one of them was calling him by his given name—gave them his decision.
They’d been sitting there for fully half an hour. Their carriages were lined up in the forecourt, ready to carry them away, but if they didn’t leave soon, they wouldn’t reach any major town before nightfall, so they would have to remain another night…she didn’t know if their tempers or hers would stand it; she didn’t want to think about Royce’s.
Her hearing was more acute than theirs; she heard a distant creak, then a thump—the west courtyard door opening and closing. Quietly, she turned and slipped into the corridor behind her, the one leading to the west wing.
Once out of sight of the front hall, she picked up her skirts and hurried.
She rushed around a corner—and just managed not to collide with him again. His face still carved granite, he looked at her, then stepped around her and strode on.
Hauling in a breath, she whirled and hurried even more to catch up with him. “Royce—the grandes dames are waiting to leave.”
His stride didn’t falter. “So?”
“So you have to give them your decision.”
“What decision?”
She mentally cursed; his tone was far too mild. “The name of which lady you’ve chosen as your bride.”
The front hall loomed ahead. Voices carried in the corridors; the ladies had heard. They stirred, rising to their feet, looking at him expectantly.
The word was an absolute, incontestable negative.
Without breaking his stride, he inclined his head coldly as he strode past the assembled female might of the ton. “I wish you Godspeed.”
With that, he swung onto the main stairs, rapidly climbed them, and disappeared into the gallery above.
Leaving Minerva, and all the grandes dames, staring after him.
A moment of stunned silence ensued.
Dragging in a breath, she turned to the grandes dames—and discovered every eagle eye riveted on her.
Augusta gestured up the stairs. “Do you want to? Or should we?”
“No.” She didn’t want him saying something irretrievable and alienating any of them; they were, despite all, well disposed toward him, and their support would be invaluable—to him and even more to his chosen bride—in the years to come. She swung back to the stairs. “I’ll talk to him.”
Lifting her skirts, she climbed quickly up, then hurried after him into the keep. She needed to seize the moment, engage with him now, and get him to make some acceptable statement, or the grandes dames would stay. And stay. They were as determined as he was stubborn.
She assumed he would make for the study, but…“Damn!” She heard his footsteps change course for his apartments.
His private apartments; she recognized the implied warning, but had to ignore it. She’d failed to dissuade the grandes dames, so here she now was, chasing a snarling wolf into his lair.
No choice.
Royce swept into his sitting room, sending the door swinging wide. He fetched up in the middle of the Aubusson rug, listened intently, then cursed and left the door open; she was still coming on.
A very unwise decision.
All the turbulent emotions of the previous evening, barely calmed to manageable levels by his long, bruising ride, had roared back to furious, aggressive life at the sight of the grandes dames camped in his front hall—metaphorically at his gates—intent on forcing him to agree to marry one of the ciphers on their infernal list.