He’d studied the damned list. He had no idea in any personal sense of who any of the females were—they were all significantly younger than he—but how—how?—could the grandes dames imagine he could simply—so cold-bloodedly—just choose one, and then spend the rest of his life tied to her, condemning her to a life tied to him…
Condemning them both to living—no, existing—in exactly the same sort of married life his father and his mother had had.
Not the married life his friends enjoyed, not the supportive unions his ex-colleagues had forged, and nothing like the marriage Hamish had.
No. Because he was Wolverstone, he was to be denied any such comfort, condemned instead to the loveless union his family had traditionally engaged in, simply because of the name he bore.
Because they—all of them—thought they knew him, thought that, because of his name, they knew what sort of man he was.
He didn’t know what sort of man he truly was—how could they?
Uncertainty had plagued him from the moment he’d stepped away from the created persona of Dalziel, then been compounded massively by his accession to the title so unexpectedly, so unprepared. At twenty-two he’d been entirely certain who Royce Henry Varisey was, but when he’d looked again sixteen years later…none of his previous certainties had fitted.
He no longer fitted the construct of the man, the duke, he’d thought he would be.
Duty, however, was one guiding light he’d always recognized, and still did. So he’d tried. He’d spent all night poring over their list, trying to force himself to toe the expected line.
He’d failed. He couldn’t do it—couldn’t force himself to choose a woman he didn’t want.
And the prime reason he couldn’t was about to enter the room behind him.
He hauled in a massive breath, then snarled and flung himself into one of the large armchairs set before the windows, facing the open doorway.
Just as she sailed in.
Minerva knew from long experience of Variseys that this was no time for caution, much less meekness. The sight that met her eyes as she came to a halt inside the ducal sitting room—the wall of fury that assailed her senses—confirmed that; he’d roll right over her, smother her, if she gave him half a chance.
She fixed him with an exasperated, aggravated gaze. “You have to make a choice, make it and declare it—or else give me something I can take downstairs that will satisfy the ladies, or they’re not going to leave.” She folded her arms and stared him down. “And you’ll like that even less.”
A long silence ensued. She knew he used silences to undermine; she didn’t budge an inch, just waited him out.
His eyes narrowed. Eventually, one dark, diabolically winged brow rose. “Are you really that keen to explore Egypt?”
She frowned. “What?” Then she made the connection. Tightened her lips. “Don’t try to change the subject. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s your bride.”
His gaze remained fixed on her face, on her eyes. “Why are you so keen to have me declare who I’ll wed?” His voice had lowered, softened, his tone growing strangely, insidiously suggestive. “Are you so eager to escape from Wolverstone and your duties, and all those here?”
The implication pricked a spot she hadn’t, until that instant, realized was sensitive. Her temper flared, so quickly and completely she had no chance to rein it back. “As you know damned well”—her voice dripped fury, her eyes, she knew, would be all golden scorn—“Wolverstone is the only home I’ve ever known. It is my home. While you might know every rock, every stone, I know every single man, woman, and child on this estate.” Her voice deepened, vibrating with emotion. “I know the seasons, and how each affects us. I know every facet of the dynamics of the castle community and how it runs. Wolverstone has been my life for more than twenty years, and loyalty to—and love for—it and its people is what has kept me here so long.”
She dragged in a tight breath. His eyes dropped briefly to her breasts, mounding above her neckline; uncaring, she trapped his gaze as it returned to her face. “So no, I’m not keen to leave—I would much rather stay—but leave I must.”
“Why?”
She flung up her hands. “Because you have to marry one of the ladies on that damned list! And once you do, there’ll be no place for me here.”
If he was taken aback by her outburst, she saw no hint of it; his face remained set, the lines chiseled stone. The only sense she gained from him was one of implacable, immovable opposition.
His gaze shifted from her to the mantelpiece, following the long line of armillary spheres she’d kept dusted and polished. His dark gaze rested on them for a long moment, then he murmured, “You’re always telling me to go my own road.”
She frowned. “This is your own road, the one you would naturally take—it’s only the timing that’s changed.”
He looked at her; she tried, but, as usual, could read nothing in his dark eyes. “What,” he asked, his voice very soft, “if that’s not the road I want to take?”
She sighed through her teeth. “Royce, stop being difficult for the sake of it. You know you’re going to choose one of the ladies on that list. The list is extensive, indeed complete, so those are your choices. So just tell me the name and I’ll take it downstairs, before the grandes dames decide to barge in here.”
He studied her. “What about your alternative?”
It took her a moment to follow, then she held up her hands, conceding. “Fine—give me something to tell them that will satisfy them instead.”
“All right.”
She suppressed a frown. His gaze fixed on her, he looked like he was thinking, the wheels of his diabolical mind churning.
“You may announce to the ladies downstairs”—the words were slow, even, his tone dangerously mild—“that I’ve made up my mind which lady I’ll wed. They can expect to see the announcement of our betrothal in a week or so, once the lady I’ve chosen agrees.”
Her eyes locked with his, she replayed the declaration; it would, indeed, satisfy the grandes dames. It sounded sensible, rational—in fact, exactly what he should say.
But…she knew him far too well to accept the words at face value. He was up to something, but she couldn’t think what.
Royce surged to his feet—before she could question him. Shrugging out of his hacking jacket, he walked toward his bedroom. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change.”
She frowned, annoyed by his refusal to let her probe, but with no choice offering, she stiffly inclined her head, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Tugging loose his neckerchief, he watched the door shut, then strode into his bedroom. She would learn the answer to her question soon enough.
Seven
The next morning, garbed in her riding habit, Minerva sat in the private breakfast parlor and consumed her marmaladed toast as quickly as she daintily could; she was intent on getting out on Rangonel as soon as possible.
She hadn’t seen Royce since he’d sent her off with his response to the grandes dames’ demand. He hadn’t joined the guests still remaining for dinner; she hadn’t been surprised. But she wasn’t in any hurry to meet him, not until she felt more like herself, hence her wariness as, toast finished, tea drunk, she rose and headed for the stables.
Retford had confirmed that His Grace had breakfasted earlier and gone riding; he was most likely far away by now, but she didn’t want to run into him if he’d cut short his ride and was returning to the keep. Avoiding the west courtyard, his favored route, she exited via the castle’s east wing, and set off through the gardens.
She’d spent an unsettled evening, and an even more restless night, going over in her mind the ladies on the list, trying to predict whom he’d chosen. She’d met some of them during the seasons she and his mother had spent in the capital; while she couldn’t imagine any of them as his duchess, that lack of enthusiasm didn’t explain the hollow, deadening feeling that had, over the last days, been growing ins
ide her.
That had intensified markedly after she’d delivered his declaration to the grandes dames and waved them on their way.
Certainly, being forced to state out aloud her unhappiness over leaving Wolverstone, giving voice to what she truly felt, hadn’t helped. By the time she’d retreated to her room last night, that unexpected, welling emotion was approaching desolation. As if something was going horribly wrong.
It was nonsensical. She’d done what she’d had to do—what her vows had committed her to do—and she’d succeeded. Yet her emotions had swung crazily in the opposite direction; she didn’t feel as if she’d won, but as if she’d lost.
Lost something vital.
Which was silly. She’d always known the time would come when she’d have to leave Wolverstone.
It had to be some irrational twisting of her emotions caused by the increasingly fraught battle she constantly had to wage to keep her frustrating and irritating, infatuation-obsession-driven physical reactions to Royce completely hidden—hidden so completely not even he would see.
The stables loomed ahead. She walked into the courtyard, smiling when she saw Rangonel waiting, saddled and patient by the mounting block, a groom at his head. She went forward—a flash of gray and the steel tattoo of dancing hooves had her glancing around.
Sword pranced on the other side of the yard, saddled and…waiting. She tried to tell herself Royce must have just ridden in…but the stallion looked fresh, impatient to be off.
Then she saw Royce—pushing away from the wall against which he’d been leaning chatting to Milbourne and Henry.
Henry went to calm Sword and untie his reins.
Milbourne rose from the bench on which he’d been sitting.
And Royce walked toward her.
Quickening her pace, she clambered onto the mounting block and scrambled, breathless, into her sidesaddle.
Royce halted a few paces away and looked up at her. “I need to talk to you.”
Doubtless about his bride. Her lungs constricted; she felt literally ill.
He didn’t wait for any agreement, but took the reins Henry offered, and swung up to Sword’s back.
“Ah…we should discuss the mill. There are decisions that need to be made—”
“We can talk when we stop to rest the horses.” His dark gaze raked her, then he turned Sword to the archway. “Come on.”
This time, he led.
She had no option but to follow. Given the pace he set, that took all her concentration; only when he slowed as they started up Lord’s Seat did she have wits to spare to start wondering what, exactly, he was going to say.
He led her up to a sheltered lookout. A grassy shelf on the side of the hill where a remnant of woodland enclosed a semicircular clearing, it had one of the best views in the area, looking south down the gorge through which the Coquet tumbled, to the castle, bathed in sunlight, set against the backdrop of the hills beyond.
Royce had chosen the spot deliberately; it gave the best, most complete view of the estate, the fields as well as the castle.
He rode Sword to the trees, swung down from the stallion’s back, and tied the reins to a branch. On her bay, Minerva followed more slowly. Allowing her time to slip down from her saddle and tie her horse, he crossed the lush grass to the rim of the clearing; looking out over his lands, he seized the moment to rehearse his arguments one more time.
She didn’t want to leave Wolverstone, and, as the pristine condition of his armillary spheres testified, she felt something for him. It might not be the counterpart of his desire for her, and she hadn’t seen enough of him to have developed an admiration and appreciation of his talents reciprocal to his for hers. But it was enough.
Enough for him to work with, enough for him to suggest as a basis for their marriage. It was a damned sight more than could possibly exist between him and any of the ladies on the grandes dames’ list.
He’d come prepared to persuade.
She was twenty-nine, and had admitted no man had offered her anything she valued.
She valued Wolverstone, and he would offer her that.
Indeed, he was willing to offer her anything it was in his power to give, just as long as she agreed to be his duchess.
She might not be as well-connected or well-dowered as the candidates on the list, but her birth and fortune were more than sufficient that she needn’t fear the ton would consider their union a mésalliance.
More, in marrying him herself, she would be satisfying her vows to his parents in unarguably the most effective way—she was the only female who had ever stood up to him, ever faced him down.
As she’d proved yesterday, she would tell him whatever she deemed he needed to hear regardless of him wanting to hear it. And she would do so knowing that he could rip up at her, knowing how violent his temper could be. She already knew, was demonstrably confident, that he would never lose it with—loose it on—her.
That she knew him that well spoke volumes. That she had the courage to act on her knowledge said even more.
He needed a duchess who would be more than a cipher, a social ornament for his arm. He needed a helpmate, and she was uniquely qualified.
Her caring for the estate, her connection with it, was the complement of his; together, they would give Wolverstone—castle, estate, title, and family—the best governance it could have.
And when it came to the critical issue of his heirs, having her in his bed was something he craved; he desired her—more than he would any of the grandes dames’ ciphers, no matter how beautiful. Physical beauty was the most minor attractant to a man like him. There had to be more, and in that respect Minerva was supremely well-endowed.
Yesterday, while she’d been insisting he appease the grandes dames, he’d finally accepted that, if he wanted a marriage like his friends’, then, regardless of what he had to do to make it happen, it was Minerva he needed as his wife. That if he wanted something more than a loveless marriage, he would have to strike out, and, as he had with her help in other respects, try to find a new road.
With her.
The certainty that had gripped him, infused him, hadn’t waned; with the passing hours, it had grown more intense. He’d never felt more certain, more set on any course, more confident it was the right one for him.
No matter what he had to do—no matter the hurdles she might place in his path, no matter where the road led or how fraught the journey might be, no matter what she or the world might demand of him—it was she he had to have.
He couldn’t sit back and wait for it to happen; if he waited any longer, he’d be wed to someone else. So he would do whatever it took, swallow whatever elements of his pride he had to, learn to persuade, to seduce, to entice—do whatever he needed to to convince her to be his.
Mind and senses returning to the here and now, poised to speak, he mentally reached for her—and realized she hadn’t yet joined him.
Turning, he saw her still sitting her horse. She’d swung the big bay to face the view. Hands folded before her, she looked past him down the valley.
He shifted, caught her eye. Beckoned. “Come down. I want to talk to you.”
She looked at him for a moment, then nudged her horse forward. Halting the big bay alongside, she looked down at him. “I’m comfortable here. What did you want to talk about?”
He looked up at her. Proposing while she was perched above him was beyond preposterous. “Nothing I can discuss while you’re up there.”
She’d eased her boots from the stirrups. He reached up and plucked her from her saddle.
Minerva gasped. He’d moved so fast she’d had no time to block him—to prevent him from closing his hands around her waist and lifting her…
Increasingly slowly, he lowered her to the ground.
The look on his face—utter, stunned disbelief—would have been priceless if she hadn’t known what put it there.
She’d reacted to his touch. Decisively and definitely. She’d stiffened. Her lungs had se
ized; her breath had hitched in a wholly damning way. Focused on her, his hands tight about her waist, he hadn’t missed any of the telltale signs.
Long before her feet got within a foot of the lush grass, he’d guessed her secret.
Knew it beyond question.
She read as much in the subtle shift of his features, in the suddenly intent—ruthlessly intent—look that flared in his eyes.
She panicked. The instant her feet touched earth, she forced in a breath, opened her lips—
He bent his head and kissed her.
Not gently.
Hard. Ravenously. Her lips had been parted; his tongue filled her mouth with no by-your-leave.
He marched in and laid claim. His lips commanded, demanded—rapaciously seized her wits. Captured her senses.
Desire rolled over her in a hot wave.
His, she realized on a mental gasp, not just hers.
The realization utterly dumbfounded her; since when had he desired her?
Yet the ability to think, to reason, to do anything other than feel and respond had flown.
She didn’t at first realize she was kissing him back; once she did, she tried to stop—but couldn’t. Couldn’t drag her senses from their fascination, from their greedy excitement; this was better than she’d dreamed. Regardless of all wisdom, she wasn’t able to disengage, not from him, not from this.
He made it harder yet when he angled his head, slanted his lips over hers, and deepened the kiss—not by degrees, but in one bold, senses-shattering leap.
Her hands had fallen to his shoulders; they gripped, clung as their mouths melded—as he relentlessly pressed his advantage, rolled over her defenses and drew her with him into the scorching, shatteringly intimate exchange. She couldn’t comprehend how his rapacious kisses, his hard hungry lips, his bold thrusting tongue, caught her, trapped her, then delivered her up, captive to her own need to respond. It wasn’t his will making her kiss him so damningly eagerly, as if despite all good sense, she couldn’t get enough of his thinly veiled possession.
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