Royce held up a hand; the cheers and whistles died. “Our wedding will be held in the church here, in just over three weeks’ time. As many of you know, I returned only recently to take up the reins of the dukedom—in just a few weeks I’ve learned a great deal about what has changed, and what yet needs changing. Just as I’ll make my vows to my duchess, and she to me, together we’ll stand committed to you, to Wolverstone, to forging ahead into our joint future.”
“Wolverstone!” With one voice, the crowd roared its approval. “Wolverstone! Wolverstone!”
Minerva surveyed the sea of happy faces, felt the warmth of their people reaching for them, embracing, buoying; turning her head, she met Royce’s eyes, smiled.
His hand tightened about hers and he smiled back, openly, honestly, his customary shields lowered, for once set aside.
No! No, no, no, no—how could this have happened?
Deep in the crowd, surrounded by, jostled by, the raucous, gibbering throng, all transported with delight over the news of Royce’s wedding, he stood stunned, unable to think—unable to drag his eyes from the picture of Royce and Minerva standing on the dais, lost in each other’s eyes.
Royce was an excellent actor when he wanted to be—he knew that. Minerva could hold her own, too…
He shook his head, wished he could deny what his eyes were telling him. Neither was acting—what he was seeing, what the entire crowd about him was taking in and responding to, was real.
Royce wanted to marry Minerva.
And she wanted to marry him.
She was in love with him—nothing else could account for the softness in her face.
And while Royce couldn’t possibly love her, he definitely cared for her—in a far warmer way than he’d ever have thought possible.
Minerva wasn’t, had never been, just another of Royce’s legion of lovers. She’d been the one, all along—the lady he’d wanted as his wife…
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He ground the words out through clenched teeth, fighting to keep his face a mask of utter blankness.
Their marriage was supposed to be a farce, a travesty—it was supposed to be painful. Instead, all his maneuvering had done was hand Royce precisely what he’d wanted.
He, through Susannah, had been instrumental in giving Royce the last thing he needed to complete the tapestry of an already rich and satisfying existence. He’d been instrumental in giving Royce something he craved, something he treasured…
Suddenly, he knew. Suddenly, he saw.
His features eased.
Then, slowly, he smiled, too.
Increasingly delightedly. He laughed, and clapped Rohan on the back when he passed him in the crowd.
Yes, of course. Now he saw it.
Royce had been the motive, the cause in bringing him his treasure—only then to take it away.
So fitting, then, that he would be the one to give Royce his greatest treasure—so he could return the favor.
Royce had taken his treasure.
Now he would take Royce’s.
That evening, Royce, Minerva, Letitia, Clarice, Penny, and Handley met in the duchess’s morning room. In the wake of the hugely successful fair—made even more notable by the news they’d shared—dinner had been an informal affair. After refreshing themselves, they’d left the relaxed and apparently pleasantly exhausted company downstairs, and retired to address the logistics of a ducal wedding.
While the others settled, Royce, subsiding beside Minerva on one of the sofas, considered his wife-to-be. “Did you say something to the others downstairs? They seem strangely unexercised by our betrothal.”
“I simply explained that Susannah’s intervention was misjudged, and that as your duchess, I would be severely displeased were anyone to paint our betrothal in anything other than the correct light.”
Sinking onto the sofa opposite, Penny chuckled. “It was masterful. She made Susannah’s action appear a childish prank—one of those occurrences that are so excruciatingly awkward that it would be a kindness to Susannah to pretend it never happened.”
Joining Penny on the sofa, Letitia added, “She only had to speak to the ladies—Jack reported that as none of the men were on the battlements, they were very ready to pretend it never happened. But turning the event around so it reflected on Susannah was a master stroke. I would never have thought of it, but it served wonderfully well.”
“No doubt,” Clarice said, settling on the end of the sofa, “your facility comes from having to deal with Variseys for decades.”
“Indeed.” Minerva turned to Royce, met his eyes. “Now, for our wedding.”
Very early that morning, he’d suggested as soon as possible, and been informed that wasn’t in his cards. When he’d grumbled, he’d been further informed, at length, why. “Three weeks, I believe you said?”
Her eyes lit. “Indeed. Three weeks—and we’ll need every minute from now until then.” She looked at Handley, seated before her desk. “What date are we looking at?”
Resigned—and inwardly happier than he’d ever felt in his life—Royce sat back and let them organize; his only task was to approve when applied to, which he duly did. They were the experts. Letitia knew everything about staging events in the ton. Although in semiretirement, Clarice was renowned as a manipulator of ton sentiments. Penny, like Minerva, understood the dynamics of major estates, of country and county, while Minerva knew everything there was to know about Wolverstone and the Variseys.
Together, they made a formidable team. In short order, they had the framework settled.
“So”—Minerva caught Handley’s eye—“the banns will be read over the next three Sundays, and we’ll be married the following Thursday.”
Handley nodded and made a note. “I’ll ask Mr. Cribthorn to call tomorrow.” He glanced at Royce.
“I’ll be here all day. We’ve rather a lot to get into place.” The marriage settlements, among other things. “You’d better summon Montague.”
Handley furiously wrote. “And your solicitors?”
“Yes—them, too.” Royce glanced at Minerva. “I’ve been racking my brains, but can’t find the answer—who will give you away? And as you keep reminding me, this is a ducal union, so who do you want to act for you?”
She blinked. “I’ll have to think about it.” She glanced at Handley. “I’ll give you the names and directions of my agent and solicitor so you can tell Royce’s who to contact.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Various other details were discussed and decided. The announcement for the news sheets completed, Handley left to ferry it to Retford for dispatch.
“The guest list,” Clarice warned, “is going to be the biggest challenge.”
“Just thinking of it makes the mind boggle.” Letitia shook her head. “I thought my second wedding was big, but this…”
“We’ll simply have to be highly selective,” Minerva stated. “Which, to my mind, is no bad thing.” She looked at Penny. “I’m inclined to set the number by the size of the church.”
Penny considered, then shook her head. “You won’t get away with that—not if by that you mean after you’ve accommodated the locals?”
“I did mean that.” Minerva sighed. “So how many do you think?”
She’d wrestled the number down to five hundred when Royce decided he’d heard enough. Five hundred? Rising, he inclined his head. “Ladies, I believe I can leave the details in your capable hands.” He glanced at Minerva. “If you need me, I’ll be in the study, and then later in my apartments.”
Waiting for her.
She smiled. “Yes, of course.”
Smiling himself, he left them.
Minerva watched him go, sensing his inner peace, then, inwardly glowing herself, refocused on her list. “All right—how many do we need to allow for Carlton House?”
An hour later, with the major groups of guests identified and estimated, they called a halt. Retford had already delivered a tea tray; as they sat sipping,
Letitia listed the areas they’d covered. “I really don’t think there’s much else we can assist you with, at least not at this time.” She met Minerva’s eyes. “We were thinking of leaving tomorrow at first light.”
“Earlier than all the others, so we won’t get caught up in their chaos,” Penny said.
Clarice studied Minerva. “But if you truly need us, you only have to say.”
She smiled, shook her head. “You’ve been…” She included the other two in her glance. “Immensely helpful, incredibly supportive. I honestly don’t know how I would have got through all this without your help.”
Letitia grinned. “You’d have managed. Given you can—demonstrably—manage your soon-to-be husband, I find it difficult to believe there’s any situation you won’t be able to overcome.”
“I have to ask,” Clarice said. “How did you get him to accept the three weeks so readily? We came prepared with a list of arguments, but you already had him agreeing.”
“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.
Mastered by Love Page 39
