Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  She looked up, watched as Royce and Macgregor, deep in discussion, paced slowly across to the cottage on the left. She smiled as they disappeared, then let her mind slide to its present preoccupation.

  The first guests, all family, had arrived yesterday. Today, his friends and hers would drive up. He’d chosen Rupert, Miles, Gerald, and Christian as his groomsmen; against that, she’d chosen Letitia, Rose, an old friend Ellen, Lady Am-bervale, and Susannah as her matrons-of-honor. She’d felt obliged to have one of his sisters, and despite Susannah’s idiotic attempt at manipulation, she’d meant well, and Margaret or Aurelia would have been too grim.

  All three of his sisters had arrived yesterday; all three were being very careful around her, aware that not only did she now have their all-powerful brother’s ear, she also knew virtually all their secrets. Not that she was likely to do anything with the knowledge, but they didn’t know that.

  One part of the guest list that he’d supplied had pleased her enormously; he’d invited eight of his ex-colleagues. From Letitia, Penny, and Clarice she’d heard much about the group—the members of the Bastion Club plus Jack, Lord Hendon, and all their wives; she’d heard that Royce had declined to attend their weddings, and hadn’t been the least surprised to receive instant acceptances from the respective ladies. She suspected they intended to make a point by dancing joyously at his wedding.

  Regardless, she was looking forward to meeting them all, those who had been closest to Royce professionally over the last years.

  Over the few hours they’d managed to steal for their own—those not spent in his bed—she’d encouraged him to tell her more of the activities that had filled his lost years, those years of his life that had been lost to her, and his parents. After an initial hesitation, he’d gradually relaxed his guard, speaking increasingly freely of various missions, and the numerous threads he’d woven into a net for gathering intelligence, both military and civilian.

  He’d described it all well enough for her, knowing him, to see it, feel it, understand how and in what way the activity of those years had impacted on him. He’d admitted he’d killed, in cold blood, not on foreign soil, but here in England. He’d expected her to be shocked, had tensed, but had relaxed, relieved, when, after he’d confirmed such deaths had been essential for national safety, she’d merely blinked, and nodded.

  He’d told her of the Bastion Club members’ recent adventures. He’d also told her about the man they’d termed “the last traitor”—the fiend Clarice had mentioned—an Englishman, a gentleman of the ton, most likely someone with a connection to the War Office, who’d betrayed his country for French treasure, and had killed and killed again to escape Royce and his men.

  After the war’s end, Royce had lingered in London, pursuing every last avenue in an attempt to learn the last traitor’s identity. He’d cited that as his only failure.

  To her relief, he’d clearly put that unfulfilled chase behind him; he spoke of it as history, not a current activity. That he could accept such a failure was reassuring; she knew enough to appreciate that, in a man as powerful as he, knowing when to walk away was a strength, not a weakness.

  That over the last weeks he’d talked to her so openly, and in return had elicited from her details of how she’d spent the same years, had left her feeling increasingly confident of the strength that would underpin their marriage—had left her ever more secure in the reality of his love.

  A love he, still, could not see.

  Emerging from the cottage, he exchanged farewells with Macgregor, shaking the old man’s hand. Turning to her, he met her eyes, arched a brow. “Are you ready?”

  She smiled, rose, and gave him her hand. “Yes. Lead on.”

  He was back at Wolverstone, under his nemesis’s roof once more. Even though he had to share a room with Rohan, he didn’t care. He was there, close, and invisible among the gathering throng. Everyone could see him, yet no one really could—not the real him. He was hidden, forever concealed.

  No one would ever know.

  His plans were well advanced, at least in theory. All he had to do now was find the right place to stage his ultimate victory.

  It shouldn’t be too hard; the castle was huge, and there were various buildings people paid little attention to dotted through the gardens. He had two days to find the perfect place.

  Two days before he would act.

  And finally win free of the torment.

  Of the black, corrosive fear.

  By Wednesday afternoon, the castle was full, literally to the rafters. With so many members of the haut ton attending, the number of visiting servants had stretched the accommodations below stairs—or rather in the attics—to their limit.

  “We’ve even put cots in the ironing room,” Trevor told Minerva when she met him in the gallery reverently ferrying a stack of perfectly ironed cravats. “We’ve moved the ironing boards into the laundry—unlikely we’ll be doing much washing over the next two days.”

  She grimaced. “At least this time everyone is leaving the next day.”

  “Just as well,” Trevor grimly declared. “There’s a limit to how much mayhem one household can withstand.”

  She laughed and turned away. In reality the household was managing well, even though the castle was as full as she’d ever known it. Every guest chamber was in use, even the rooms in the keep. The only rooms on that level that had been spared were her morning room, Royce’s sitting room, and the study.

  Her morning room. Royce had started calling it that a few weeks ago, and she’d fallen into the habit.

  Smiling, she continued around the gallery; it was late afternoon, almost early evening, and the guests were either resting or conversing quietly somewhere before dressing for dinner. For the first time that day, she had the opportunity to draw an unhurried breath.

  “Minerva.”

  She stopped, turned, a smile already on her lips. Royce stood before the corridor to his apartments; he held out his hand.

  There was nothing she had to do at that moment. Or rather…smile deepening, she went to join him.

  Her smile mirrored in his eyes, he grasped her hand, turned down the corridor, stopped before the door to the battlements. As before, he released the catch, then let her go up before following.

  She walked to the battlements, spread her arms wide and breathed…then turned to face him as he neared. “Just what I needed—fresh and uncrowded air.”

  His lips quirked. “The castle’s all but humming with humanity. It’s a living, breathing hive.”

  She laughed, swung again to the view, set her hands on the ancient stone of the battlements—and felt as if through the touch they grounded her. She looked out—and saw. Familiar sights, a familiar landscape. “When you brought me up here, and showed me this, and told me that this is what you would share…even though I’d been chatelaine for over a decade, I…it feels different, somehow, now.” His hands slid about her waist; she glanced up and back at his face. “Now I’m to be your duchess.”

  Royce nodded; as she looked back at the hills, he dropped a kiss below her ear. “Before you weren’t ultimately responsible—you were still one step removed. But now you’re starting to see the fields as I do.” He lifted his head, looking out over his lands. “You’re starting to feel what I feel when I stand here and look out at my domain—and sense what that really means.”

  She leaned back against him. He settled his arms about her, felt her arms, her hands, settle over his.

  For a moment, they were silent, seeing, sensing, feeling, then he said, “The message my father left me—that I didn’t need to be like him. You took it to mean the dukedom, and the way I dealt with that. But the more I realize how much like him I am—and therefore how much like me he was—I think—believe—that he meant the comment more widely.”

  She tilted her head, listening, but didn’t interrupt.

  “I think,” he said, his arms tightening about her, feeling her, a warm, vibrant presence anchoring him, “th
at in those last minutes, he tried to address the regrets of his life—and from all I’ve learned, how he managed the dukedom wasn’t high on that list. How he lived, I think, was. I think he regretted, to his dying breath, not making the effort to make more of his life—he had chances, but didn’t seize them. Didn’t try to forge more than the usual Varisey life—a life that was handed to him on a silver platter.

  “He didn’t try to forge what I’m trying to forge with you. Every day that passes, every hour we spend together, whether alone and looking inward, or dealing with our people, our responsibilities, is like another brick, another section of our foundations solidly laid. We’re building something together that wasn’t here before…I think that’s what he meant. That I didn’t have to follow in his footsteps, didn’t have to marry as he had, didn’t have to turn my back on the chance to build something more, something stronger, more enduring.”

  “Something more supportive.” She turned in his arms, looked up at his face, met his eyes. Considered, then nodded. “You might well be right. Thinking back…he’d been waiting to speak to you, rehearsing for weeks, and then…he knew he didn’t have much time.”

  “So he said the most important thing.”

  She nodded. “He meant life, not just the dukedom.” She hesitated, then said, “I know you never realized, but his breach with you…opened his eyes. You holding firm was the catalyst—that was when he started to change. When he started to think. Your mother noticed, and so did I. He’d never been introspective before.”

  His lips quirked, half grimace, half smile. “At least he should feel pleased that, at last, I’ve taken his advice.”

  Minerva smiled, warm and deep. “He’d be unbearable—and unbearably proud.”

  He raised his brows, deprecatingly skeptical.

  The deep bong of a gong floated up from below.

  He held her before him, looked down at her face. “I suppose we should go and dress for dinner.”

  She nodded. “Yes, we should.”

  He sighed, bent his head and kissed her. Lightly…

  Their lips clung, parted reluctantly. He lifted his head just an inch, breathed against her lips, “I don’t suppose we can be late?”

  Her hand had remained, splayed against his chest. It firmed. “No. We can’t.”

  His sigh as he straightened was a great deal more heartfelt. “At least they’ll all be gone the day after tomorrow.”

  She laughed, took his hand, and led him back to the stairs.

  “Incidentally, don’t be late tonight.”

  Pausing at the head of the stairs, she met his eyes. “Actually, tradition dictates that the bride and groom should spend the night before the wedding apart.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not wedded to tradition—and there’s something I want to give you. Unless you wish to be carried through the gallery again—this time with every room around it occupied—I suggest you find your way to my rooms early rather than late.”

  She held his gaze, narrowed her eyes, then, struggling not to smile, humphed and turned down the stairs. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are some Varisey traits you’re very definitely wedded to.”

  Inwardly smiling, Royce followed her down the stairs.

  “So what was it you wished to give me?” Minerva flicked her hair out of her eyes, struggled to lift her head enough to squint at him. “Or have I just received it?”

  Royce laughed. He hugged her briefly, then hauled himself up. “No—there really is something.” He had to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment until blood found its way back to his head, then he rose and crossed to the nearer tallboy. Opening the top drawer, he withdrew the package that had been delivered by special courier earlier that day. Carrying it back to the bed, he laid it on the sheet before her. “From me, to you, on the occasion of our wedding.”

  Minerva looked up at him, then, ignoring her unclad state, sat up amid the rumpled covers and eagerly unwrapped the odd-shaped parcel; it was vaguely triangular on one side, falling away…“Oh. My.” The last piece of tissue fell away, leaving her round-eyed. “It’s…fabulous.”

  That in no way did justice to the diadem that nestled in the layers of soft paper. Gold filigree of a complexity and fineness she’d never before seen wound its way around the band, rising in the front to support a plethora of…“Diamonds?”

  The jewels didn’t wink and blink; they burned with white fire.

  “I had the whole cleaned and the stones reset.” Royce dropped back on the bed, looked into her face. “Do you like it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Minerva reverently placed her hands around the delicate crown, then lifted it, glanced at him. “Can I put it on?”

  “It’s yours.”

  Raising her hands, she carefully placed the circlet atop her head. It sank just slightly, fitting neatly above her ears. She moved her head. “It fits.”

  His smile deepened. “Perfectly. I thought it would.”

  Uncaring of her naked state, she scrambled off the bed, and walked to the other tallboy so she could admire the coronet. The gold was just one shade darker than her hair, presently down and streaming over her bare shoulders.

  Turning, she removed the crown; holding it between her hands, she examined it as she returned to the bed. “This isn’t new—the design’s old. Very old.” She glanced at him. “I know it’s not the Wolverstone duchess’s coronet, at least not the one your mother had. Where did you get it?”

  He met her eyes. “Prinny.”

  “Prinny?” She stared anew at the diadem. “But…this must be worth a small fortune. I can’t imagine him parting with such a thing willingly.”

  “He wasn’t exactly willing, but…I consider it ironically fitting that having pressured me into finding my bride, he should provide her wedding crown.”

  She sank back on the bed, carefully settling the crown back in its paper nest. “Irony aside, cut line—how and why did he come to give you such a thing?”

  Royce stretched out on his back, crossed his arms behind his head. “You remember I told you about the treasure the last traitor had acquired from the French authorities?”

  She nodded. “His payment for spying.”

  “Exactly. Not all of it was recovered from the wreck of the smuggling ship bringing it to England, but some pieces were found—among them, that crown. When the authorities matched it to the list of antiquities the French were missing, they discovered it was, in fact, Varisey property.” He met her startled gaze. “It was made for one Hugo Varisey in the fifteen hundreds. It remained in the hands of the principal line of the family in France, until it fell into the hands of the revolutionary authorities. Thereafter it was considered property of the French state—until it was given in exchange for information to our last traitor—who we know is an Englishman. Now the war is over, the French, of course, want the crown back, but the government in Whitehall see no reason to hand it over. However, to end any discussion, and as it was felt I was owed some recognition for my service, they had Prinny present it to me—the head of the only branch of the Varisey family still extant.”

  She smiled. “So Prinny really had no choice?”

  “I daresay he protested, but no.” Royce watched as she carefully lifted the crown in its papers. “That’s now mine—the oldest piece of Varisey family jewelry—and I’m gifting it to you.”

  Minerva set crown and papers on the bedside table, then turned and crawled back to him, a smile of explicit promise curving her lips. Reaching him, she framed his face and kissed him—long, lingeringly—as she slowly slid one leg over him. When she lifted her head, she was straddling him. “Thank you.” Her smile deepened as she looked into his eyes. “And that’s just the beginning of my thanks.”

  He looked back at her with open anticipation—and something very close to challenge. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He settled back. “Feel free.”

  She did—free to thank him to the top of her bent.

  Later, when she lay pleasantly
exhausted beside him, pleasured to her toes, she murmured, “You know, if it hadn’t been for Prinny and his machinations…”

  Royce thought, then shook his head. “No. Even if I’d taken longer to realize, I would still have set my heart on you.”

  Everything was ready. He’d found the right spot, worked through every detail of his plan. Nothing would go wrong.

  Tomorrow would be his triumph. Tomorrow would see him win.

  Tomorrow he’d break Royce.

  And then he’d kill him.

  Twenty-one

  The clamor was deafening.

  Royce leaned forward and spoke to Henry. “Pull up.”

  Bedecked in full livery, garlanded with white ribbon—as was the open carriage—Henry eased the heavy horses to a halt in the middle of the road leading through Alwinton village.

  The cheering crowd pressed closer, waving, calling.

  Royce threw Minerva a glance, a smile, then rose, and drew her up with him; her hand clasped in his, he raised it high. “I give you your new duchess!”

  The crowd roared its approval.

  Minerva fought to contain the flood of emotion that welled and swelled inside her; looking out, she saw so many familiar faces—all so pleased that she was Royce’s bride.

  His wife.

  She stood by his side and waved; the beaming smile on her face had taken up residence when he’d turned her from the altar to walk back up the aisle, and hadn’t yet waned.

  The crowd satisfied, he drew her back down; once she sat, he told Henry to drive on.

  Still smiling, she relaxed against Royce’s shoulder, her mind reaching back to the ceremony, then ranging ahead to the wedding breakfast to come.

  The same carriage, freshly painted with the Wolverstone crest blazing on the doors and with ribbons woven through the reins, had carried her, the Earl of Catersham, and her matrons-of-honor to the church. Her gown of finest Brussels lace softly shushing, the delicate veil anchored by the Varisey diadem, she’d walked down the aisle on the earl’s arm oblivious to the horde packed into the church—held by a pair of intense dark eyes.