Mastered By Love

As the only son of a powerful ducal family and thus barred by long custom from serving in the field, when, at the tender age of twenty-two, he’d been approached to create a network of English spies on foreign soil, he’d leapt at the chance. Not only had it offered the prospect of contributing to Napoleon’s defeat, but with his extensive personal and family contacts combined with his inherent ability to inspire and command, the position was tailor- made; from the first it had fitted him like a glove.

But to his father the position had been a disgrace to the name and title, a blot on the family escutcheon; his old-fashioned views had labeled spying as without question dishonorable, even if one were spying on active military enemies. It was a view shared by many senior peers at the time.

Bad enough, but when Royce had refused to decline the commission, his father had organized an ambush. A public one, in White’s, at a time of the evening when the club was always crowded. With his cronies at his back, his father had passed public judgment on Royce in strident and excoriating terms.

As his peroration, his father had triumphantly declared that if Royce refused to bow to his edict and instead served in the capacity for which he’d been recruited, then it would be as if he, the ninth duke, had no son.

Even in the white rage his father’s attack had provoked, Royce had noted that “as if.” He was his father’s only legitimate son; no matter how furious, his father would not formally disinherit him. The interdict would, however, banish him from all family lands.

Facing his apoplectic sire over the crimson carpet of the exclusive club, surrounded by an army of fascinated aristocracy, he’d waited, unresponsive, until his father had finished his well- rehearsed speech. He’d waited until the expectant silence surrounding them had grown thick, then he’d uttered three words: As you wish.

Then he’d turned and walked from the club, and from that day forth had ceased to be his father’s son. From that day he’d been known as Dalziel, a name taken from an obscure branch of his mother’s family tree, fitting enough given it was his maternal grandfather-by then dead-who had taught him the creed by which he’d chosen to live. While the Variseys were marcher lords, the Debraighs were no less powerful, but their lands lay in the heart of England and they’d served king and country-principally country-selflessly for centuries. Debraighs had stood as both warriors and statesmen at the right hand of countless monarchs; duty to their people was bred deeply in them.

While deploring the rift with his father, the Debraighs had approved Royce’s stance, yet, sensitive even then to the dynamics of power, he’d discouraged their active support. His uncle, the Earl of Catersham, had written, asking if there was anything he could do. Royce had replied in the negative, as he had to his mother’s similar query; his fight was with his father and should involve no one else.

That had been his decision, one he’d adhered to throughout the subsequent sixteen years; none of them had expected vanquishing Napoleon to take so long.

But it had.

Through those years he’d recruited the best of his generation of Guards, organized them into a network of secret operatives, and successfully placed them throughout Napoleon’s territories. Their success had become the stuff of legend; those who knew correctly credited his network with saving countless British lives, and contributing directly to Napoleon’s downfall.

His success on that stage had been sweet. However, with Napoleon on his way to St. Helena, he’d disbanded his crew, releasing them to their civilian lives. And, as of Monday, he, too, had left his former life-Dalziel’s life- behind.

He hadn’t, however, expected to assume any title beyond the courtesy one of Marquess of Winchelsea. Hadn’t expected to immediately assume control of the dukedom and all it comprised.

His ongoing banishment-he’d never expected his father to back down any more than he himself had-had effectively estranged him from the dukedom’s houses, lands, and people, and most especially from the one place that meant most to him-Wolverstone itself. The castle was far more than just a home; the stone walls and battlements held something-some magic-that resonated in his blood, in his heart, in his soul. His father had known that; it had been the same for him.

Despite the passage of sixteen years, as the horses raced on Royce still felt the pull, the visceral tug that only grew stronger as he rattled through Sharperton, drawing ever closer to Wolverstone. He felt faintly surprised that it should be so, that despite the years, the rift, his own less than susceptible temperament, he could still sense… home.

That home still meant what it always had.

That it still moved him to his soul.

He hadn’t expected that, any more than he’d expected to be returning like this-alone, in a tearing rush, without even his longtime groom, Henry, another Wolverstone outcast, for company through the empty miles.

On Monday, while tidying the last of Dalziel’s files from his desk, he’d been planning his return to Wolverstone. He’d imagined driving up from London by easy stages, arriving at the castle fresh and rested-in suitable state to walk into his father’s presence…and see what came next.

He’d imagined an apology from his father might, just might, have featured in that scene; he’d been curious to see, yet hadn’t been holding his breath.

But now he’d never know.

His father had died on Sunday.

Leaving the rift between them-vicious and deep, naturally enough given they were both Variseys-unhealed. Unaddressed. Unlaid to rest.

He hadn’t known whether to curse his father or fate for leaving him to cauterize the wound.

Regardless, dealing with his past was no longer the most urgent matter on his plate. Picking up the reins of a far-flung and extensive dukedom after a sixteen-year absence was going to demand all his attention, command all of his abilities to the exclusion of all else. He would succeed-there was neither question nor option in that regard- but how long it would take, and what it would cost him…how the devil he was to do it, he didn’t know.

It wasn’t supposed to have been like this.

His father had been hale and healthy enough for a man in his sixties. He hadn’t been ailing; Royce trusted that if he had, someone would have broken his father’s prohibition and sent him word. Instead, he’d been blindsided.

In his version of his return, his father and he would have made their peace, their truce, whatever arrangement they would have made, then he would have started refreshing his knowledge of the estate, filling in the gap between when he’d been twenty-one, and last at Wolverstone, to his present thirty-seven.

Instead, his father was gone, leaving him to pick up the reins with a lag of sixteen years in knowledge hanging like a millstone around his neck.

While he had absolute confidence-Varisey confidence-that he would fill his father’s shoes more than adequately, he wasn’t looking forward to assuming emergency command over unfamiliar troops in terrain that would have shifted in unforeseen ways over the past sixteen years.

His temper, like that of all Variseys, especially the males, was formidable, an emotion that carried the same cutting edge as their broadswords of long ago. He’d learned to control it rather better than his father, to keep it reined, another weapon to be used to conquer and overcome; not even those who knew him well could detect the difference between mild irritation and a killing rage. Not unless he wished them to know. Control of his emotions had long become second nature.

Ever since he’d learned of his father’s demise, his temper had been surging, restless, largely unreasoning, violently hungry for some release. Knowing the only release that would satisfy had, courtesy of fickle fate, been denied him forever.

Not having any enemy to lash out at, to exact vengeance from, left him walking a tightrope, his impulses and instincts tightly leashed.

Stony-faced, he swept through Harbottle. A woman walking along the street glanced curiously at him. While he was clearly heading for Wolverstone, there being no other destination along this road to which a gentleman of his ilk might be going, he had numerous male cousins, and they all shared more than a passing resemblance; even if the woman had heard of his father’s death, it was unlikely she would realize it was he.

Since Sharperton the road had followed the banks of the Coquet; over the drumming of the horses’ hooves, he’d heard the river burbling along its rocky bed. Now the road curved north; a stone bridge spanned the river. The