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.
He glanced back at her, then looked stonily at them. “No.”
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
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.
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-
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.
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.
