Mastered By Love

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

T he 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 inside 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