dying wish. Both had asked her to see Royce settled and properly established as the next Duke of Wolverstone. What they’d meant by “properly established” was, given the subject, plain enough; they’d wanted her to ensure that he was fully informed of all aspects of the dukedom, and that he understood and put in place all that was required to secure his position.
So on top of all else, she would need to see him wed.
That event would mark the end of her debt to the Variseys. She knew how much she owed them, how beholden to them she was. She’d been a six-year-old stray-no pauper, and as wellborn as they, but with no relatives to watch over her, and no claim on them-yet with negligent grace they’d taken her in, made her one of the family in all but name, included her in a way she’d had no right to expect. They hadn’t done it expecting anything from her in return-which was one reason she was determined to carry out the late duke’s and duchess’s last wishes to the letter.
But once Royce’s bride was established as his duchess and was able to take over the reins she currently managed, her role here would end.
What she did next, what she would make of her life, was a prospect that, until last Sunday night, she’d spent no time dwelling on. She still had no idea what she would do when her time at Wolverstone came to a close, but she had more than sufficient funds to keep herself in the luxury to which, thanks to the Variseys, she was now accustomed, and there was a whole world beyond Coquetdale and London to explore. There were all sorts of exciting prospects to consider, but that was for later.
Right now she had a wolf-quite possibly bruised and inclined to be savage-to deal with.
Halting before the study door, she inclined her head to Jeffers, tapped once, and went in.
Royce was sitting behind the huge oak desk. The desktop was unnaturally neat and clear, devoid of the usual papers and documents commensurate with it being the administrative heart of a massive estate. Long-fingered hands, palms flat, on the desk, he glanced up as she entered; for a fleeting instant she thought he looked… lost.
Shutting the door, she glanced at the document uppermost in her hand as she walked across the rug-and spoke before he could. “You need to approve this.” Halting before the desk, she held out the sheet. “It’s a notice for the
Expression impassive, he looked at her, then lifted one hand and took the notice. While he read it, she sat in one of the chairs before the desk, settled her skirts, then arranged her prepared sheets in her lap.
He shifted and she looked up-watched as he reached for a pen, glanced at the nib, flipped open the ink pot, dipped, then applied the pen to her notice, slowly and deliberately crossing out one word.
After blotting it, he inspected the result, then reached across the desk and handed it back to her. “With that correction, that will do for the news sheets.”
He’d crossed out the word “beloved” in the phrase “beloved father of.” She suppressed the impulse to raise her brows; she should have anticipated that. Variseys, as she’d been told often enough and had seen demonstrated for decades, did not love. They might be seething cauldrons of emotion in all other respects, but not one of them had ever laid claim to love. She nodded. “Very well.”
Putting that sheet at the bottom of her pile, she lifted the next, looked up-and saw him regarding her enigmatically. “What?”
“You’re not ‘Your Grace’-ing me.”
“I didn’t ‘Your Grace’ your father, either.” She hesitated, then added, “And you wouldn’t like it if I did.”
The result was an almost inhuman purr, a sound that slid across her senses. “Do you know me that well, then?”
“That well, yes.” Even though her heart was now in her throat, she kept firm control over her voice, her tone. She held out the next sheet. “Now, for the Lords.” She had to keep him focused and not let him stray into disconcerting diversions; it was a tactic Variseys used to distract, and then filch the reins.
After a pregnant moment, he reached out and took the sheet. They thrashed out a notification for the Lords, and an acceptably worded communication for the palace.
While they worked, she was aware of him watching her, his dark gaze sharp, as if he were studying her- minutely.
She steadfastly ignored the effect on her senses-prayed it would wane soon. It had to, or she’d go mad.
Or she’d slip and he’d notice, and then she’d die of embarrassment.
“Now, assuming your sisters arrive tomorrow, and the people from Collier, etcetera, as well, given we expect your aunts and uncles to arrive on Friday morning, then if you’re agreeable, we could have the will read on Friday, and that would be one thing out of the way.” Looking up from tidying her documents, she arched a brow at him.
He’d slumped back, outwardly relaxed in the large admi ral’s chair; he regarded her impassively for several long moments, then said, “We could-if I was agreeable-have the funeral on Friday.”
“No, we couldn’t.”
Both his brows slowly rose. “No?” There was a wealth, a positive surfeit of intimidation packed into the single, softly uttered word. In this case, on multiple counts, it was misplaced.
“No.” She met his gaze, held it. “Think back to your mother’s funeral-how many attended?”
His stillness was absolute; his gaze didn’t shift from hers. After another long silence, he said, “I can’t remember.” His tone was even, but she detected a roughness, a slight weakness; he honestly couldn’t recall, quite possibly didn’t like thinking of that difficult day.
With him banished from his father’s lands, but the church and graveyard at Alwinton enclosed within Wolverstone’s boundaries, he’d literally driven around his father’s edict; his groom had driven his curricle to the church’s lych-gate, and he’d stepped directly onto hallowed ground.
Neither he nor his father had spoken to anyone-let alone exchanged so much as a glance-through the long service and the subsequent burial. That he couldn’t remember how many had been in the church testified that he hadn’t been looking around, unaffected; his normally extremely observant faculties hadn’t been functioning.
Calmly, she recited, “There were over two hundred counting only family and members of the ton. For your father, that number will be more like three hundred. There’ll be representatives of the king, and Parliament, quite aside from family and friends-let alone all those who will make a point of coming all the way up here simply to register their connection, however tenuous, with the dukedom.”
He pulled a face, then in an explosion of movement sat up. “How soon can it be arranged?”
Relief slid through her veins. “The notice of death will run in the
He nodded, reluctant but accepting. “Friday, then.” He hesitated, then asked, “Where’s the body being kept?”
“In the icehouse, as usual.” She knew better than to suggest he should view his father’s body; he either would of his own accord, or wouldn’t. It would be better if he did, but there were some areas into which, with him, she wasn’t prepared to stray; it was simply too dangerous.
Royce watched as she shuffled through the papers in her lap-eyed her hair, lustrous and gleaming. Wondered how it would look draped over her very white skin when said skin was bare and flushed with passion.
He shifted in the chair. He desperately needed distraction. He was about to ask for a list of staff-she was so damned efficient he would wager his sanity she would have one in her pile-when heavy footsteps approached the door. An instant later, it opened, admitting a majestic butler.
The butler’s gaze fixed on him. Framed in the doorway, he bowed low. “Your Grace.” Straightening, he bowed more shallowly to Minerva, who rose to her feet. “Ma’am.”
Refocusing on Royce, who, as Minerva was standing, rose, too, the stately personage intoned, “I am Retford, Your Grace. I am the butler here. On behalf of the staff, I wish to convey our condolences on the death of your father, and extend our welcome to you on your return.”
Royce inclined his head. “Thank you, Retford. I believe I recall you as underbutler. Your uncle always had you polishing the silver.”
Retford perceptibly thawed. “Indeed, Your Grace.” He glanced again at Minerva. “You wished me to inform you
