Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

She’d spent the last hour assuring herself that her eruption of unwelcome awareness had been due to shock—because he’d come upon her unawares and nearly mown her down. That her reaction was due solely to the unexpectedness of feeling his hard hands curl over her shoulders—and then he’d lifted her, literally off her feet, and set her aside.

And then he’d walked on.

That was the key point she had to remember—that all she’d felt was in her head. As long as it stayed there, and he remained unaware of it, all would be well. Just because her long-ago—as she’d thought long-dead—infatuation had chosen this thoroughly inconvenient moment to surge back to life, didn’t mean she had to indulge it. Twenty-nine was too old for infatuations. She was, absolutely and undeniably, too wise to obsess over a gentleman, let alone a nobleman—and she well knew the distinction—like him.

If he ever guessed her susceptibility, he would use it ruthlessly for his own ends, and then she and her mission would be in very deep trouble.

The study door appeared ahead, Jeffers standing dutifully alongside; eyeing the closed panel, she wasn’t overly surprised to feel a certain wariness building. The truth was…if she’d considered herself free to do as she pleased, instead of acting as Royce’s dutiful chatelaine and easing him into his new role, she would be spending the afternoon penning letters to her friends around the country inquiring if it would be convenient for her to visit. But she couldn’t leave yet—wasn’t free to flee yet.

She’d made a vow—two vows actually, but they were the same vow so it was really only one. First to his mother when she’d died three years ago, and she’d made the same vow last Sunday to his father. She found it interesting—indeed, revealing—that two people who hadn’t shared much over the last twenty years should have had the same 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 Gazette. We also have to inform the palace and the Lords.”

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 admiral’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.”