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 Gazette on Friday. Tomorrow, once your sisters are here to consult, we should send off a notice about the funeral—that will then run in the Saturday editions. Realistically, given so many will be coming from the south, the earliest we could hold the funeral would be the following Friday.”
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 when luncheon was ready, ma’am.”
Royce noted the meaningful look the pair exchanged before his chatelaine said, “Indeed, Retford. Thank you. We’ll be down directly.”
Retford bowed to them both, then with another “Your Grace,” withdrew.
Still standing, Royce caught Minerva’s eye. “Why are we going down directly?”
She blinked her eyes wide. “I was sure you’d be hungry.” When he remained unmoving, patently waiting, her lips lifted fractionally. “And you need to allow the staff to formally greet you.”
He summoned a not-entirely-feigned expression of horror. “Not the whole damned lot of them?”
She nodded and turned to the door. “Every last one. Names and positions—you know the drill. This is a ducal residence, after all.” She watched as he came around the desk. “And if you’re not hungry now, I can guarantee you’ll be in dire need of sustenance by the time we’re finished.”
Moving past her, he opened the door, held it. “You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you? Seeing me floundering.”
As he followed her into the corridor, she shook her head. “You won’t flounder—I’m your chatelaine. I’m not allowed to let you flounder at such moments—that’s my job.”
“I see.” He quelled an urge to take her arm; she clearly didn’t expect him to—she was already walking briskly toward the main stairs. Sinking his hands in his trouser pockets, he fixed his gaze on the floor before their feet. “So how, exactly, do you propose to do your job?”
By whispering in his ear.
She remained immediately on his left all the way down the long line of eager staff, murmuring their names and positions as he nodded to each one.
He could have done without the distraction. The temptation. The all but constant taunting, however unintentional, of his less civilized self.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Cranshaw—Cranny as he’d always called her—blushed rosily when he smiled and called her by that long-ago nickname. Other than Retford and Milbourne, there were no others who hailed from the last time he’d been there.