“They’d expected you to marry.” So had he. “Why didn’t you?”
She glanced up, flashed a light smile. “Not for want of offers, but no suitor offered anything I valued enough to grant him my hand—enough to change the life I had.”
“So you’re satisfied being Wolverstone’s chatelaine?”
Unsurprised by the bald question, Minerva shrugged. She would willingly answer any question he asked—anything to disrupt the effect that him sitting there, at his languid, long-legged ease in a sprawl that was so quintessentially masculine—broad shoulders against the high back of the chair, forearms resting along the padded arms, the long fingers of one hand cradling a cut-crystal tumbler, powerful thighs spread apart—was having on her benighted senses. Her nerves were so taut his presence made them flicker and twang like violin strings. “I won’t be chatelaine forever—once you marry, your duchess will take up the reins, and then I plan to travel.”
“Travel? Where to?”
Somewhere a long way from him. She studied the rose she must have just embroidered; she couldn’t remember doing it. “Egypt, perhaps.”
“Egypt?” He didn’t sound impressed by her choice. “Why there?”
“Pyramids.”
The darkly brooding look he’d had before he’d asked when she’d become chatelaine returned. “From all I’ve heard, the area around the pyramids is rife with Berber tribesmen, barbarians who wouldn’t hesitate to kidnap a lady. You can’t go there.”
She imagined informing him that she’d long had a dream of being kidnapped by a barbarian, tossed over his shoulder, and carted into his tent, there to be dropped on a silk-draped pallet and thoroughly ravished—of course he’d been the barbarian in question—and then pointing out that he had no authority over where she went. Instead, she settled for a response he’d like even less. Smiling gently, she looked back at her work. “We’ll see.”
No, they wouldn’t. She wasn’t going anywhere near Egypt, or any other country seething with danger. Royce toyed with lecturing her that his parents hadn’t raised her to have her throw her life away on some misguided adventure…but with his temper so uncertain, and her response guaranteed to only escalate the tension, he kept his lips shut and swallowed the words.
To his intense relief, she slipped her needle into her work, then rolled the piece up and placed it into a tapestry bag that apparently lived beneath one end of the chaise. Leaning down, she tucked the bag back into position, then straightened and looked at him. “I’m going to retire.” She rose. “Don’t stir—I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”
He managed a growled “good night” in reply. His eyes followed her to the door—while he fought to remain in the chair and let her go. Her idea about Egypt hadn’t helped, stirring something primitive—even more primitive—within him. Sexual hunger was a tangible ache as the door shut softly behind her.
Her room would be in the keep, somewhere not far from his new rooms; despite the ever-increasing temptation, he wasn’t going there.
She was his chatelaine, and he needed her.
Until he was solidly established as duke, the reins firmly in his hands, she was his best, most well-informed, reliable, and trustworthy source of information. He would avoid her as much as possible—Falwell and Kelso would help with that—but he would still need to see her, speak with her, on a daily basis.
He’d see her at meals, too; this was her home after all.
Both his parents had been committed to raising her; he had every intention of honoring that commitment even though they were gone. Although not formally a ward of the dukedom, she stood in much the same position…perhaps he could cast himself as in loco parentis?
That would excuse the protectiveness he felt—that he knew he would continue to feel.
Regardless, he would have to bear with her being always around, until, as she’d pointed out, he married.
That was something else he would have to arrange.
Marriage for him, as for all dukes of Wolverstone, indeed, for all Variseys, would be a cold-bloodedly negotiated affair. His parents’ and sisters’ marriages had been that, and had worked as such alliances were meant to; the men took lovers whenever they wished, and once heirs were produced, the women did the same, and the unions remained stable and their estates prospered.
His marriage would follow that course. Neither he nor any Varisey was likely to indulge in the recent fashion for love matches, not least because, as was recognized by all who knew them, Variseys, as a breed, did not love.
Not within marriage, and not, as far as anyone knew, in any other capacity, either.
Of course, once he was wed, he’d be free to take a mistress, a long-term one, one he could keep by his side…
The thought rewoke all the fantasies he’d spent the last hour trying to suppress.
With a disgusted grunt, he drained the amber liquid in his glass, then set it down, rose, adjusted his trousers, and headed off to his empty bed.
Three
At nine the next morning, Royce sat at the head of the table in the breakfast parlor, and, alone, broke his fast. He’d slept better than he’d expected—deeply, if not dreamlessly—and his dreams hadn’t been of his past, but rather fantasies that would never come to be.
All had featured his chatelaine.