Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

By lunchtime on Sunday he was ready to throttle his elder sisters, his aunts, and his aunts-by-marriage, all of whom had, it seemed, not a thought with which to occupy their heads other than who—which lady—would be most suitable as his bride.

As the next Duchess of Wolverstone.

He’d breakfasted at dawn to avoid them. Now, in the wake of the ruthlessly cutting comments he’d made the previous night, silencing all such talk about the dinner table, they’d conceived the happy notion of discussing ladies, who all just happened to be young, well-bred, and eligible, comparing their attributes, weighing their fortunes and connections, apparently in the misguided belief that by omitting the words “Royce,” “marriage,” and “duchess from their comments, they would avoid baiting his temper.

He was very, very close to losing it—and inching ever closer by the second.

What were they thinking? Minerva couldn’t conceive what Margaret, Aurelia, and Royce’s aunts hoped to achieve—other than a blistering set-down which looked set to be delivered in a thunderous roar at any minute.

If one were possessed of half a brain, one did not provoke male Variseys. Not beyond the point where they grew totally silent, and their faces set like stone, and—the final warning—their fingers tightened on whatever they were holding until their knuckles went white.

Royce’s right hand was clenched about his knife so tightly all four knuckles gleamed.

She had to do something—not that his female relatives deserved saving. If it were up to her, she’d let him savage them, but…she had two deathbed vows to honor, which meant she had to see him wed—and his misbegotten relatives were turning the subject of his marriage into one he was on the very brink of declaring unmentionable in his hearing.

He could do that—and would—and would expect and insist and ensure he was obeyed.

Which would make her task all the harder.

They seemed to have forgotten who he was—that he was Wolverstone.

She glanced around; she needed help to derail the conversation.

There wasn’t much help to be had. Most of the men had escaped, taking guns and dogs and heading out for some early shooting. Susannah was there; seated on Royce’s right, she was wisely holding her tongue and not contributing to her brother’s ire in any way.

Unfortunately, she was too far from Minerva’s position halfway down the board to be easily enlisted; Minerva couldn’t catch her eye.

The only other potential conspirator was Hubert, seated opposite Minerva. She had no high opinion of Hubert’s intelligence, but she was desperate. Leaning forward, she caught his eye. “Did you say you’d seen Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold in London?”

The princess was the darling of England; her recent marriage to Prince Leopold was the only topic Minerva could think of that might trump the subject of Royce’s bride. She’d imbued her question with every ounce of breathless interest she could muster—and was rewarded with instant silence.

Every head swung to the middle of the table, every female pair of eyes followed her gaze to Hubert.

He stared at her, eyes showing the surprise of a startled rabbit. Silently she willed him to reply in the affirmative; he blinked, then smiled. “I did, as a matter of fact.”

“Where?” He was lying—she could see he was—but he was willing to dance to her tune.

“In Bond Street.”

“At one of the jewelers?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Aspreys.”

Royce’s aunt Emma, seated next to Minerva, leaned forward. “Did you see what they were looking at?”

“They spent quite a bit of time looking at brooches. I saw the attendant bring out a tray—on it were—”

Minerva sat back, a vacuous smile on her face, and let Hubert run on. He was well-launched, and with a wife like Susannah, his knowledge of the jewelry to be found in Aspreys was extensive.

All attention had swung to him.

Leaving Royce to finish his meal without further aggravation; he needed no encouragement to apply himself to the task.

Hubert had only just passed on to the necklaces the royal couple had supposedly examined when Royce pushed away his plate, waved Retford’s offer of the fruit bowl aside, dropped his napkin beside his plate, and stood.

The movement broke Hubert’s spell. All attention swung to Royce.

He didn’t bother to smile. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a dukedom to run.” He started striding down the room on his way to the door. Over the heads, he nodded to Hubert. “Do carry on.”