He sat, outwardly relaxed, and regarded them impassively.
Lady Osbaldestone was their elected speaker. “I’ve already discussed with you the reason you need to marry without delay.” Her obsidian gaze lowered to the blotter, on which three sheets—a new and longer list—lay spread. “We have pooled our knowledge—we believe that list includes every gel you might consider for the position of your duchess, along with her antecedents, her expected fortune, and sundry information we thought helpful.”
Her gaze rose from the list as Royce’s did; she met and held his gaze. “You now have all the information you need to choose your bride, which, as we’ve all been at pains to impress on you, you need to do forthwith. However, what you may not yet perceive is what will occur if you do not act promptly. Should the ton not hear of your betrothal soon, then you and this castle are likely to be stormed by every even halfway eligible chit in Christendom.” She rapped the floor with her cane. “And I can assure you they will be a great deal harder to repulse than any army!”
Spine straight, she looked him in the eye. “Is that what you want? Because if you fail to act, that is precisely what will happen.”
The vision was enough to make him blanch, but…were they actually threatening him?
Lady Augusta shifted, drawing his attention. “That’s not a threat—at least, not from us. It will, however, happen precisely as Therese says, regardless of anything we may do, or indeed, anything you can do short of announcing your betrothal.”
She hesitated, then went on, her tone more conciliatory, “If your father had lived, matters would be different. But he died, and so you are now Wolverstone, unmarried and childless, and with no direct heir—your marriage is urgent regardless. But for the reasons you now know of, that urgency has become acute. The matter of you choosing your bride has now become critical. And while we, and those others who would know, already recognize the urgency, the entire ton will become aware of it—of your need of a bride—sooner rather than later.”
“Indeed,” Princess Esterhazy said, in her accented voice, “it is a wonder you have not yet had a rash of carriages breaking down outside your gates.”
“One would hope,” Lady Osbaldestone said, “that they’ll wait for at least a week after the funeral.”
Royce studied her face, checked those of the others; she wasn’t being facetious.
Helena, her normally clear eyes shadowed by concern, leaned forward. “We should perhaps make clear—we are not urging you to anything you would not at some point do. It is merely the timing that has changed.” She pulled an expressive face. “Your family have always approached marriage as a means of alliance, of furthering the dukedom. All know that Variseys do not indulge in love matches. And while that may not be to the liking of all, we are none of us suggesting you change your spots. No. All we are saying is that you must make your choice—exactly the same choice you would at some point have made, n’est-ce pas? It is simply that the choice needs to be made with greater speed than you expected, yes?” She spread her hands. “That is all.”
All? Before he could respond, Therese waved at the lists.
“Minerva gave you our initial recommendations, but these are more extensive. We’ve racked our brains, and included every possible potential candidate.” She caught his eye. “Not one young lady on that list would turn down the position of your duchess should you choose to favor her by offering it. I realize—we all realize—that this situation has been forced on you, and that these ladies are not present for you to meet. However, in terms of the decision you must make, neither of those facts is relevant.”
She drew a deep breath, held his gaze, her own weighty with the power she wielded. “We suggest you make your choice from these ladies—any one will make you an entirely acceptable bride.” She paused, then went on, “I see no point in lecturing you, of all people, on the concept of duty—I accept you might well know more than even I of that quality. Be that as it may, there is no justifiable reason for you to drag your heels in this respect.” Her hands tightened on the head of her cane. “Just do it, and it will be done.”
She rose, bringing all the others to their feet. Royce eyed them, then slowly, stiffly, stood.
None of them were blind; not one had ever been foolish. They all sensed his temper, all inclined their heads to him and on a chorus of “Your Graces,” turned, and filed out.
He stood, his face like stone, utterly expressionless, every instinct, every reaction, rigidly suppressed, and watched them go.
Minerva kept glancing at him. She was last in line for the door; she tried to hang back, but Lady Augusta, ahead of her, stepped back, took her arm in a viselike grip, and bundled her out before her.
Jeffers, in his usual position in the corridor outside, reached back and pulled the door closed; glancing back, Minerva caught a last glimpse of Royce, still standing behind his desk, looking down at her neat list.
She saw his lips curl in a soundless snarl.
She’d advised against it—the grandes dames’ ambush—firmly and quite definitely, but they hadn’t listened.
And then she’d stopped arguing because, suddenly, she hadn’t been sure of her reasons, her motives in not wanting them to push him, not like that.
Was she arguing because of her burgeoning feelings for him—was she trying to protect him, and if so, from what and why?—or was she right in thinking that them banding together in such a fashion and laying before him what he would certainly interpret—marcher lord that he was—as an ultimatum, was a very unwise, not to say outright bad, idea?
She now knew the answer. Very bad idea.
No one had seen him since that meeting in his study the previous afternoon. He hadn’t come down to dinner, electing to dine alone in his apartments, and then this morning he’d—so she’d learned—got up at dawn, breakfasted in the kitchens, then gone to the stables, taken Sword, and disappeared.
He could be anywhere, including Scotland.
She stood in the front hall surrounded by the grandes dames’ boxes and trunks, and took in the set, determined, positively mulish faces of those selfsame grandes dames as they perched on said trunks and boxes, having vowed not to stir a step further until Wolverstone—not one of them was calling him by his given name—gave them his decision.
They’d been sitting there for fully half an hour. Their carriages were lined up in the forecourt, ready to carry them away, but if they didn’t leave soon, they wouldn’t reach any major town before nightfall, so they would have to remain another night…she didn’t know if their tempers or hers would stand it; she didn’t want to think about Royce’s.
Her hearing was more acute than theirs; she heard a distant creak, then a thump—the west courtyard door opening and closing. Quietly, she turned and slipped into the corridor behind her, the one leading to the west wing.
Once out of sight of the front hall, she picked up her skirts and hurried.