Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

He no longer fitted the construct of the man, the duke, he’d thought he would be.

Duty, however, was one guiding light he’d always recognized, and still did. So he’d tried. He’d spent all night poring over their list, trying to force himself to toe the expected line.

He’d failed. He couldn’t do it—couldn’t force himself to choose a woman he didn’t want.

And the prime reason he couldn’t was about to enter the room behind him.

He hauled in a massive breath, then snarled and flung himself into one of the large armchairs set before the windows, facing the open doorway.

Just as she sailed in.

Minerva knew from long experience of Variseys that this was no time for caution, much less meekness. The sight that met her eyes as she came to a halt inside the ducal sitting room—the wall of fury that assailed her senses—confirmed that; he’d roll right over her, smother her, if she gave him half a chance.

She fixed him with an exasperated, aggravated gaze. “You have to make a choice, make it and declare it—or else give me something I can take downstairs that will satisfy the ladies, or they’re not going to leave.” She folded her arms and stared him down. “And you’ll like that even less.”

A long silence ensued. She knew he used silences to undermine; she didn’t budge an inch, just waited him out.

His eyes narrowed. Eventually, one dark, diabolically winged brow rose. “Are you really that keen to explore Egypt?”

She frowned. “What?” Then she made the connection. Tightened her lips. “Don’t try to change the subject. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s your bride.”

His gaze remained fixed on her face, on her eyes. “Why are you so keen to have me declare who I’ll wed?” His voice had lowered, softened, his tone growing strangely, insidiously suggestive. “Are you so eager to escape from Wolverstone and your duties, and all those here?”

The implication pricked a spot she hadn’t, until that instant, realized was sensitive. Her temper flared, so quickly and completely she had no chance to rein it back. “As you know damned well”—her voice dripped fury, her eyes, she knew, would be all golden scorn—“Wolverstone is the only home I’ve ever known. It is my home. While you might know every rock, every stone, I know every single man, woman, and child on this estate.” Her voice deepened, vibrating with emotion. “I know the seasons, and how each affects us. I know every facet of the dynamics of the castle community and how it runs. Wolverstone has been my life for more than twenty years, and loyalty to—and love for—it and its people is what has kept me here so long.”

She dragged in a tight breath. His eyes dropped briefly to her breasts, mounding above her neckline; uncaring, she trapped his gaze as it returned to her face. “So no, I’m not keen to leave—I would much rather stay—but leave I must.”

“Why?”

She flung up her hands. “Because you have to marry one of the ladies on that damned list! And once you do, there’ll be no place for me here.”

If he was taken aback by her outburst, she saw no hint of it; his face remained set, the lines chiseled stone. The only sense she gained from him was one of implacable, immovable opposition.

His gaze shifted from her to the mantelpiece, following the long line of armillary spheres she’d kept dusted and polished. His dark gaze rested on them for a long moment, then he murmured, “You’re always telling me to go my own road.”

She frowned. “This is your own road, the one you would naturally take—it’s only the timing that’s changed.”

He looked at her; she tried, but, as usual, could read nothing in his dark eyes. “What,” he asked, his voice very soft, “if that’s not the road I want to take?”

She sighed through her teeth. “Royce, stop being difficult for the sake of it. You know you’re going to choose one of the ladies on that list. The list is extensive, indeed complete, so those are your choices. So just tell me the name and I’ll take it downstairs, before the grandes dames decide to barge in here.”

He studied her. “What about your alternative?”

It took her a moment to follow, then she held up her hands, conceding. “Fine—give me something to tell them that will satisfy them instead.”

“All right.”

She suppressed a frown. His gaze fixed on her, he looked like he was thinking, the wheels of his diabolical mind churning.

“You may announce to the ladies downstairs”—the words were slow, even, his tone dangerously mild—“that I’ve made up my mind which lady I’ll wed. They can expect to see the announcement of our betrothal in a week or so, once the lady I’ve chosen agrees.”

Her eyes locked with his, she replayed the declaration; it would, indeed, satisfy the grandes dames. It sounded sensible, rational—in fact, exactly what he should say.

But…she knew him far too well to accept the words at face value. He was up to something, but she couldn’t think what.

Royce surged to his feet—before she could question him. Shrugging out of his hacking jacket, he walked toward his bedroom. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change.”

She frowned, annoyed by his refusal to let her probe, but with no choice offering, she stiffly inclined her head, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind her.