Tugging loose his neckerchief, he watched the door shut, then strode into his bedroom. She would learn the answer to her question soon enough.
Seven
The next morning, garbed in her riding habit, Minerva sat in the private breakfast parlor and consumed her marmaladed toast as quickly as she daintily could; she was intent on getting out on Rangonel as soon as possible.
She hadn’t seen Royce since he’d sent her off with his response to the grandes dames’ demand. He hadn’t joined the guests still remaining for dinner; she hadn’t been surprised. But she wasn’t in any hurry to meet him, not until she felt more like herself, hence her wariness as, toast finished, tea drunk, she rose and headed for the stables.
Retford had confirmed that His Grace had breakfasted earlier and gone riding; he was most likely far away by now, but she didn’t want to run into him if he’d cut short his ride and was returning to the keep. Avoiding the west courtyard, his favored route, she exited via the castle’s east wing, and set off through the gardens.
She’d spent an unsettled evening, and an even more restless night, going over in her mind the ladies on the list, trying to predict whom he’d chosen. She’d met some of them during the seasons she and his mother had spent in the capital; while she couldn’t imagine any of them as his duchess, that lack of enthusiasm didn’t explain the hollow, deadening feeling that had, over the last days, been growing ins
ide her.
That had intensified markedly after she’d delivered his declaration to the grandes dames and waved them on their way.
Certainly, being forced to state out aloud her unhappiness over leaving Wolverstone, giving voice to what she truly felt, hadn’t helped. By the time she’d retreated to her room last night, that unexpected, welling emotion was approaching desolation. As if something was going horribly wrong.
It was nonsensical. She’d done what she’d had to do—what her vows had committed her to do—and she’d succeeded. Yet her emotions had swung crazily in the opposite direction; she didn’t feel as if she’d won, but as if she’d lost.
Lost something vital.
Which was silly. She’d always known the time would come when she’d have to leave Wolverstone.
It had to be some irrational twisting of her emotions caused by the increasingly fraught battle she constantly had to wage to keep her frustrating and irritating, infatuation-obsession-driven physical reactions to Royce completely hidden—hidden so completely not even he would see.
The stables loomed ahead. She walked into the courtyard, smiling when she saw Rangonel waiting, saddled and patient by the mounting block, a groom at his head. She went forward—a flash of gray and the steel tattoo of dancing hooves had her glancing around.
Sword pranced on the other side of the yard, saddled and…waiting. She tried to tell herself Royce must have just ridden in…but the stallion looked fresh, impatient to be off.
Then she saw Royce—pushing away from the wall against which he’d been leaning chatting to Milbourne and Henry.
Henry went to calm Sword and untie his reins.
Milbourne rose from the bench on which he’d been sitting.
And Royce walked toward her.
Quickening her pace, she clambered onto the mounting block and scrambled, breathless, into her sidesaddle.
Royce halted a few paces away and looked up at her. “I need to talk to you.”
Doubtless about his bride. Her lungs constricted; she felt literally ill.
He didn’t wait for any agreement, but took the reins Henry offered, and swung up to Sword’s back.
“Ah…we should discuss the mill. There are decisions that need to be made—”
“We can talk when we stop to rest the horses.” His dark gaze raked her, then he turned Sword to the archway. “Come on.”
This time, he led.
She had no option but to follow. Given the pace he set, that took all her concentration; only when he slowed as they started up Lord’s Seat did she have wits to spare to start wondering what, exactly, he was going to say.
He led her up to a sheltered lookout. A grassy shelf on the side of the hill where a remnant of woodland enclosed a semicircular clearing, it had one of the best views in the area, looking south down the gorge through which the Coquet tumbled, to the castle, bathed in sunlight, set against the backdrop of the hills beyond.
Royce had chosen the spot deliberately; it gave the best, most complete view of the estate, the fields as well as the castle.
He rode Sword to the trees, swung down from the stallion’s back, and tied the reins to a branch. On her bay, Minerva followed more slowly. Allowing her time to slip down from her saddle and tie her horse, he crossed the lush grass to the rim of the clearing; looking out over his lands, he seized the moment to rehearse his arguments one more time.