“Aye—it’s as I thought.” Hamish let himself out of the pen, latching the gate behind him. Leaning back against it, he looked at her. “You both need to take a good long look at each other. What do you think has made him even consider having a different sort of marriage? A love match—isn’t that what society calls them? Why do you imagine they’re called that?”
She scowled at him. “You’re making it sound simple and easy.”
Hamish nodded his great head. “Aye—that’s how love is. Simple, straightforward, and easy. It just happens. Where it gets complicated is when you try to think too much, to rationalize it, make sense of it, pick it apart—it’s not like that.” He pushed away from the gate, and started lumbering up the path; she fell in beside him. “But if you must keep thinking, think on this—love happens, just like a disease. And like any disease, the easiest way to tell someone’s caught it is to look for the symptoms. I’ve known Royce longer than you have, and he’s got every last symptom. He might not know he loves you, but he feels it—he acts on it.”
They’d reached the yard where she’d left Rangonel. Hamish halted and looked down at her. “The truth is, lass, he might never be able to honestly, knowingly, tell you he loves you—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”
She grimaced, rubbed a gloved finger in the center of her forehead. “You’ve only given me more to think about.”
Hamish grinned. “Aye, well, if you must think, the least you can do is think of the right things.”
As Minerva rode south across the border and down through the hills, she had plenty of time to think of Royce and his symptoms. Plenty of time to ponder all Hamish had said; while helping her to her saddle, he’d reminded her that the late duchess had been unwaveringly faithful, not to her husband, but to her longtime lover, Sidney Camberwell.
The duchess and Camberwell had been together for over twenty years; remembering all she’d seen of the pair, thinking of “symptoms,” she had to conclude they’d been very much in love.
Perhaps Hamish was right; Royce could and might love her.
Regardless, she had to make up her mind, and soon—he hadn’t been joking when he’d mentioned Lady Osbaldestone—which was why she’d come out riding; Hamish’s farm had seemed an obvious destination.
Take whatever time you need to think.
She knew Royce far too well not to know that he’d meant: Take whatever time you need to think as long as you agree to be my wife.
He would do everything in his power to ensure she did; henceforth he would feel completely justified in doing whatever it took to make her agree.
In his case, “whatever it took” covered a great deal—as he’d demonstrated that morning, with shattering results. She’d escaped only because the sun had risen. If it hadn’t, she would be at his mercy still.
In public, however, over breakfast, and then later when they’d met for their usual meeting in his study with Handley in attendance and Jeffers by the door, he’d behaved with exemplary decorum; she couldn’t fault him in that—while in private he might pressure her to decide quickly in his favor, he did nothing to raise speculation in others.
“For which,” she assured the hills at large, “I’m duly grateful. The last thing I need is Margaret, Aurelia, and Susannah hectoring me. I don’t even know which way they’d fall—for or against.”
An interesting question, but beside the point. She didn’t care what they thought, and Royce cared even less.
For the umpteenth time, she replayed his arguments. Most confirmed what she’d seen from the start; marrying her would be the best option for him, especially given his commitment to Wolverstone and to the dukedom as a whole. What didn’t fit the mold of convenience and comfort was his desire for a different sort of marriage; she couldn’t question the reality of that—he’d had to force himself to reveal it, and she’d felt his sincerity to her bones.
And he did care for her, in his own arrogant, high-handed way. There was an undeniably seductive triumph in being the only woman to have ever made a Varisey think of anything even approaching love. And especially Royce—to claim him as her own…but that was a piece of self-seduction.
If he did love her, would it last?
If he loved her as she loved him…
She frowned at Rangonel’s ears. “Regardless of Hamish’s opinion, I still have a lot to think through.”
Royce was in his study working through his correspondence with Handley when Jeffers tapped and opened the door. He looked up, arched a brow.
“Three ladies and a gentleman have arrived, Your Grace. The ladies are insisting on seeing you immediately.”
He inwardly frowned. “Their names?”
“The Marchioness of Dearne, the Countess of Lostwithiel, and Lady Clarice Warnefleet, Your Grace. The gentleman is Lord Warnefleet.”
“The gentleman isn’t asking to see me as well?”
“No, Your Grace. Just the ladies.”
Which was Jack Warnefleet’s way of warning him what the subject his wife and her two cronies wished to discuss was. “Thank you, Jeffers. Show the ladies up. Tell Retford to make Lord Warnefleet comfortable in the library.”
As the door closed, he glanced at Handley. “We’ll have to continue this later. I’ll ring when I’m free.”