Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

“But he knows I’m doing it,” Minerva pointed out.

“Yes, indeed, and that makes it all the more delightful.” Letitia set down her cup. “My dear, is there anything else, anything at all, that we can help you with before we leave?”

Minerva thought, then said, “If you will, answer me this: What moved your husbands to recognize they loved you?”

“You mean what wrung that word from their lips?” Letitia grimaced. “I was dangling from battlements, literally held from Death’s jaws by his grip alone, before he thought to utter the word. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Clarice frowned. “In my case, too, it was after a brush with death—with the iniquitous last traitor’s henchman. Again, not an activity I’d recommend.”

“As I recall,” Penny said, “it was after we assisted Royce in apprehending a murderous French spy. There was a certain amount of life-threatening danger, none of which came to pass, but it opened my eyes, so I declared I would marry him—and then he was quite put out that I hadn’t forced a grand declaration from him. He considered the point obvious, but had convinced himself that I’d claim my due.” She smiled, sipped. “He gave it to me, anyway.” Lowering her cup, she added, “Then again, he’s half French.”

Minerva frowned. “There seems to be a consistent trend with our sort of men.”

Clarice nodded. “They seem to require a life-and-death situation to prod them into listening to their hearts.”

Penny frowned. “But you already know Royce is head-over-ears in love with you, don’t you? It really is rather blatantly obvious.”

“Yes, I know.” Minerva sighed. “I know, you know, even his sisters are starting to see it. But the one person who doesn’t yet know is the tenth Duke of Wolverstone himself. And I honestly don’t know how to open his eyes.”

Three full weeks had come and gone. Sitting in the keep’s breakfast parlor, Royce was quietly amazed; he’d thought the time would drag, but instead, it had flown.

On his left, a sunbeam glinting in her hair, Minerva was engrossed in yet more lists; he smiled, savoring as he did countless times a day the warmth and enfolding comfort of what he mentally termed his new existence.

His life as the tenth Duke of Wolverstone; it would be radically different from that of his father’s, and the cornerstone of that difference was his impending marriage.

Minerva humphed. “Thank heavens Prinny balked at the distance. Accommodating him and his toadies would have been a nightmare.” She glanced up, smiled as Hamilton placed a fresh teapot before her. “We’ll finalize the assignment of rooms this morning—Retford will need a list by noon.”

“Indeed, ma’am. Retford and I have devised a plan of the castle, which will help.”

“Excellent! If you come to the morning room once you’re finished here, that should give me time to finish with Cranny, and check the mail to make sure we have no unexpected additions.” She glanced at Royce. “Unless you need Hamilton?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be finalizing matters with Killsythe this morning.” His solicitors, Killsythe and Killsythe, had finally wrested control of the last legal matters pertaining to the dukedom from Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, so at last such issues were proceeding smoothly. “Incidentally”—with his finger he tapped a missive he’d earlier read—“Montague sent word that all is in place. He was very complimentary about your previous agent’s efforts, but believes he can do better.”

Minerva smiled. “I have high expectations.” Reaching for the teapot, she surveyed the seven lists arrayed before her. “I can barely recall when I last had a chance to think of such mundane things as investments.”

Royce raised his coffee cup, hid a smile. One thing he’d learned about his wife-to-be was that she thrived on challenge. As with his father’s funeral, the principal guests would be accommodated at the castle, as would the majority of both sides of his family, virtually all of whom had sent word they would attend. While he’d been engulfed in legal and business matters, some still pending from his father’s death but most part of the preparation necessary for the execution of the marriage settlements, Minerva’s time had been swallowed up by preparations for the wedding itself.

Hamilton had proved a godsend; after discussions with Minerva and Retford, Royce had summoned him north to act as his personal butler, freeing Retford for the wider castle duties, increased dramatically because of the wedding. As Hamilton was younger and perfectly willing to defer to Retford, the arrangement was working well, to everyone’s benefit.

Royce turned to the social page of yesterday’s Gazette; he’d religiously perused every column inch devoted to their upcoming union ever since the news had broken. Far from being cast in any unflattering light, somewhat to his disgust their wedding was being touted as the romantic event of the year.

“What’s today’s effort like?” Minerva didn’t take her eyes from her lists. When he’d first remarked on the slant all the news sheets had taken, she’d merely said, “I did wonder what they’d do.” She’d been referring to the grandes dames.

Royce perused the five inches of column devoted to their event, then snorted. “This one goes even further. It reads like a fairy tale—wellborn but orphaned beauty slaves for decades as the chatelaine of a ducal castle, then on the death of the crusty old duke, catches the roving eye of said duke’s mysterious exiled son, now her new lord, and a marcher lord at that, but instead of suffering the indignity of a slip on the shoulder, as one might expect, she succeeds in winning the hardened heart of her new duke and ends as his duchess.”

With a sound very like “pshaw,” he tossed the paper on the table. Regarded it with open disgust. “While that might contain elements of the truth, they’ve reduced it to the bizarre.”

Minerva grinned. At one point she’d wondered whether he might realize the fundamental truth underlying the reports—that dissecting news sheet inanity might reveal to him what she and many others already knew of him—but it hadn’t happened. As the days passed, it seemed increasingly likely that nothing less than long, frequent, and deepening exposure to his own emotions was likely to open his eyes.

Eyes that were so sharply observant when trained on anyone and anything else, but when it came to himself, to his inner self, simply did not see.

Sitting back, she considered her own efforts; ducal weddings in the country had to top the list of the most complicated events to manage. He rose to leave; she looked up, pinned him with a direct look. “You’ll need to be available from noon today, and throughout tomorrow and the next day, to greet the more important guests as they arrive.”

He held her gaze, then looked at Jeffers

and Hamilton, standing by the wall behind her chair. “Send one of the footmen, one who can recognize crests, up to the battlements with a spyglass.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jeffers hesitated, then added, “If I might suggest, we could send one of the lads to the bridge with a list of those it would be helpful to know are approaching—he could wave a flag. That would be easily seen from the battlements.”