Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

“Just as well,” Trevor grimly declared. “There’s a limit to how much mayhem one household can withstand.”

She laughed and turned away. In reality the household was managing well, even though the castle was as full as she’d ever known it. Every guest chamber was in use, even the rooms in the keep. The only rooms on that level that had been spared were her morning room, Royce’s sitting room, and the study.

Her morning room. Royce had started calling it that a few weeks ago, and she’d fallen into the habit.

Smiling, she continued around the gallery; it was late afternoon, almost early evening, and the guests were either resting or conversing quietly somewhere before dressing for dinner. For the first time that day, she had the opportunity to draw an unhurried breath.

“Minerva.”

She stopped, turned, a smile already on her lips. Royce stood before the corridor to his apartments; he held out his hand.

There was nothing she had to do at that moment. Or rather…smile deepening, she went to join him.

Her smile mirrored in his eyes, he grasped her hand, turned down the corridor, stopped before the door to the battlements. As before, he released the catch, then let her go up before following.

She walked to the battlements, spread her arms wide and breathed…then turned to face him as he neared. “Just what I needed—fresh and uncrowded air.”

His lips quirked. “The castle’s all but humming with humanity. It’s a living, breathing hive.”

She laughed, swung again to the view, set her hands on the ancient stone of the battlements—and felt as if through the touch they grounded her. She looked out—and saw. Familiar sights, a familiar landscape. “When you brought me up here, and showed me this, and told me that this is what you would share…even though I’d been chatelaine for over a decade, I…it feels different, somehow, now.” His hands slid about her waist; she glanced up and back at his face. “Now I’m to be your duchess.”

Royce nodded; as she looked back at the hills, he dropped a kiss below her ear. “Before you weren’t ultimately responsible—you were still one step removed. But now you’re starting to see the fields as I do.” He lifted his head, looking out over his lands. “You’re starting to feel what I feel when I stand here and look out at my domain—and sense what that really means.”

She leaned back against him. He settled his arms about her, felt her arms, her hands, settle over his.

For a moment, they were silent, seeing, sensing, feeling, then he said, “The message my father left me—that I didn’t need to be like him. You took it to mean the dukedom, and the way I dealt with that. But the more I realize how much like him I am—and therefore how much like me he was—I think—believe—that he meant the comment more widely.”

She tilted her head, listening, but didn’t interrupt.

“I think,” he said, his arms tightening about her, feeling her, a warm, vibrant presence anchoring him, “th

at in those last minutes, he tried to address the regrets of his life—and from all I’ve learned, how he managed the dukedom wasn’t high on that list. How he lived, I think, was. I think he regretted, to his dying breath, not making the effort to make more of his life—he had chances, but didn’t seize them. Didn’t try to forge more than the usual Varisey life—a life that was handed to him on a silver platter.

“He didn’t try to forge what I’m trying to forge with you. Every day that passes, every hour we spend together, whether alone and looking inward, or dealing with our people, our responsibilities, is like another brick, another section of our foundations solidly laid. We’re building something together that wasn’t here before…I think that’s what he meant. That I didn’t have to follow in his footsteps, didn’t have to marry as he had, didn’t have to turn my back on the chance to build something more, something stronger, more enduring.”

“Something more supportive.” She turned in his arms, looked up at his face, met his eyes. Considered, then nodded. “You might well be right. Thinking back…he’d been waiting to speak to you, rehearsing for weeks, and then…he knew he didn’t have much time.”

“So he said the most important thing.”

She nodded. “He meant life, not just the dukedom.” She hesitated, then said, “I know you never realized, but his breach with you…opened his eyes. You holding firm was the catalyst—that was when he started to change. When he started to think. Your mother noticed, and so did I. He’d never been introspective before.”

His lips quirked, half grimace, half smile. “At least he should feel pleased that, at last, I’ve taken his advice.”

Minerva smiled, warm and deep. “He’d be unbearable—and unbearably proud.”

He raised his brows, deprecatingly skeptical.

The deep bong of a gong floated up from below.

He held her before him, looked down at her face. “I suppose we should go and dress for dinner.”

She nodded. “Yes, we should.”

He sighed, bent his head and kissed her. Lightly…

Their lips clung, parted reluctantly. He lifted his head just an inch, breathed against her lips, “I don’t suppose we can be late?”

Her hand had remained, splayed against his chest. It firmed. “No. We can’t.”