Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

And surely the countess was married…no, she wasn’t; Minerva recalled hearing that the Earl of Ashton had died several years ago.

They’d strolled past the short corridor to the ducal apartments and into the west wing. Halting before the door of the room the countess had been assigned, Minerva dragged in a breath past the constriction banding her chest, and turned to her ladyship. “If you would like tea, I can have a tray brought up. Otherwise, the luncheon gong will ring in about an hour.”

“I’ll wait, I think. I take it Wolverstone will return for lunch?”

“I really can’t say.”

“No matter—I’ll wait and see.”

“The footmen will bring up your trunk. A maid will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.” With an inclination of her head and a perfectly gracious smile, the countess opened the door and went inside.

Minerva turned away. Her head was spinning, but that was the least of it. She literally felt ill…because her heart was chilled and aching—and it wasn’t supposed to be.

Neither Royce nor Susannah nor the rest of the company returned for luncheon, leaving Minerva to entertain the countess by herself.

Not that that was a difficult task; Lady Ashton—Helen as she asked to be called—was an extremely beautiful, sophisticated lady with an even temperament, gracious manners, and a ready smile.

No matter the circumstances, no matter the sudden agonies of her foolish, foolish heart, no matter her instinctive inclination, Minerva found it difficult to dislike Helen; she was, in the very essence of the word, charming.

Leaving the dining room, Helen smiled rather wistfully. “I wonder, Minerva, if I may truly impose on you and ask for a quick tour—or as quick a tour as can be—of this enormous pile?” She looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the front hall as it opened before them. “It’s rather daunting to consider…”

She trailed off, shot a look at Minerva, then sighed. “I’ve never been much of a hand at subterfuge, so I may as well be plain. I have no idea where I stand with Royce, and I freely admit to a certain nervousness—which is really not my style.”

Minerva frowned. “I thought…” She wasn’t at all sure what to think. She led the way to the principal drawing room.

The countess strolled beside her. As they paused inside the long formal room, Helen continued, “I assume you know of his inviolable rule—that he never spends more than five nights with any lady?”

Expressionless, Minerva shook her head. “I hadn’t heard.”

“I assure you it’s true—there are any number of ladies within the ton who can attest to his refusal to bend on that score, no matter the inducement. Five nights are all he allows any woman.” The countess grimaced. “I suppose it was one way to ensure none of us ever got any ideas, as one might say, above our station.”

Surreptitiously, Minerva counted on her fingers; last night had been her fifth—and therefore last—night. She hadn’t even known. Inwardly reeling, she stepped back into the hall, then led the way toward the formal dining room.

Helen kept pace. “I was his lover before he left London—for just four nights. I hoped for a fifth, but then he disappeared from town. Later I heard about his father’s death, and so believed our liaison was over—until I received Susannah’s note. She seemed to think…and then I heard about the grandes dames and their decree, but no announcement came…” She glanced at Minerva. “Well, I did wonder.” She shrugged. “So here I am, come to throw my hat in the ring, if there is a ring, that is. But he does have to marry, and we get along well enough…and I do want to marry again. Ashton and I weren’t in love, but we liked each other. There’s a great deal to be said for companionship I’ve discovered, now I no longer have it.”

Helen gave a cynical laugh. “Of course, all depends on the whim of one Royce Varisey, but I thought he should know that he does have alternatives to the giddy young misses.”

Thrusting her reeling emotions deep and slamming a mental door on them, Minerva forced herself to consider Helen’s words. And who was she to answer for Royce? For all she knew, he might feel some real connection to Helen; it wasn’t hard to picture her on his arm, as his duchess.

Dragging in a breath, she held it, then managed a mild smile. “If you like, I can show you around the main areas of the castle.” As Royce had to marry someone, she’d rather it was Helen than some witless miss.

Later that evening, Minerva sat midway down the long dining table, conversing blithely with those around her while surreptitiously watching Helen sparkle, effervesce, and charm from her position at Royce’s left.

The lovely countess had usurped her place there, and, it seemed, had displaced her in other ways, too. Royce hadn’t spared so much as a glance for her since he’d walked into the drawing room and laid eyes on Helen, a stunning vision in rose-pink silk.

Feeling dull and drab in her weeds, she’d stood by the wall and watched, no longer sure of where she stood with Royce, and utterly unsure what to do.

She’d started her tour with Helen imagining there was, in the matter of Royce’s bride, no worse candidate than a giddy young miss. After an hour of listening to Helen’s views on the castle and the estate, and most importantly its people, she’d revised that opinion.

Helen would never rule as Royce’s duchess at Wolverstone. Quite aside from all else, she didn’t want to. She’d assumed Royce would spend most of his time in London, but he’d already declared he would follow in his father’s and grandfather’s—and even great-grandfather’s—footsteps. His home would be here, not in the capital.

When she’d mentioned that, Helen had shrugged, smiled, and said, “We’ll see.” Helen couldn’t imagine she would change Royce’s mind, which had left Minerva wondering just what sort of marriage Helen envisioned—quite possibly one that might well suit Royce.

Which would compound the more serious problem, namely that Helen had absolutely no feeling for, no empathy with, the estate in general, much less the people on it. She’d already hinted that she assumed Minerva would stay on as chatelaine. Minerva couldn’t, wouldn’t, but she’d always imagined handing her keys to some woman with a heart, with compassion and interest in her staff and the wider community of which the castle was the hub.

Glancing up the table again, she saw Royce, lips subtly curving, incline his head to the countess in response to some sally. Forcing her gaze to Rohan, seated opposite her, she smiled and nodded; she hadn’t heard a word of his latest tale. She had to stop t