Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

If she accepted the position of Royce’s duchess, from the instant she said “yes” there would be no turning back.

The luncheon gong had curtailed her discussion with the other ladies; neither Royce nor Jack Warnefleet had appeared, but the rest of the company had, making it impossible to further pursue their debate—at least not aloud.

She spent most of the meal mentally enumerating Royce’s symptoms, but while indicative, neither singly nor collectively were they conclusive.

Retford waylaid her on her way back to the morning room; the others went ahead while she detoured to assess the spirits store. After conferring with Retford, Cranny, and Cook, on impulse she asked after Trevor.

Fate smiled, and she found him alone in the ironing room, busily ironing his master’s cravats. He saw her as she entered, quickly set the iron down, and turned.

“No, no.” She waved him back to the board. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Hesitantly, he picked up the iron from the stand perched above a fire in the small hearth. “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

This could be supremely embarrassing, but she had to ask, had to know. She drew breath, and plunged in. “Trevor—you’ve been with His Grace for some time, have you not?”

“Over seventeen years, ma’am.”

“Indeed. Just so. So you would know if there’s anything in the way in which he behaves toward me that differs from how he’s behaved in the past with other ladies.”

The iron froze in midair. Trevor looked at her, and blinked.

Embarrassment clutched at her chest; she hurried to add, “Of course, I will understand completely if you feel your duty to His Grace precludes you from answering.”

“No, no—I can answer.” Trevor blinked again, and his expression eased. “My answer, ma’am, is that I really can’t say.”

“Oh.” She deflated; all that whipping up her courage for nothing.

But Trevor hadn’t finished. “I’ve never known about any other ladies, you see. He never brought any home.”

“He didn’t?”

His attention on the strip of linen he was carefully flattening, Trevor shook his head. “Never. Cardinal rule. Always their beds, n

ever his.”

Minerva stared at the valet for a long moment, then she nodded and turned away. “Thank you, Trevor.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Well! That’s encouraging.” Perched on the arm of one of the sofas, Clarice watched her pace. “Especially if he’s been so adamant over using his bed, not yours.”

Letitia and Penny, seated on the other sofa, nodded in agreement.

“Yes, but,” Minerva said, “who’s to say that it’s not just him viewing me as his duchess. He’d made up his mind I should marry him before he seduced me, so it’s entirely in character for him to insist on treating me as if I already were what he wants me to be—his wife.”

Letitia made a rude sound. “If Royce decided to ignore your wishes and roll over you, horse, foot, and guns, he’d have simply sent a notice to the Gazette—and then informed you of your impending change in station. That really would be in character. No, this news is definitely encouraging, but”—she held up a hand to stay Minerva’s protest—“I agree that, for your purpose, you need something more definite.”

Penny nodded. “Something more cut and dried.”

“Something,” Minerva stated, “that’s more than just indicative, or suggestive. Something that’s not open to other interpretations.” Halting, she threw up her hands. “At present, this is the equivalent of reading tea leaves. I need something he absolutely wouldn’t do unless he loves me.”

Clarice blew out a breath. “Well, there is one thing you might try. If you’re game…”

Later that night, after a final consultation with her mentors, Minerva hurried back to her bedroom. The rest of the company had retired some time ago; she was late—Royce would be wondering where she was.

If he asked where she’d been, she could hardly tell him she’d been receiving instruction in the subtle art of how to lead a nobleman to reveal his heart.

Reaching her door, she opened it and rushed inside—and came up hard against his chest.