Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)
“So what do you suggest?”
“The Macgregors and Kelso don’t get on, never have, hence the present situation. But the Macgregors, if approached correctly, are neither unreasonable nor intractable. The situation, as it is now, is that the cottages urgently need wholesale repair, and the Macgregors want to keep farming that land. I’d suggest a compromise—some system whereby both the estate and the Macgregors contribute to the outcome, and subsequently reap the benefits.”
He studied her in silence. She waited, not the least discomfited by his scrutiny. Rather more distracted by the allure that didn’t decrease even when, as with his sisters, he was being difficult. She’d always found the underlying danger in him fascinating—the sense of dealing with some being who was not, quite, safe. Not domesticated, nowhere near as civilized as he appeared.
The real him lurked beneath his elegant exterior—there in his eyes, in the set of his lips, in the disguised strength in his long-fingered hands.
“Correct me if I err”—his voice was a low, hypnotic purr—“but any such collaborative effort would step beyond the bounds of what I recall are the tenancy agreements used at Wolverstone.”
She dragged in air past the constriction banding her lungs. “The agreements would need to be renegotiated and redrawn. Frankly, they need to be, to better reflect the realities of today.”
“Did my father agree?”
She wished she could lie. “No. He was, as you know, very set in his ways. More, he was inimical to change.” After a moment, she added, “That was why he put off making any decision about the cottages. He knew that evicting the Macgregors and pulling down the cottages was the wrong thing to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to resolve the issue by altering tradition.”
One black brow quirked. “The tradition in question underpins the estate’s financial viability.”
“Which would only be strengthened by getting more equitable agreements in place, ones which encourage tenants to invest in their holdings, to make improvements themselves, rather than leaving everything to the landowner—which on large estates like Wolverstone usually means nothing gets done, and land and buildings slowly decay, as in this instance.”
Another silence ensued, then he looked down. Absentmindedly tapped one long finger on the blotter. “This is not a decision to be lightly made.”
She hesitated, then said, “No, but it must be made soon.”
Without raising his head, he glanced up at her. “You stopped my father from making a decision, didn’t you?”
Holding his dark gaze, she debated what to say…but he knew the truth; his tone said as much. “I made sure he remembered the predictable outcomes of agreeing with Falwell and Kelso.”
Both his brows rose, leaving her wondering whether he’d been as sure as his tone had suggested, or whether she’d been led to reveal something he hadn’t known.
He looked down at his hand, fingers now spread on the blotter. “I’ll need to see these cottages—”
A tap on the door interrupted him. He frowned and looked up. “Come.”
Retford entered. “Your Grace, Mr. Collier, from Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, has arrived. He’s awaiting your pleasure in the hall. He wished me to inform you he was entirely at your service.”
Royce inwardly grimaced. He glanced at his chatelaine, who was revealing unexpected depths of strength and determination. She’d been able to, not manipulate, but influence his father…which left him uneasy. Not that he imagined she’d acted from any but the purest of motives; her arguments were driven by her views of what was best for Wolverstone and its people. But the fact she’d prevailed against his father’s blustering, often bullying will—no matter how else he’d aged, that wouldn’t have changed—combined with his own continuing, indeed escalating obsession with her, all compounded by his need to rely on her, to keep her near and interact with her daily…
His sisters, by comparison, were a minor irritation.
Minerva was…a serious problem.
Especially as everything she said, everything she urged, everything she was, appealed to him—not the cold, calm, calculating, and risk-averse duke, but the other side of him—the side that rode young stallions just broken to the saddle over hill and dale at a madman’s pace.
The side that was neither cold, nor risk-averse.
He didn’t know what to do with her, how he could safely manage her.
He glanced at the clock on a bureau by the wall, then looked at Retford. “Show Collier up.”
Retford bowed and withdrew.
Royce looked at Minerva. “It’s nearly time to dress for dinner. I’ll see Collier, and arrange for him to read the will after dinner. If you can organize with Jeffers to show him to a room, and to have him fed…?”
“Yes, of course.” She rose, met his gaze as he came to his feet. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She turned and walked to the door; Royce watched while she opened it, then went out, then he exhaled and sank back into his chair.
Dinner was consumed in a civil but restrained atmosphere. Margaret and Aurelia had decided to be careful; both avoided subjects likely to irritate him, and, in the main, held their tongues.