Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)
The fingers of one hand tapping the blotter, his gaze sharpened. “I’m not of a mind to let them dictate, or even dabble in, my future. It might, therefore, be wise to get some idea of the potential…candidates.”
She hesitated, then asked, “What style of candidate are you thinking of?”
He gave her a look that said she knew better than to ask. “The usual style—a typical Varisey bride. How does it go? Suitable breeding, position, connections and fortune, passable beauty, intelligence optional.” He frowned. “Did I forget anything?”
She fought to keep her lips straight. “No. That’s more or less the full description.”
No matter that he might differ from his father in managing people and the estate, he wouldn’t differ in his requirements of a bride. The tradition of Varisey marriages predated the dukedom by untold generations, and, even more telling, suited their temperament.
She saw no reason to disagree with his assessment. The new fashion of love matches within the nobility had little to offer the Variseys. They did not love. She’d spent more than twenty years among them, and had never seen any evidence to the contrary. It was simply the way they were; love had been bred out of them centuries ago—if it had ever been in their mix at all. “If you wish, I could make a list of the candidates your relatives—and no doubt the grandes dames who come up for the funeral—mention.”
He nodded. “Their gossip may as well be useful for something. Add anything relevant you know, or hear from reliable sources.” He met her eyes. “And, no doubt, you’ll add your opinion, as well.”
She smiled sweetly. “No, I won’t. As far as I’m concerned, choosing your bride is entirely your affair. I won’t be living with her.”
He gave her another of his bland, you-should-know-better looks. “Neither will I.”
She inclined her head, acknowledging that fact. “Regardless, your bride is not a subject on which I would seek to influence you.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to promulgate that view to my sisters?”
“Sadly, I must decline—it would be a waste of breath.”
He grunted.
“If there’s nothing else, I should go and see who else has arrived. Cranny, bless her, needs to know how many will sit down to dine.”
When he nodded, she rose and headed for the door. Reaching it, she glanced back, and saw him sprawled in his chair, that brooding look on his face. “If you have time, you might like to look at the tithing from the smaller crofts. At present, it’s stated as an absolute amount, but a percentage of profit might suit everyone better.”
He arched a brow. “Another radical notion?”
She shrugged and opened the door. “Just a suggestion.”
So here he was at Wolverstone, under his nemesis’s roof. His very large roof, in this far distant corner of Northumberland, which was a point, he now realized, that worked in his favor.
The estate was so very far from London that many of the visitors, especially those who were family, would stay for a time; the castle was so huge it could accommodate a small army. So there was, and would continue to be, plenty of cover; he would be safe enough.
He stood at the window of the pleasant room he’d been given in the east wing, looking down on the castle gardens, beautifully presented and bursting with colorful life in the last gasp of the short northern summer.
He had an appreciation for beautiful things, an eye that had guided him in amassing an exquisite collection of the most priceless items the French had had to offer. In exchange he’d given them information, information that, whenever he’d been able, had run directly counter to Royce’s commission.
Whenever possible, he’d tried to harm Royce—not directly, but through the men he’d commanded.
From all he’d been able to glean, he’d failed, dismally. Just as he’d failed, over the years, over all the times he’d been held up against Royce, measured against his glorious cousin and found wanting. By his father, his uncle, most of all by his grandfather.
His lips curled; his handsome features distorted in a snarl.
Worst of all, Royce had seized his prize, his carefully hoarded treasure. He’d stolen it from him, denying him even that. For all his years of serving the French, he’d received precisely nothing—not even the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused Royce pain.
In the world of men, and all through the ton, Royce was a celebrated success. And now Royce was Wolverstone to boot.
While he…was an unimportant sprig on a family tree.
It shouldn’t be so.
Dragging in a breath, he slowly exhaled, willing his features back into the handsome mask he showed the world. Turning, he looked around the room.
His eye fell on a small bowl sitting on the mantelpiece. Not Sevres, but Chinese, quite delicate.