Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

“Your memory’s faulty—they were your defeats.” Royce saw Gerald and Rupert looking down at him, questions in their eyes. “I’ll meet you there once you’ve settled in. Some others have arrived who I need to greet.”

With nods and waves, the men followed their wives up the stairs. Royce turned back into the front hall. More guests were arriving; Minerva had her hands full. The hall was continually awash with trunks and boxes even though a company of footmen were constantly ferrying loads upstairs.

Leaving them to it, Royce walked outside. He’d last seen the couple descending from the latest carriage mere weeks ago; he’d missed their wedding, deliberately, but he’d known they would come north to support him.

The lady turned and saw him. He held out a hand. “Letitia.”

“Royce.” Lady Letitia Allardyce, Marchioness of Dearne, took his hand and stretched up to kiss his cheek; she was tall enough to do so without tugging him down. “The news was a shock.”

She stepped back while he exchanged greetings with her husband, Christian, one of his ex-colleagues, a man of similar propensities as he, one who had dealt in secrets, violence, and death in their country’s defense.

The three turned toward the castle steps, the men flanking Letitia. She looked into Royce’s face. “You weren’t expecting to have the dukedom thrust upon you like this. How’s your temper holding up?”

She was one of the few who would dare ask him that. He slanted her an unencouraging look.

She grinned and patted his arm. “If you want any advice on restraining temper, just ask the expert.”

He shook his head. “Your temper’s dramatic. Mine’s…not.”

His temper was destructive, and much more powerful.

“Yes, well.” She fixed her gaze on the door, fast drawing near. “I know this isn’t something you want to hear, but the next days are going to be much worse than you imagine. You’ll learn why soon enough, if you haven’t already. And for what it’s worth, my advice, dear Royce, is to grit your teeth and reinforce the reins on your temper, because they’re about to be tested as never before.”

Expressionless, he stared at her.

She smiled brightly back. “Shall we go in?”

Minerva saw the trio enter, and walked over to greet the newcomers. She and Letitia knew each other well, which, she realized, surprised Royce. She hadn’t met Dearne before, but approved of his presence, and especially his statement that he was there in part representing Royce’s closest ex-colleagues from his years in Whitehall.

He added to Royce, “The others asked us to convey their regards.”

Royce nodded in acknowledgment; despite his perpetual mask, she sensed he was…touched. That he appreciated the support.

She’d already assigned rooms to all those expected; handing Letitia and Dearne over to Retford to magisterially guide upstairs, she watched them ascend. Felt Royce’s gaze on her face. “I know Letitia from all the years I spent with your mother in London.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod; that was what he’d wanted to know.

She’d met Miles, Rupert, and Gerald when they’d visited years ago, had met them and their wives in more recent times, too, although only in passing at ton entertainments. She’d been intrigued to learn—relieved to learn—that they’d stood by Royce over the years. She’d often wondered just how alone he’d been. Not completely, thank heaven, yet she was starting to suspect, his friends aside, that he wasn’t as socially adept as he was going to need to be.

The next days were going to be a strain on him, in more ways than she thought he realized.

Turning from the stairs, she surveyed the hall, still a bustling hive of activity. At least there were no guests waiting to be greeted; for the moment, she and Royce were alone amid the sea of luggage.

“You should know,” she murmured, “that there’s something afoot regarding your wedding. I haven’t yet learned exactly what—and your friends’ wives don’t know, either, but they’ll keep their ears open. I’m sure Letitia will.” She glanced at his face. “If I hear anything definite, I’ll let you know.”

His lips twisted in a partially suppressed grimace. “Letitia warned me that something I wouldn’t like was coming—she didn’t specify what. It sounded as if she, too, wasn’t entirely sure.”

Minerva nodded. “I’ll speak with her later. Perhaps, together, we can work it out.”

Another carriage rolled to a halt beyond the steps; she cast him a glance, then went out to greet his guests.

Late that evening, on returning to his rooms after soundly thrashing Miles at billiards, Royce stripped off his coat and tossed it to Trevor. “I want you to keep your ears open on the subject of my marriage.”

Trevor raised his brows, then took his waistcoat from him.

“Specifically”—Royce gave his attention to unraveling his cravat—“my bride.” He met Trevor’s gaze in the mirror above the tallboy. “See what you can learn—tonight if possible.”

“Naturally, Your Grace.” Trevor grinned. “I’ll bring the pertinent information with your shaving water in