Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

He was a Varisey, and she, better than anyone, knew what that meant.

A tap sounded on the door.

“Come!” She glanced up as Jeffers looked in.

He smiled. “His Grace asked if you could attend him, ma’am. In his study.”

She looked down at her list; it was complete to this moment. “Yes.” She rose and picked it up. “I’ll come right away.”

Jeffers accompanied her across the keep and held open the study door. She walked in to find Royce sitting behind his desk, frowning at the uncluttered expanse.

“I spoke with Handley this morning—he said that as far as he knew there were no estate matters pending.” He fixed her with an incipient glare. “That can’t be right.”

Handley, his secretary, had arrived earlier in the week, and to her immense relief had proved to be a thoroughly dependable, extremely efficient, exemplarily loyal man in his early thirties; he’d been a huge help through the preparations and the funeral itself. “Handley’s correct.” She sat in the chair before the

wide desk. “We dealt with all matters likely to arise last week. Given we were going to have so many visitors at the castle, it seemed wise to clear your desk.” She looked at the expanse in question. “There’s nothing likely to land on it before next week.”

She looked at the list in her hand. “Except, of course, for this.” She held it out to him.

He hesitated, then, reluctantly, reached out and took it. “What is it?”

“A list of potential candidates for the position you need to fill.” She gave him a moment to cast his eyes over the page. “It’s only a partial list at present—I haven’t had a chance to check with Helena and Horatia yet—but you could start considering these ladies, if there’s any one that stands out…”

He tossed the list on his blotter. “I don’t wish to consider this subject now.”

“You’re going to have to.” She had to get him married so she could escape. “Aside from all else, the grandes dames are staying until Monday, and I have a strong suspicion they expect to hear a declaration from you before they leave.”

“They can go to the devil.”

“The devil wouldn’t have them, as you well know.” She dragged in a breath, reached for patience. “Royce, you know you have to decide on your bride. In the next few days. You know why.” She let her gaze fall to the list before him. “You need to make a start.”

“Not today.” Royce fixed her with a glare, one powerful enough to have her pressing her lips tight against the words he sensed were on her tongue.

The situation…was insupportable. Literally. He felt tense, edgy; his restlessness had developed an undercurrent with which he was familiar—he’d been without a woman too long.

Except he hadn’t. That wasn’t, exactly, the problem. His problem was sitting across his desk wanting to lecture him about the necessity of choosing some mindless ninnyhammer as his bride. As the lady who would share his bed.

Instead of her.

He needed…to get away from her before his temper—or his restlessness, both were equally dangerous—slipped its leash. Before she succeeded in prodding him to that extent. Unfortunately, his friends and their wives had left that morning; he’d wanted to beg them to stay, but hadn’t—they all had young families awaiting them at home, and had been eager to get back.

Devil had left, as well, driving himself down the Great North Road. He wished he could have gone, too; they could have raced each other back to London…except all he wanted, all he now needed, was here, at Wolverstone.

A good part of what he wanted sat across the desk, waiting to see what he was going to do, ready to counter it, to pressure him into making his choice…

He narrowed his eyes on her face. “Why are you so keen to assist the grandes dames in this matter”—he let his voice soften, grow quieter—“even against my wishes?” Eyes locked on hers, he raised his brows. “You’re my chatelaine, are you not?”

She held his gaze, then fractionally, instinctively, raised her chin. “I’m Wolverstone’s chatelaine.”

He was a master interrogator; he knew when he hit a vein. He considered her for a moment, then evenly said, “I am Wolverstone, a fact you haven’t forgotten, so what exactly do you mean?”

Her debating-whether-to-tell-him expression surfaced; he waited, outwardly patient, knowing she’d conclude that she had to.

Eventually, she dragged in a breath. “I made a vow—two vows. Or rather, the same vow twice. Once to your mother before she died, and then before he died, you father asked me for the same promise, which I gave.” Her eyes, a medley of autumn browns, held his. “I promised them I’d see you settled and properly established as the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.”

Minerva waited to hear his response to that—her unarguable excuse for pressing him to follow the grandes dames’ advice and choose a bride forthwith.

From the instant he’d started questioning her, his face—never all that informative—had become impossible to read. His expression was all stone, revealing no hint of his thoughts, much less his feelings.