Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

“No.”

Her lips tightened, but she didn’t press her luck. The drawing room was still comfortably well-populated; he’d thought more people would have left.

For an instant, she stood looking into his eyes, then she glanced around.

Backing down, thank God. He hadn’t realized before how arousing it was to have a lady cross swords with him; no other ever had.

For a moment he stood looking down at her, letting his eyes, his senses, feast, then silently cleared his throat and followed her gaze…“Bloody hell!” he muttered. “They’re all still here.”

“The grandes dames? I did tell you they were staying until Monday.”

“I thought you meant Therese Osbaldestone and maybe Helena and Horatia, not the whole damned pack.”

She glanced at him, then past him. “Regardless, here’s Retford.” She met his eyes briefly. “You have Lady Augusta again, of course.”

“Of. Course.” He bit back the acid comments burning the tip of his tongue; no point expending energy over what he couldn’t change. Besides, while the grandes dames might have stayed on, so, too, had many of his cousins, and some of his sisters’ friends. Two of his uncles and their wives were still there; they’d mentioned they’d be leaving tomorrow.

There were enough gentlemen still present for him to escape with after dinner. Until then, he would deploy his considerable skills in deflecting all inquisition on the subject of his bride.

Locating Lady Augusta, he went to claim her hand.

Royce practiced the art of avoidance throughout the following day. He didn’t disappear, but hid in plain sight.

In the morning, he confounded everyone by joining the group going to church; not one of the grandes dames was devoted to religion. He dallied after the service, chatting to the vicar and various locals, timing his return so that he walked into the castle as the luncheon gong rang.

He played the genial host throughout the informal meal, chatting easily about country pursuits. Considerate host that he was, the instant the platters were cleared he suggested a ride to a local waterfall.

His chatelaine looked at him, but said nothing.

They returned in the late afternoon. He’d managed to keep largely to himself; the others all thought that when he grew quiet, he was brooding over his father’s death. Not grieving—for that, one had to love—but angry over being denied his long-awaited confrontation with his sire.

He walked with the others into the front hall. Seeing no sign of grandes dames—or his chatelaine—he parted from the rest and went up the main stairs, and into the keep.

He headed for his study. No one had mentioned the words “marriage,” “bride,” or “wedding” in his hearing all day; he was feeling sufficiently mellow to wonder if his chatelaine had left him another amended list. If she had, she would have found her second list sitting alongside the first by his blotter. He would read them, but in his own good time, not at the behest of a pack of ladies, even be they grandes dames.

His hand was on the study doorknob, opening the door, before he registered that Jeffers wasn’t at his post. Not that he had to be when Royce wasn’t in the study, but the man had an uncanny sense of when he would be coming to the room. Pushing the door wide, he walked in—

And halted. He’d walked into an ambush.

Seven grandes dames were seated in a semicircle before his desk, the chairs carefully arranged so he hadn’t been able to see them, not until he’d walked too far in to retreat.

Only one lady—Therese Osbaldestone—turned her head to look at him. “Good afternoon, Wolverstone. We’d appreciate it if you would grant us a few minutes of your time.”

No real question, and his title, not his name; stiffly, he inclined his head.

Therese glanced behind the door, to where Jeffers stood with his back to the wall. “You may go.”

Jeffers looked at Royce. He endorsed the order with a curt nod.

As the door closed silently behind Jeffers, Royce walked forward. Slowly. Passing one end of the line of chairs, he rounded the desk, his gaze touching each determined face. Horatia, Helena, Therese, Augusta, Prin

cess Esterhazy, Lady Holland, and Lady Melbourne. Behind the chairs to one side stood Letitia and Minerva.

Combining their various connections, with Letitia representing both the Vaux and Dearne, the group commanded the collective might of the upper echelons of the ton.

These were the ton’s foremost female generals.

He inclined his head. “Ladies.”