Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

Admittedly, every single guest was distracted on his or her own account.

That, however, didn’t explain the pervasive blindness. The truth was, regardless of his pursuit of her, Royce had unfailingly ensured that whenever they were not alone, their interaction projected the image of duke and dutiful chatelaine, and absolutely nothing more. All the guests, and even more his sisters, now had that image firmly fixed in their minds, and blithely ignored anything to the contrary.

Looking over the congregation, she located his dark head. He stood in a group of farmers, most but not all his tenants; as was becoming usual, they were talking and he was listening. Entirely approving, she surveyed the gathering, then went to do her own listening with a group of farmers’ wives.

She left it to him to find her when he was ready to leave. He eventually did, and allowed her to introduce him to the wife of the local constable, and two other ladies. After suitable words had been exchanged, they made their farewells and he strolled beside her down the path to where Henry waited with the curricle and the by now restive blacks.

Curious, she glanced at his face. “You seem to be…” She waggled her head. “Unexpectedly amenable to the ‘letting the locals get to know you’ socializing.”

He shrugged. “I intend to live here for the rest of my life. These are the people I’ll see every day, the ones I’ll be working with, and for. They might want to know more of me, but I definitely need to know more about them.”

She let him hand her into the curricle. While she settled, she pondered his words. His father—

She broke off the thought. If there was one thing she should by now have realized it was that he wasn’t like his father when it came to people. His temper, arrogance, and a great deal more, were very familiar, but his attitudes to others were almost universally different. On some aspects—for instance, children—even diametrically opposed.

They were on the road beyond the village when he said, “Kilworth told me there’s no school in the district, not even at the most elementary level.”

Timorous Mr. Kilworth, the deacon, would never have mentioned such a matter, not unless asked.

“I suppose I should have guessed,” he continued, “but it never occurred to me before.”

She regarded him with something close to fascination—safe enough with his attention focused on his horses as he steered them toward the bridge. “Are you thinking of starting a school here?”

He flicked her a glance. “I’ve heard talk among other peers—there’s an evolving notion that having better educated workers benefits everyone.”

And he’d seen a lot of croft and farm children in recent days.

“I wouldn’t disagree.” His father had—vociferously—when she’d suggested it.

“Any school shouldn’t be solely for the estate families—it needs to be for the district, so we’d need to recruit wider support, but…” He sent the blacks rocketing across the stone bridge. “I think it’s worthwhile pursuing.”

As the horses thundered through the big gates and the wheels rolled more smoothly on the drive, he glanced at her. “Write down any thoughts you have.” His eyes rested on hers. “Once I have the matter of my bride settled, we’ll be able to move forward with that.”

She felt ecstatic on the one hand, unsettled and oddly cast down on the other.

Minerva was given no time to examine her contradictory feelings; she and Royce walked into the castle as the luncheon gong sounded, then during the meal the idea of a fishing expedition upstream along the Coquet was touted, and instantly found favor with all the men.

And all the women, although none had any intention of picking up a rod. But the day was fine, sunny with the barest breath of a breeze, and everyone agreed a walk would do them good.

She was tempted to cry off, to use her duties as an excuse to remain behind and try to untangle her emotions, but Royce paused beside her as the company rose from the table.

He spoke quietly, for her ears only. “Keep an eye on the ladies—make sure the more adventurous don’t attempt to investigate the gorge.”

Inwardly cursing, she nodded. It was just the sort of witless thing some of the ladies present might do, and the gorge was dangerous.

The fishing rods and tackle were stowed in the boathouse by the lake; Royce led the men down to make their choices while the ladies hurried to fetch bonnets, shawls, and parasols.

From the lake, rods over their shoulders, the men followed the path north along the stream. Feeling like a sheepdog, Minerva marshaled the ladies and herded them along the west and north wings and out along the route to the mill.

The men were a little way ahead; some ladies called, waved. The men glanced back, waved, but continued walking.

Among the ladies, Margaret and Caroline Courtney led the way, heads together as they shared secrets. The other ladies walked in twos and threes, chatting as they ambled in the sunshine.

Minerva kept to the rear, ensuring no stragglers got left behind. The men crossed the bridge over the race; the ladies followed.

After passing the mill, the twin parties reached the end of the race where it came off the gorge, and turned north along the gorge. Minerva did, indeed, have to dissuade three ladies from descending into the gorge to investigate the rock pools. “I know you can’t tell from up here, but the rocks are terribly slippery, and the stretches of water are treacherously deep.”

She pointed to where th