Mastered By Love

Twenty

T he next morning, Minerva stood beside Royce as, with the cheers of the crowd for the nine handfasted couples gradually fading, he stepped to the front of the dais from which, earlier, he’d opened the fair.

Quietening, the crowd regarded him expectantly. He let his gaze roam the upturned faces, then said, “Wolverstone, too, has an announcement to make.” He glanced at her, with his gaze drew her closer. His smile was all she would ever hope to see; the undisguised warmth in his eyes held her as, capturing her hand, he raised it to his lips, and in full view of the assembled company, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Miss Chesterton has done me the honor of agreeing to be my duchess.”

He hadn’t spoken loudly, yet his voice carried clearly over the hushed crowd…

The crowd erupted. Cheers, huzzahs, triumphant yells, whoops, and shrieks; noise rose in a wave of unalloyed happiness and washed over the scene. Minerva looked, and saw Hamish and Molly, who they’d found and told earlier, beaming up at them. The castle’s staff were all there-Retford, Cranny, Cook, Jeffers, Milbourne, Lucy, Trevor, and all the rest-all looking fit to burst with pride and joy. Looking further, she saw the faces of many of Wolverstone’s people, all delighted, all thrilled. Saw happy, joyous, pleased expressions, clapping hands, laughter, happy tears. Even those from the house party, scattered here and there among the throng, looked pleased to be part of the upwelling gladness.

Royce held up a hand; the cheers and whistles died. “Our wedding will be held in the church here, in just over three weeks’ time. As many of you know, I returned only recently to take up the reins of the dukedom-in just a few weeks I’ve learned a great deal about what has changed, and what yet needs changing. Just as I’ll make my vows to my duchess, and she to me, together we’ll stand committed to you, to Wolverstone, to forging ahead into our joint future.”

“Wolverstone!” With one voice, the crowd roared its approval. “Wolverstone! Wolverstone!”

Minerva surveyed the sea of happy faces, felt the warmth of their people reaching for them, embracing, buoying; turning her head, she met Royce’s eyes, smiled.

His hand tightened about hers and he smiled back, openly, honestly, his customary shields lowered, for once set aside.

No! No, no, no, no-how could this have happened?

Deep in the crowd, surrounded by, jostled by, the raucous, gibbering throng, all transported with delight over the news of Royce’s wedding, he stood stunned, unable to think-unable to drag his eyes from the picture of Royce and Minerva standing on the dais, lost in each other’s eyes.

Royce was an excellent actor when he wanted to be-he knew that. Minerva could hold her own, too…

He shook his head, wished he could deny what his eyes were telling him. Neither was acting-what he was seeing, what the entire crowd about him was taking in and responding to, was real.

Royce wanted to marry Minerva.

And she wanted to marry him.

She was in love with him-nothing else could account for the softness in her face.

And while Royce couldn’t possibly love her, he definitely cared for her-in a far warmer way than he’d ever have thought possible.

Minerva wasn’t, had never been, just another of Royce’s legion of lovers. She’d been the one, all along-the lady he’d wanted as his wife…

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He ground the words out through clenched teeth, fighting to keep his face a mask of utter blankness.

Their marriage was supposed to be a farce, a travesty-it was supposed to be painful. Instead, all his maneuvering had done was hand Royce precisely what he’d wanted.

He, through Susannah, had been instrumental in giving Royce the last thing he needed to complete the tapestry of an already rich and satisfying existence. He’d been instrumental in giving Royce something he craved, something he treasured…

Suddenly, he knew. Suddenly, he saw.

His features eased.

Then, slowly, he smiled, too.

Increasingly delightedly. He laughed, and clapped Rohan on the back when he passed him in the crowd.

Yes, of course. Now he saw it.

Royce had been the motive, the cause in bringing him his treasure-only then to take it away.

So fitting, then, that he would be the one to give Royce his greatest treasure-so he could return the favor.

Royce had taken his treasure.

Now he would take Royce’s.

That evening, Royce, Minerva, Letitia, Clarice, Penny, and Handley met in the duchess’s morning room. In the wake of the hugely successful fair-made even more notable by the news they’d shared-dinner had been an informal affair. After refreshing themselves, they’d left the relaxed and apparently pleasantly exhausted company downstairs, and retired to address the logistics of a ducal wedding.

While the others settled, Royce, subsiding beside Minerva on one of the sofas, considered his wife-to-be. “Did you say something to the others downstairs? They seem strangely unexercised by our betrothal.”

“I simply explained that Susannah’s intervention was misjudged, and that as your duchess, I would be severely displeased were anyone to paint our betrothal in anything other than the correct light.”

Sinking onto the sofa opposite, Penny chuckled. “It was masterful. She made Susannah’s action appear a childish prank-one of those occurrences that are so excruciatingly awkward that it would be a kindness to Susannah to pretend it never happened.”

Joining Penny on the sofa, Letitia added, “She only had to speak to the ladies-Jack reported that as none of the men were on the battlements, they were very ready to pretend it never happened. But turning the event around so it reflected on Susannah was a master stroke. I would never have thought of it, but it served wonderfully well.”

“No doubt,” Clarice said, settling on the end of the sofa, “your facility comes from having to deal with Variseys for decades.”

“Indeed.” Minerva turned to Royce, met his eyes. “Now, for our wedding.”

Very early that morning, he’d suggested as soon as possible, and been informed that wasn’t in his cards. When he’d grumbled, he’d been further informed, at length, why. “Three weeks, I believe you said?”

Her eyes lit. “Indeed. Three weeks-and we’ll need every minute from now until then.” She looked at Handley, seated before her desk. “What date are we looking at?”

Resigned-and inwardly happier than he’d ever felt in his life-Royce sat back and let them organize; his only task was to approve when applied to, which he duly did. They were the experts. Letitia knew everything about staging events in the ton. Although in semiretirement, Clarice was renowned as a manipulator of ton sentiments. Penny, like Minerva, understood the dynamics of major estates, of country and county, while Minerva knew everything there was to know about Wolverstone and the Variseys.

Together, they made a formidable team. In short order, they had the framework settled.

“So”-Minerva caught Handley’s eye-“the banns will be read over the next three Sundays, and we’ll be married the following Thursday.”

Handley nodded and made a note. “I’ll ask Mr. Cribthorn to call tomorrow.” He glanced at Royce.

“I’ll be here all day. We’ve rather a lot to get into place.” The marriage settlements, among other things. “You’d better summon Montague.”

Handley furiously wrote. “And your solicitors?”

“Yes-them, too.” Royce glanced at Minerva. “I’ve been racking my brains, but can’t find the answer-who will give you away? And as you keep reminding me, this is a ducal union, so who do you want to act for you?”

She blinked. “I’ll have to think about it.” She glanced at Handley. “I’ll give you the names and directions of my agent and solicitor so you can tell Royce’s who to contact.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Various other details were discussed and decided. The announcement for the news sheets completed, Handley left to ferry it to Retford for dispatch.

“The guest list,” Clarice warned, “is going to be the biggest challenge.”

“Just thinking of it makes the mind boggle.” Letitia shook her head. “I thought my second wedding was big, but this…”

“We’ll simply have to be highly selective,” Minerva stated. “Which, to my mind, is no bad thing.” She looked at Penny. “I’m inclined to set the number by the size of the church.”

Penny considered, then shook her head. “You won’t get away with that-not if by that you mean after you’ve accommodated the locals?”

“I did mean that.” Minerva sighed. “So how many do you think?”

She’d wrestled the number down to five hundred when Royce decided he’d heard enough. Five hundred? Rising, he inclined his head. “Ladies, I believe I can leave the details in your capable hands.” He glanced at Minerva. “If you need me, I’ll be in the study, and then later in my apartments.”

Waiting for her.

She smiled. “Yes, of course.”

Smiling himself, he left them.

Minerva watched him go, sensing his inner peace, then, inwardly glowing herself, refocused on her list. “All right-how many do we need to allow for Carlton House?”

An hour later, with the major groups of guests identified and estimated, they called a halt. Retford had already delivered a tea tray; as they sat sipping, Letitia listed the areas they’d covered. “I really don’t think there’s much else we can assist you with, at least not at this time.” She met Minerva’s eyes. “We were thinking of leaving tomorrow at first light.”

“Earlier than all the others, so we won’t get caught up in their chaos,” Penny said.

Clarice studied Minerva. “But if you truly need us, you only have to say.”

She smiled, shook her head. “You’ve been…” She included the other two in her glance. “Immensely helpful, incredibly supportive. I honestly don’t know how I would have got through all this without your help.”

Letitia grinned. “You’d have managed. Given you can-demonstrably-manage your soon-to-be husband, I find it difficult to believe there’s any situation you won’t be able to overcome.”

“I have to ask,” Clarice said. “How did you get him to accept the three weeks so readily? We came prepared with a list of arguments, but you already had him agreeing.”

“He’s very predictable in some ways. I simply pointed out that our marriage should, by rights, be a major local event, and how disappointed everyone on the estate would be to be shortchanged.”

Letitia grinned. “Oh, yes-I can see that would work.” She gave a delighted quiver. “Ooh! You’ve no idea how much good it does to see the master manipulator manipulated.”

“But he knows I’m doing it,” Minerva pointed out.

“Yes, indeed, and that makes it all the more delightful.” Letitia set down her cup. “My dear, is there anything else, anything at all, that we can help you with before we leave?”

Minerva thought, then said, “If you will, answer me this: What moved your husbands to recognize they loved you?”

“You mean what wrung that word from their lips?” Letitia grimaced. “I was dangling from battlements, literally held from Death’s jaws by his grip alone, before he thought to utter the word. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Clarice frowned. “In my case, too, it was after a brush with death-with the iniquitous last traitor’s henchman. Again, not an activity I’d recommend.”

“As I recall,” Penny said, “it was after we assisted Royce in apprehending a murderous French spy. There was a certain amount of life-threatening danger, none of which came to pass, but it opened my eyes, so I declared I would marry him-and then he was quite put out that I hadn’t forced a grand declaration from him. He considered the point obvious, but had convinced himself that I’d claim my due.” She smiled, sipped. “He gave it to me, anyway.” Lowering her cup, she added, “Then again, he’s half French.”

Minerva frowned. “There seems to be a consistent trend with our sort of men.”

Clarice nodded. “They seem to require a life-and-death situation to prod them into listening to their hearts.”

Penny frowned. “But you already know Royce is head-over-ears in love with you, don’t you? It really is rather blatantly obvious.”

“Yes, I know.” Minerva sighed. “I know, you know, even his sisters are starting to see it. But the one person who doesn’t yet know is the tenth Duke of Wolverstone himself. And I honestly don’t know how to open his eyes.”

Three full weeks had come and gone. Sitting in the keep’s breakfast parlor, Royce was quietly amazed; he’d thought the time would drag, but instead, it had flown.

On his left, a sunbeam glinting in her hair, Minerva was engrossed in yet more lists; he smiled, savoring as he did countless times a day the warmth and enfolding comfort of what he mentally termed his new existence.

His life as the tenth Duke of Wolverstone; it would be radically different from that of his father’s, and the cornerstone of that difference was his impending marriage.

Minerva humphed. “Thank heavens Prinny balked at the distance. Accommodating him and his toadies would have been a nightmare.” She glanced up, smiled as Hamilton placed a fresh teapot before her. “We’ll finalize the assignment of rooms this morning-Retford will need a list by noon.”

“Indeed, ma’am. Retford and I have devised a plan of the castle, which will help.”

“Excellent! If you come to the morning room once you’re finished here, that should give me time to finish with Cranny, and check the mail to make sure we have no unexpected additions.” She glanced at Royce. “Unless you need Hamilton?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be finalizing matters with Killsythe this morning.” His solicitors, Killsythe and Killsythe, had finally wrested control of the last legal matters pertaining to the dukedom from Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, so at last such issues were proceeding smoothly. “Incidentally”-with his finger he tapped a missive he’d earlier read-“Montague sent word that all is in place. He was very complimentary about your previous agent’s efforts, but believes he can do better.”

Minerva smiled. “I have high expectations.” Reaching for the teapot, she surveyed the seven lists arrayed before her. “I can barely recall when I last had a chance to think of such mundane things as investments.”

Royce raised his coffee cup, hid a smile. One thing he’d learned about his wife-to-be was that she thrived on challenge. As with his father’s funeral, the principal guests would be accommodated at the castle, as would the majority of both sides of his family, virtually all of whom had sent word they would attend. While he’d been engulfed in legal and business matters, some still pending from his father’s death but most part of the preparation necessary for the execution of the marriage settlements, Minerva’s time had been swallowed up by preparations for the wedding itself.

Hamilton had proved a godsend; after discussions with Minerva and Retford, Royce had summoned him north to act as his personal butler, freeing Retford for the wider castle duties, increased dramatically because of the wedding. As Hamilton was younger and perfectly willing to defer to Retford, the arrangement was working well, to everyone’s benefit.

Royce turned to the social page of yesterday’s Gazette; he’d religiously perused every column inch devoted to their upcoming union ever since the news had broken. Far from being cast in any unflattering light, somewhat to his disgust their wedding was being touted as the romantic event of the year.

“What’s today’s effort like?” Minerva didn’t take her eyes from her lists. When he’d first remarked on the slant all the news sheets had taken, she’d merely said, “I did wonder what they’d do.” She’d been referring to the grandes dames.

Royce perused the five inches of column devoted to their event, then snorted. “This one goes even further. It reads like a fairy tale-wellborn but orphaned beauty slaves for decades as the chatelaine of a ducal castle, then on the death of the crusty old duke, catches the roving eye of said duke’s mysterious exiled son, now her new lord, and a marcher lord at that, but instead of suffering the indignity of a slip on the shoulder, as one might expect, she succeeds in winning the hardened heart of her new duke and ends as his duchess.”

With a sound very like “pshaw,” he tossed the paper on the table. Regarded it with open disgust. “While that might contain elements of the truth, they’ve reduced it to the bizarre.”

Minerva grinned. At one point she’d wondered whether he might realize the fundamental truth underlying the reports-that dissecting news sheet inanity might reveal to him what she and many others already knew of him-but it hadn’t happened. As the days passed, it seemed increasingly likely that nothing less than long, frequent, and deepening exposure to his own emotions was likely to open his eyes.

Eyes that were so sharply observant when trained on anyone and anything else, but when it came to himself, to his inner self, simply did not see.

Sitting back, she considered her own efforts; ducal weddings in the country had to top the list of the most complicated events to manage. He rose to leave; she looked up, pinned him with a direct look. “You’ll need to be available from noon today, and throughout tomorrow and the next day, to greet the more important guests as they arrive.”

He held her gaze, then looked at Jeffers and Hamilton, standing by the wall behind her chair. “Send one of the footmen, one who can recognize crests, up to the battlements with a spyglass.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jeffers hesitated, then added, “If I might suggest, we could send one of the lads to the bridge with a list of those it would be helpful to know are approaching-he could wave a flag. That would be easily seen from the battlements.”

“An excellent idea!” Seeing Royce’s nod, Minerva turned to Hamilton. “Once we’ve done the rooms, you and Retford could make up a list. I’ll check it, then Handley can make copies.” She glanced at Royce, brows rising.

He nodded. “Handley will be with me in the study for most of the day, but he’ll have time in the afternoon to do the lists.”

Minerva smiled. Letitia had been right; there was very little she couldn’t overcome-not with Royce, and the entire household, at her back. There was something intensely satisfying about being the general at the head of the troops; she’d always loved her chatelaine role, but she was going to enjoy being a duchess even more.

Royce’s eyes held hers, then his lips kicked up at the ends. With a last glance, and a salute, he left her. Reaching for her cup, she returned to her lists.

The next morning they tumbled out of his bed early, and together rode up Usway Burn. Against everyone’s but Royce’s expectations, the cottages were nearing completion; after glancing over the improvements, Minerva sat on a bench against the front wall of the largest cottage while Royce made a more detailed inspection, old Macgregor at his elbow.

Of the major projects Royce had approved since he’d taken up the ducal reins, the footbridge over the Coquet had had first call on Hancock’s time. The bridge was now a proper footbridge, raised higher to avoid bores, rebuilt, and properly braced. The cottages had come next, and they were nearly finished; another week would see them done. After that, Hancock and his team would start on the mill-not a moment too soon, but luckily the weather had held, and all the wood and even more importantly the glass had already been procured. The mill would be sealed before winter, which, aside from all the rest, was a great deal more than she’d thought to achieve before his father had died.

She looked up, watched as Royce and Macgregor, deep in discussion, paced slowly across to the cottage on the left. She smiled as they disappeared, then let her mind slide to its present preoccupation.

The first guests, all family, had arrived yesterday. Today, his friends and hers would drive up. He’d chosen Rupert, Miles, Gerald, and Christian as his groomsmen; against that, she’d chosen Letitia, Rose, an old friend Ellen, Lady Am- bervale, and Susannah as her matrons-of-honor. She’d felt obliged to have one of his sisters, and despite Susannah’s idiotic attempt at manipulation, she’d meant well, and Margaret or Aurelia would have been too grim.

All three of his sisters had arrived yesterday; all three were being very careful around her, aware that not only did she now have their all-powerful brother’s ear, she also knew virtually all their secrets. Not that she was likely to do anything with the knowledge, but they didn’t know that.

One part of the guest list that he’d supplied had pleased her enormously; he’d invited eight of his ex-colleagues. From Letitia, Penny, and Clarice she’d heard much about the group-the members of the Bastion Club plus Jack, Lord Hendon, and all their wives; she’d heard that Royce had declined to attend their weddings, and hadn’t been the least surprised to receive instant acceptances from the respective ladies. She suspected they intended to make a point by dancing joyously at his wedding.

Regardless, she was looking forward to meeting them all, those who had been closest to Royce professionally over the last years.

Over the few hours they’d managed to steal for their own-those not spent in his bed-she’d encouraged him to tell her more of the activities that had filled his lost years, those years of his life that had been lost to her, and his parents. After an initial hesitation, he’d gradually relaxed his guard, speaking increasingly freely of various missions, and the numerous threads he’d woven into a net for gathering intelligence, both military and civilian.

He’d described it all well enough for her, knowing him, to see it, feel it, understand how and in what way the activity of those years had impacted on him. He’d admitted he’d killed, in cold blood, not on foreign soil, but here in England. He’d expected her to be shocked, had tensed, but had relaxed, relieved, when, after he’d confirmed such deaths had been essential for national safety, she’d merely blinked, and nodded.

He’d told her of the Bastion Club members’ recent adventures. He’d also told her about the man they’d termed “the last traitor”-the fiend Clarice had mentioned-an Englishman, a gentleman of the ton, most likely someone with a connection to the War Office, who’d betrayed his country for French treasure, and had killed and killed again to escape Royce and his men.

After the war’s end, Royce had lingered in London, pursuing every last avenue in an attempt to learn the last traitor’s identity. He’d cited that as his only failure.

To her relief, he’d clearly put that unfulfilled chase behind him; he spoke of it as history, not a current activity. That he could accept such a failure was reassuring; she knew enough to appreciate that, in a man as powerful as he, knowing when to walk away was a strength, not a weakness.

That over the last weeks he’d talked to her so openly, and in return had elicited from her details of how she’d spent the same years, had left her feeling increasingly confident of the strength that would underpin their marriage-had left her ever more secure in the reality of his love.

A love he, still, could not see.

Emerging from the cottage, he exchanged farewells with Macgregor, shaking the old man’s hand. Turning to her, he met her eyes, arched a brow. “Are you ready?”

She smiled, rose, and gave him her hand. “Yes. Lead on.”

He was back at Wolverstone, under his nemesis’s roof once more. Even though he had to share a room with Rohan, he didn’t care. He was there, close, and invisible among the gathering throng. Everyone could see him, yet no one really could-not the real him. He was hidden, forever concealed.

No one would ever know.

His plans were well advanced, at least in theory. All he had to do now was find the right place to stage his ultimate victory.

It shouldn’t be too hard; the castle was huge, and there were various buildings people paid little attention to dotted through the gardens. He had two days to find the perfect place.

Two days before he would act.

And finally win free of the torment.

Of the black, corrosive fear.

By Wednesday afternoon, the castle was full, literally to the rafters. With so many members of the haut ton attending, the number of visiting servants had stretched the accommodations below stairs-or rather in the attics-to their limit.

“We’ve even put cots in the ironing room,” Trevor told Minerva when she met him in the gallery reverently ferrying a stack of perfectly ironed cravats. “We’ve moved the ironing boards into the laundry-unlikely we’ll be doing much washing over the next two days.”

She grimaced. “At least this time everyone is leaving the next day.”

“Just as well,” Trevor grimly declared. “There’s a limit to how much mayhem one household can withstand.”

She laughed and turned away. In reality the household was managing well, even though the castle was as full as she’d ever known it. Every guest chamber was in use, even the rooms in the keep. The only rooms on that level that had been spared were her morning room, Royce’s sitting room, and the study.

Her morning room. Royce had started calling it that a few weeks ago, and she’d fallen into the habit.

Smiling, she continued around the gallery; it was late afternoon, almost early evening, and the guests were either resting or conversing quietly somewhere before dressing for dinner. For the first time that day, she had the opportunity to draw an unhurried breath.

“Minerva.”

She stopped, turned, a smile already on her lips. Royce stood before the corridor to his apartments; he held out his hand.

There was nothing she had to do at that moment. Or rather…smile deepening, she went to join him.

Her smile mirrored in his eyes, he grasped her hand, turned down the corridor, stopped before the door to the battlements. As before, he released the catch, then let her go up before following.

She walked to the battlements, spread her arms wide and breathed…then turned to face him as he neared. “Just what I needed-fresh and uncrowded air.”

His lips quirked. “The castle’s all but humming with humanity. It’s a living, breathing hive.”

She laughed, swung again to the view, set her hands on the ancient stone of the battlements-and felt as if through the touch they grounded her. She looked out-and saw. Familiar sights, a familiar landscape. “When you brought me up here, and showed me this, and told me that this is what you would share…even though I’d been chatelaine for over a decade, I…it feels different, somehow, now.” His hands slid about her waist; she glanced up and back at his face. “Now I’m to be your duchess.”

Royce nodded; as she looked back at the hills, he dropped a kiss below her ear. “Before you weren’t ultimately responsible-you were still one step removed. But now you’re starting to see the fields as I do.” He lifted his head, looking out over his lands. “You’re starting to feel what I feel when I stand here and look out at my domain-and sense what that really means.”

She leaned back against him. He settled his arms about her, felt her arms, her hands, settle over his.

For a moment, they were silent, seeing, sensing, feeling, then he said, “The message my father left me-that I didn’t need to be like him. You took it to mean the dukedom, and the way I dealt with that. But the more I realize how much like him I am-and therefore how much like me he was-I think-believe-that he meant the comment more widely.”

She tilted her head, listening, but didn’t interrupt.

“I think,” he said, his arms tightening about her, feeling her, a warm, vibrant presence anchoring him, “that in those last minutes, he tried to address the regrets of his life-and from all I’ve learned, how he managed the dukedom wasn’t high on that list. How he lived, I think, was. I think he regretted, to his dying breath, not making the effort to make more of his life-he had chances, but didn’t seize them. Didn’t try to forge more than the usual Varisey life-a life that was handed to him on a silver platter.

“He didn’t try to forge what I’m trying to forge with you. Every day that passes, every hour we spend together, whether alone and looking inward, or dealing with our people, our responsibilities, is like another brick, another section of our foundations solidly laid. We’re building something together that wasn’t here before…I think that’s what he meant. That I didn’t have to follow in his footsteps, didn’t have to marry as he had, didn’t have to turn my back on the chance to build something more, something stronger, more enduring.”

“Something more supportive.” She turned in his arms, looked up at his face, met his eyes. Considered, then nodded. “You might well be right. Thinking back…he’d been waiting to speak to you, rehearsing for weeks, and then…he knew he didn’t have much time.”

“So he said the most important thing.”

She nodded. “He meant life, not just the dukedom.” She hesitated, then said, “I know you never realized, but his breach with you…opened his eyes. You holding firm was the catalyst-that was when he started to change. When he started to think. Your mother noticed, and so did I. He’d never been introspective before.”

His lips quirked, half grimace, half smile. “At least he should feel pleased that, at last, I’ve taken his advice.”

Minerva smiled, warm and deep. “He’d be unbearable-and unbearably proud.”

He raised his brows, deprecatingly skeptical.

The deep bong of a gong floated up from below.

He held her before him, looked down at her face. “I sup pose we should go and dress for dinner.”

She nodded. “Yes, we should.”

He sighed, bent his head and kissed her. Lightly…

Their lips clung, parted reluctantly. He lifted his head just an inch, breathed against her lips, “I don’t suppose we can be late?”

Her hand had remained, splayed against his chest. It firmed. “No. We can’t.”

His sigh as he straightened was a great deal more heartfelt. “At least they’ll all be gone the day after tomorrow.”

She laughed, took his hand, and led him back to the stairs.

“Incidentally, don’t be late tonight.”

Pausing at the head of the stairs, she met his eyes. “Actually, tradition dictates that the bride and groom should spend the night before the wedding apart.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not wedded to tradition-and there’s something I want to give you. Unless you wish to be carried through the gallery again-this time with every room around it occupied-I suggest you find your way to my rooms early rather than late.”

She held his gaze, narrowed her eyes, then, struggling not to smile, humphed and turned down the stairs. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are some Varisey traits you’re very definitely wedded to.”

Inwardly smiling, Royce followed her down the stairs.

“So what was it you wished to give me?” Minerva flicked her hair out of her eyes, struggled to lift her head enough to squint at him. “Or have I just received it?”

Royce laughed. He hugged her briefly, then hauled himself up. “No-there really is something.” He had to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment until blood found its way back to his head, then he rose and crossed to the nearer tallboy. Opening the top drawer, he withdrew the package that had been delivered by special courier earlier that day. Carrying it back to the bed, he laid it on the sheet before her. “From me, to you, on the occasion of our wedding.”

Minerva looked up at him, then, ignoring her unclad state, sat up amid the rumpled covers and eagerly unwrapped the odd-shaped parcel; it was vaguely triangular on one side, falling away…“Oh. My.” The last piece of tissue fell away, leaving her round-eyed. “It’s…fabulous.”

That in no way did justice to the diadem that nestled in the layers of soft paper. Gold filigree of a complexity and fineness she’d never before seen wound its way around the band, rising in the front to support a plethora of…“Diamonds?”

The jewels didn’t wink and blink; they burned with white fire.

“I had the whole cleaned and the stones reset.” Royce dropped back on the bed, looked into her face. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, yes.” Minerva reverently placed her hands around the delicate crown, then lifted it, glanced at him. “Can I put it on?”

“It’s yours.”

Raising her hands, she carefully placed the circlet atop her head. It sank just slightly, fitting neatly above her ears. She moved her head. “It fits.”

His smile deepened. “Perfectly. I thought it would.”

Uncaring of her naked state, she scrambled off the bed, and walked to the other tallboy so she could admire the coronet. The gold was just one shade darker than her hair, presently down and streaming over her bare shoulders.

Turning, she removed the crown; holding it between her hands, she examined it as she returned to the bed. “This isn’t new-the design’s old. Very old.” She glanced at him. “I know it’s not the Wolverstone duchess’s coronet, at least not the one your mother had. Where did you get it?”

He met her eyes. “Prinny.”

“Prinny?” She stared anew at the diadem. “But…this must be worth a small fortune. I can’t imagine him parting with such a thing willingly.”

“He wasn’t exactly willing, but…I consider it ironically fitting that having pressured me into finding my bride, he should provide her wedding crown.”

She sank back on the bed, carefully settling the crown back in its paper nest. “Irony aside, cut line-how and why did he come to give you such a thing?”

Royce stretched out on his back, crossed his arms behind his head. “You remember I told you about the treasure the last traitor had acquired from the French authorities?”

She nodded. “His payment for spying.”

“Exactly. Not all of it was recovered from the wreck of the smuggling ship bringing it to England, but some pieces were found-among them, that crown. When the authorities matched it to the list of antiquities the French were missing, they discovered it was, in fact, Varisey property.” He met her startled gaze. “It was made for one Hugo Varisey in the fifteen hundreds. It remained in the hands of the principal line of the family in France, until it fell into the hands of the revolutionary authorities. Thereafter it was considered property of the French state-until it was given in exchange for information to our last traitor-who we know is an Englishman. Now the war is over, the French, of course, want the crown back, but the government in Whitehall see no reason to hand it over. However, to end any discussion, and as it was felt I was owed some recognition for my service, they had Prinny present it to me-the head of the only branch of the Varisey family still extant.”

She smiled. “So Prinny really had no choice?”

“I daresay he protested, but no.” Royce watched as she carefully lifted the crown in its papers. “That’s now mine-the oldest piece of Varisey family jewelry-and I’m gifting it to you.”

Minerva set crown and papers on the bedside table, then turned and crawled back to him, a smile of explicit promise curving her lips. Reaching him, she framed his face and kissed him-long, lingeringly-as she slowly slid one leg over him. When she lifted her head, she was straddling him. “Thank you.” Her smile deepened as she looked into his eyes. “And that’s just the beginning of my thanks.”

He looked back at her with open anticipation-and something very close to challenge. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He settled back. “Feel free.”

She did-free to thank him to the top of her bent.

Later, when she lay pleasantly exhausted beside him, pleasured to her toes, she murmured, “You know, if it hadn’t been for Prinny and his machinations…”

Royce thought, then shook his head. “No. Even if I’d taken longer to realize, I would still have set my heart on you.”

Everything was ready. He’d found the right spot, worked through every detail of his plan. Nothing would go wrong.

Tomorrow would be his triumph. Tomorrow would see him win.

Tomorrow he’d break Royce.

And then he’d kill him.