Mastered By Love

Three

At nine the next morning, Royce sat at the head of the table in the breakfast parlor, and, alone, broke his fast. He’d slept better than he’d expected-deeply, if not dreamlessly-and his dreams hadn’t been of his past, but rather fantasies that would never come to be.

All had featured his chatelaine.

If not always entirely naked, then at least less than clothed.

He’d woken to discover Trevor crossing the bedroom, ferrying hot water to the bathing chamber beyond. The keep had been built in an era when keeping doors to a minimum had been a wise defense; clearly knocking a door between the corridor and his dressing room and bathing chamber was an urgent necessity. He’d made a mental note to tell his chatelaine.

He’d wondered if she would ask why.

While he’d lain back and waited for the inevitable effect of his last dream to fade, he’d rehearsed various answers.

He’d walked into the breakfast parlor with a keen sense of anticipation, disappointingly doused when, despite the late hour, she hadn’t been there.

Perhaps she was one of those females who breakfasted on tea and toast in her room.

Curbing his misplaced curiosity about his chatelaine’s habits, he’d sat and allowed Retford to serve him, determinedly suppressing a query as to her whereabouts.

He was working his way through a plate of ham and sausages when the object of his obsession swept in-gowned in a gold velvet riding habit worn over a black silk blouse with a black ribbon tied above one elbow and a black riding hat perched atop her golden head.

Wisps of hair had escaped her chignon, creating a fine nimbus beneath the hat. Her cheeks glowed with sheer vitality.

She saw him and smiled, halting and briskly tugging off her gloves. A crop was tucked under one arm. “Two demon-bred black horses have arrived in the stables with Henry. I recognized him, amazingly enough. The entire stable staff are milling about, fighting to lend a hand to get your beasts settled.” She arched a brow at him. “How many more horses should we expect?”

He chewed slowly, then swallowed. She enjoyed riding, he recalled; there was a taut litheness to her form as she stood poised just inside the door, as if her body were still thrumming to the beat of hooves, as if the energy stirred by the ride still coursed her veins.

The sight of her stirred him to an uncomfortable degree.

What had she asked? He raised his eyes to hers. “None.”

“None?” She stared at him. “What did you ride in London? A hired hack?”

Her tone colored the last words as utterly unthinkable-which they were.

“The only activities one can indulge in on horseback in the capital don’t, in my book, qualify as riding.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s true.” She studied him for a moment.

He returned his attention to his plate. She was debating whether to tell him something; he’d already learned what that particular, assessing look meant.

“So you’ve no horse of your own. Well, except old Conqueror.”

He looked up. “He’s still alive?” Conqueror had been his horse at the time he’d been banished, a powerful gray stallion just two years old.

She nodded. “No one else could ride him, so he was put to stud. He’s more gray than ever now, but he still plods around with his mares.” Again she hesitated, then made up her mind. “There’s one of Conqueror’s offspring, another stallion. Sword’s three years old now, but while he’s broken to the bit, he refuses to be ridden-well, not for long.” She met his eyes. “You might like to try.”

With a brilliant smile-she knew she’d just delivered a challenge he wouldn’t be able to resist-she swung around and left the room.

Leaving him thinking-yet again-of another ride he wouldn’t mind attempting.

“So, Falwell, there’s nothing urgently requiring attention on the estate?” Royce addressed the question to his steward, who after wrinkling his brow and dourly pondering, eventually nodded.

“I would say, Your Grace, that while there might be the usual minor details to be attended to here and there, there is nothing outstanding that leaps to mind as necessary to be done in the next few months.” Falwell was sixty if he was a day; a quietly spoken, rather colorless individual, he bobbed his head all but constantly-making Royce wonder if he’d developed the habit in response to his sire’s blustering aggression.

Seeming to always agree, even if he didn’t.

Both steward and agent had responded to his summons, and were seated before the study desk while he attempted what was rapidly becoming a hostile interrogation. Not that they were hostile, but he was feeling increasingly so.

Suppressing his incipient frown, he attempted to tease some better understanding from them. “It’ll be winter in a few months, and then we won’t be able to attend to anything of a structural nature until March, or more likely April.” He found it difficult to believe that among all the buildings and outbuildings, nothing needed repairing. He turned his gaze on his agent. “And what of the holdings? Kelso?”

The agent was of similar vintage to Falwell, but a much harder, leaner, grizzled man. He was, however, equally dour.

“Nothing urgent that needs castle intervention, Y’r Grace.”

They’d used the phrase “castle intervention” several times, apparently meaning assistance from the ducal coffers. But they were talking of barns, fences, and cottages on his lands that belonged to the estate and were provided to tenant farmers in exchange for their labor and the major portion of the crops. Royce allowed his frown to show. “What about situations that don’t require ‘castle intervention’? Are there any repairs or work of any kind urgently needed there?” His tone had grown more precise, his diction more clipped.

They exchanged glances-almost as if the question had confused them. He was getting a very bad feeling here. His father had been old-fashioned in a blanket sense, the quintessential marcher lord of yore; he had a growing suspicion he was about to step into a briar patch of old ways he was going to find it difficult to live within.

Not without being constantly pricked.

“Well,” Kelso eventually said, “there’s the matter of the cottages up Usway Burn, but your father was clear that that was for the tenants to fix. And if they didn’t fix things by next spring, he was of a mind to demolish the cottages and plow the area under for more corn, corn prices being what they are.”

“Actually,” Falwell took up the tale, “your late father would have, indeed should have, reclaimed the land for corn this summer-both Kelso and I advised it. But I fear”-Falwell shook his head, primly condescending-“Miss Chesterton intervened. Her ideas are really not to be recommended-if the estate were to constantly step in in such matters we’d be forever fixing every little thing-but I believe your late father felt…constrained, given Miss Chesterton’s position, to at least give the appearance of considering her views.”

Kelso snorted. “Fond of her, he was. Only time in all the years I served him that he didn’t do what was best for the estate.”

“Your late father had a sound grasp of what was due the estate, and the tenants’ obligations in that regard.” Falwell smiled thinly. “I’m sure you won’t wish to deviate from that successful, and indeed traditional, path.”

Royce eyed the pair of them-and was perfectly sure he needed more information, and-damn it!-he’d need to consult his chatelaine to get it. “I can assure you that any decisions I make will be guided by what is best for the estate. As for these cottages”-he glanced from one man to the other-“I take it that’s the only outstanding situation of that ilk?”

“As far as I’m aware, Y’r Grace.” Kelso paused, then added, “If there are other matters requiring attention, they’ve yet to be brought to my notice.”

Royce fought not to narrow his eyes; Kelso knew, or at least suspected, that there were other repairs or rectification needed, but the estate people weren’t bringing them to him. He pushed back from the desk. “I won’t be making any decisions until I’ve had time to acquaint myself with the details.”

He rose; both men quickly came to their feet. “I’ll send word when next I wish to see you.”

There was enough steel in his tone to have both men murmur in acquiescence, bow low, and, without protest, head for the door, even though Falwell had earlier informed him that his father had met with them on the first Monday of every month. For Royce’s money, that was far too infrequently. His father might not have needed more frequent meetings, but information was something he couldn’t function, hated trying to function, without.

He stood staring at the door long after the pairs’ retreating footsteps had faded. He’d hoped they would provide a bulwark between him and his chatelaine in all matters pertaining to the estate, yet after speaking with them for an hour, he wasn’t prepared to accept their views as being the full story on any subject. Certainly not on the Usway Burn cottages.

He wondered what Minerva’s views were-and why his father, who’d never doted on another in his life, much less changed his behavior to appease someone, had seen fit to, because of her ideas, stay his hand.

He’d have to ask her.

Seeing his plan to keep her at a distance crumble to dust, he couldn’t hold back a growl. Swinging around the desk, he headed for the door. Jerking it open, he stepped out, startling Jeffers, who snapped to attention.

“If anyone should ask, I’ve gone riding.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Before eliciting his chatelaine’s advice about the cottages, he’d test her advice about the horse.

She’d been right.

Incontestably right. Thundering over the gently rolling landscape, letting the gray stallion have his head, he felt the air rush past his face, felt an exhilaration he’d missed shooting down his veins, sensed all around him the hills and fields of home racing past at a madman’s pace-and blessed her insightfulness.

His father had been an excellent horseman, but had never had the patience for a mount with a mind of its own. He, on the other hand, enjoyed the challenge of making a compact with a horse, persuading it that it was in its best interests to carry him-so that together they could fly before the wind.

Sword was now his. He would carry him whenever and wherever he wished simply for a chance to run like this. Without restriction, without restraint, flying over fences, leaping rocks and burns, careening between the hills on their way to the breeding fields.

On leaving the study, he’d stridden straight for the stables and asked Milbourne for the stallion. On hearing he intended to ride the recalcitrant beast, Milbourne and Henry had accompanied him to the paddock at the rear of the castle’s holding fields. They’d watched him work the stallion, patient yet demanding; the pair had grinned delightedly when Sword had finally trotted all around the paddock with Royce on his back, then Royce had put the horse at the barred gate and sailed over to their cheers.

As he’d told Minerva, he hadn’t kept a horse in London. When he’d visited friends in the country, he’d ridden mounts they’d provided, but none had been of the ilk of Sword-a heavy hunter fully up to his weight, strong, solid, yet fleet of foot. His thighs gripping the stallion’s wide barrel, he rode primarily with hands and knees, the reins lying lax, there only if needed.

Despite his lack of experience, Sword had all but instantly picked up Royce’s directions, almost certainly because Royce was strong enough to impress them on him clearly. But that took focused strength and concentration, an awareness of the horse and its inclination that few riders possessed; by the time the breeding fields came into view, Royce was no longer surprised that not even Milbourne had been able to ride the stallion.

Grasping the reins, he let Sword feel the bit, slowing him by degrees, until they were trotting.

He wanted to see Conqueror; he didn’t know why. He wasn’t a sentimental man, yet the memories stirred through riding his old mount’s son had driven him there. Standing in his stirrups, he scanned the wide field, then heard a distant but soft trumpet; Sword answered with a snort and picked up his pace.

A group of horses emerged from a fold in the land, trotting, then galloping toward the fence.

Conqueror was in the lead. Much the same size as his son, yet heavier with age, the big gray slowed, ears flicking back and forth as he eyed Royce.

Halting Sword by the fence, Royce leaned over and held out his hand, a dried apple on his palm. “Here, boy.”

Conqueror whinnied and came forward, lipped the apple from Royce’s palm, chewed, then leaned over the rail and-ignoring his son-butted Royce.

He grinned, patting the great head. “Remember me, do you?”

Conqueror shook his head, mane dancing, then he noticed Sword’s interest in the mares who’d followed him to the fence.

With a thunderous snort, Conqueror moved forward, pushing the mares away, herding them back.

Put in his place-second to Conqueror’s harem-Royce sat and watched the small herd move away.

Settling back in the saddle, he patted Sword’s sleek neck, then looked around. They were high on the rise of Castle Hill, north of the castle; looking down the valley, he could see the massive bulk of his home bathed in bright sunlight. It was barely noon.

Turning, he traced the valley northward, picking out the brown track of Clennell Street as it wound its way up through the hills. Temptation whispered.

He hadn’t made any appointments for the afternoon.

The restlessness that had plagued him even from before he’d learned of his father’s death, brought on, he suspected, by having to end Dalziel’s reign while having no alternative life organized and waiting, then compounded by being thrust unprepared into the ducal harness, still roiled and churned inside, rising up at odd moments to distract and taunt him.

To unexpectedly undermine his natural Varisey confidence, and leave him uncertain.

Not a feeling he’d ever liked, and, at thirty-seven, one that irked. Mightily.

He glanced at Sword, then flicked the reins. “We’ve time enough to escape.”

Urging the gray forward, he set course for the border and Scotland beyond.

He’d said he’d deal with O’Loughlin.

Royce found the farmhouse easily enough-the hills didn’t change-but what had changed was the farmhouse itself. When last he’d seen it, it had been little more than a crofter’s cottage with a lean-to barn alongside. Extended and refashioned, long and low, faced with rough-cut stone, thick timbers and with good slate on the roof, the house-now definitely a farmhouse-appeared warm and quietly prosperous, nestling back against a protecting rise, with a new, good-sized barn to one side.

A low stone wall circled the yard; as Royce walked the tiring Sword through the opening, a dog started barking.

Sword shifted, skittered.

The dog was chained inside the open barn door.

Drawing rein, Royce halted and sat patiently waiting for his calm, his lack of reaction, to sink in; once Sword had noticed and quieted, he dismounted.

Just as the farmhouse door opened and a mountain of a man strode out.

Royce met his half brother’s blue eyes; other than their height and the width of their shoulders, the only physical resemblance lay in the set of their eyes, nose, and chin. Hamish’s brown curls were starting to gray, but otherwise he seemed in his usual rude health. Royce smiled and stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Hamish.”

His hand was engulfed, and then so was he, hauled into one of his half brother’s bear hugs.

“Ro!” Hamish released him with a cuff to the back that-if he hadn’t been expecting it-would have made Royce stagger. Grabbing his shoulders, Hamish searched his face. “Regardless of the reason, it’s damned good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.” Hamish released him and Royce glanced at the hills, at the view across their peaks to Windy Gyle. “I knew I missed it-I hadn’t realized by how much.”

“Och, well, you’re back now, even if it took the old bastard dying to do it.”

“The old bastard” was Hamish’s way of referring to their father, not an insult, but a term of affection.

Royce’s lips twisted. “Yes, well, he’s gone, which is one reason I’m here. There are things-”

“To talk about-but after you’ve come in an’ met Molly and the bairns.” Hamish glanced at the barn, then pointed at a small face peeking out. “Hoi-Dickon! Come and see to this horse…” Hamish glanced at Sword, shifting nervously at the end of the rein.

Royce smiled. “I think I’d better help Dickon.”

Hamish trailed alongside as Royce led Sword to the barn. “Isn’t this the stallion that wouldn’t let the old bastard ride him?”

“So I’ve heard. I didn’t have a horse, so now he’s mine.”

“Aye, well, you always had the right touch with the headstrong ones.”

Royce smiled at the boy waiting by the barn door; Hamish’s blue eyes stared back at him. “This isn’t one I’ve met before.”

“Nah.” Halting beside the lad, Hamish ruffled his hair. “This one came while you were away.” He looked down at the boy, who was regarding Royce with wide eyes. “This here’s the new duke, lad-you call him Wolverstone.”

The boy’s eyes switched to his father. “Not ‘the old bastard’?”

Royce laughed. “No-but if there’s no one else about but family, you can call me Uncle Ro.”

While Royce and Dickon settled Sword in an empty stall, Hamish leaned on the wall and brought Royce up to date with the O’Loughlins. When Royce had last been at Wolverstone, Hamish, two years older than he, had had two young “bairns” through the occasional letters they’d exchanged, Royce knew Hamish was now the proud father of four, Dickon at ten being the third.

Leaving the barn, they crossed the yard and entered the house; both Hamish and Royce had to duck beneath the low lintel.

“Hi, Moll!” Hamish led the way into a large parlor. “Come see who’s here.”

A short, rotund woman-more rotund than Royce remembered her-came bustling in from the kitchen beyond, wiping her hands on her apron. Bright blue eyes were set in a sweet round face beneath a shock of coppery red curls. “Really, Hamish, as if that’s any way to summon me. Anyone would think you were a heathen-” Her eyes lit on Royce and she halted. Then she shrieked-making both men wince-and flung herself at Royce.

He caught her, laughed as she hugged him wildly.

“Royce, Royce!” She tried to shake him, an impossibility for her, then looked up into his face, beaming delightedly. “It’s so good to see you back.”

His own smile widened. “It’s good to be back, Moll.” He was increasingly realizing how true that was, how deep within him the feeling of coming home reached. Touched. “You’re looking as fetching as ever. And you’ve expanded the family since last I was here.”

“Och, aye.” Molly sent a mock-glare Hamish’s way. “Himself got busy, you might say.” Face softening, she looked at Royce. “You’ll stay to lunch, won’t you?”

He did. There was thick soup, mutton stew, and bread, followed by cheese and ale. He sat at the long table in the warm kitchen, redolent with succulent aromas and filled with constant babble, and marveled at Hamish’s children.

Heather, the eldest, a buxom seventeen, had been a tiny tot when he’d last seen her, while Robert, sixteen and bidding fair to be as large as Hamish, had been a babe in arms, with Molly barely recovered from the birthing. Dickon was next in age, then came Georgia, who at seven looked very like Molly and seemed equally feisty.

As they’d taken their seats, the four had regarded him with wide eyes, as if drinking him in with their confident candid gazes-a combination of Hamish’s shrewdness and Molly’s openheartedness-then Molly had set the soup on the table and their attention had shifted; they’d thereafter blithely treated him as family, as “Uncle Ro.”

Listening to their chatter, to Robert reporting to Hamish on the sheep in some field, and Heather telling Molly about a chicken gone broody, Royce couldn’t help but register how comfortable he felt with them. In contrast, he’d be hard-pressed to name his legitimate sisters’ offspring.

When his father had banished him from all Wolverstone domains and banned all communication with him, his sisters had fallen in with his father’s wishes. Even though all three had been married and mistresses of their own establishments, they’d made no move to stay in touch, not even by letter. If they had, he would have at least corresponded, because he’d always known this day would come-when he was the head of the family, and in charge of the dukedom’s coffers, on which his sisters still drew, and, through them, their children did, too.

Like everyone else, his sisters had assumed the situation wouldn’t last long. Certainly not for sixteen years.

He’d kept a list of his nephews and nieces culled from birth notices in the Gazette, but in the rush had left it in London; he hoped Handley would remember it.

“But when did you get to the castle?” Molly fixed her bright gaze on him.

“Yesterday morning.”

“Aye, well, I’m sure Miss Chesterton will have everything in hand.”

He noted Molly’s approval. “You know her?”

“She comes up here to discuss things with Hamish now and then. Always takes tea with us-she’s a proper lady in every way. I imagine she’ll have everything running smoothly as usual.” Molly fixed her eyes on his face. “Have you decided when the funeral will be?”

“Friday next week.” He glanced at Hamish. “Given the ton’s inevitable interest, that was the earliest.” He paused, then asked, “Will you come?”

“Moll and I will come to the church.” Hamish exchanged a glance with Molly, who nodded, then he looked at Royce and grinned. “But you’ll have to manage on your own at the wake.”

Royce sighed. “I had hoped presenting them with a Scottish giant might distract them. Now I’ll have to think of something else.”

“Nah-I should think you yourself, the prodigal son returned, will be distraction enough.”

“That,” Royce said, “was my point.”

Hamish chortled and they let the matter slide; Royce steered the conversation to local farming conditions and the upcoming harvest. Hamish had his pride, something Royce respected; his half brother had never set foot inside the castle.

As he’d expected, on the subject of farming he got more pertinent information from Hamish than from his own steward and agent; the farms in the area were scraping by, but were not exactly thriving.

Hamish himself was faring rather better. He held his lands freehold; his mother had been the only daughter of a freeholder. She’d married later in life, and Hamish had been her only child. He’d inherited the farm from her, and with the stipend his father had settled on him, had had the capital to expand and improve his stock; he was now a well-established sheep farmer.

At the end of the meal, Royce thanked Molly, bussed her cheek, then, following Hamish, snagged an apple from the bowl on the dresser, and they took their talk outside.

They sat on the stone wall, feet dangling, and looked across the hills. “Your stipend continues to your death, but you knew that.” Royce took a bite of his apple; it crunched sharply.

“Aye.” Hamish settled beside him. “So how did he die?”

“Minerva Chesterton was with him.” Royce related what she’d told him.

“Have you managed to contact all the others?”

“Minerva’s written to the girls-they’re all on one or other of the estates. That’s eleven of the fifteen.” His father had sired fifteen illegitimate children on maids, tavern wenches, farm and village lasses; for some reason he’d always drawn his lovers from the local lower orders. “The other three men are in the navy-I’ll write to them. Not that his death materially changes anything.”

“Aye, still, they’ll need to know.” Hamish eyed him for a moment, then asked, “So, are you going to be like him?”

Tossing away his apple core, Royce slanted him a narrow-eyed glance. “In what way?”

Unabashed, Hamish grinned. “In exactly the way you thought I meant. Are you going to have every farmer in the region locking up his daughters?”

Royce snorted. “Definitely not my style.”

“Aye, well.” Hamish tugged at one earlobe. “Never was mine, either.” For a moment they dwelled on their sire’s sexual proclivities, then Hamish went on, “It was almost as if he saw himself as one of the old marcher lords, royal perquisites and all. Within his domains, he saw, he wanted, he took-not, as I heard it, that any of the lasses resisted all that much. M’ mother certainly didn’t. Told me she never regretted it-her time with him.”

Royce smiled. “She was talking about you, you daft beggar. If she hadn’t spent that time with him, she wouldn’t have had you.”

“P’rhaps. But even in her last years, she used to get a wistful look in her eye whenever she spoke of him.”

Another moment passed, then Royce said, “At least he looked after them.”

Hamish nodded.

They sat for a time, drinking in the ever-changing views, the play of light over the hills and valleys, the shifting hues as the sun edged to the west, then Hamish stirred and looked at Royce. “So, will you be mostly at the castle, then, or will London and the sassenach ladies lure you south?”

“No. In that respect I’ll be following in his footsteps. I’ll live at the castle except when duty to the estate, family or the Lords calls me south.” He frowned. “Speaking of living here, what have you heard of the castle’s agent, Kelso, or the steward, Falwell?”

Hamish shrugged. “They’ve been your father’s eyes and ears for decades. Both are…well, not quite local anymore. They live in Harbottle, not on the estate, which causes some difficulty. Both were born on the estate, but moved to the town years ago, and for some reason your father didn’t object-suspect he thought they’d still know the land. Not something you forget all that easily, after all.”

“No, but things, conditions, change. Attitudes change, too.”

“Och, well, you’ll not get those two changing anything in a hurry. Right set in their ways-which I always supposed was why they suited the old bastard so well. Right set in his ways, he was.”

“Indeed.” After a moment of reflecting on his sire’s resistance to change, and how deep that had gone, Royce admitted, “I might have to replace them-retire them-both, but I won’t know until I’ve had a chance to get out and about and assess matters for myself.”

“If it’s information on the estate you need, your chatelaine can fill you in. Minerva’s the one everyone goes to if there’s a problem. Most have grown weary-in fact, wary-of going to Falwell or Kelso. Like as not, if they make a complaint, either nothing gets done, or the wrong thing-something worse that wasn’t intended-happens.”

Royce leveled a direct look at Hamish. “That doesn’t sound good.”

It was a question, one Hamish understood. “Aye, well, you’d written that you’d be giving up that commission of yours, and I knew you’d come home-didn’t think there was any need to write and tell you how things were not going quite so well. I knew you’d see it once you got back, and Minerva Chesterton was doing well enough holding the fort.” He shrugged his massive shoulders; they both looked south, over the peaks toward Wolverstone. “It might be not the done thing for me to say this, but perhaps it’s as well that he’s gone. Now you’ve got the reins, and it’s more than time for a new broom.”

Royce would have smiled at the mixed metaphor, but what they were discussing was too serious. He stared in the direction in which his responsibilities, growing weightier by the hour, lay, then he slid from the wall. “I should go.”

Hamish paced alongside as he went to the barn and saddled Sword, then swung up to the saddle and walked the big gray into the yard.

Halting, he held out his hand.

Hamish clasped it. “We’ll see you Friday at the church. If you get caught having to make a decision about something on the estate, you can rely on Minerva Chesterton’s opinion. People trust her, and respect her judgment-whatever she advises will be accepted by your tenants and workers.”

Royce nodded; inwardly he grimaced. “That’s what I thought.”

What he’d feared.

He saluted, then flicked the reins, and set Sword for Clennell Street and Wolverstone.

Home.

He’d torn himself away from the peace of the hills…only to discover when he rode into the castle stables that his sisters-all three of them, together with their husbands-had arrived.

Jaw set, he stalked toward the house; his sisters could wait-he needed to see Minerva.

Hamish’s confirmation that she was, indeed, the current champion of the estate’s well-being left him with little choice. He was going to have to rely on her, spend hours gleaning everything he could about the estate from her, ride out with her so she could show him what was going on-in short, spend far more time with her than he wished.

Than was wise.

Entering the house by the side door, he heard a commotion ahead, filling the cavernous front hall, and steeled himself. Felt his temper ratchet up another notch.

His elder sisters, Margaret, Countess of Orkney, and Aurelia, Countess of Morpeth, had agreed, implicitly if not explicitly, with his father over his erstwhile occupation; they’d supported his banishment. But he’d never got on well with either of them; at best he tolerated them, and they ignored him.

He was, always had been, much closer to his younger sister, Susannah, Viscountess Darby. She hadn’t agreed or disagreed with his banishment; no one had asked her, no one would have listened to her, so she’d wisely kept her mouth shut. He hadn’t been surprised about that. What had surprised, even hurt a trifle, was that she’d never sought to contact him over the past sixteen years.

Then again, Susannah was fickle; he’d known that even when they’d been much younger.

Nearing the hall, he changed his stride, letting his boot heels strike the floor. The instant he stepped onto the marble tiles of the hall, his footsteps rang out, effectively silencing the clamor.

Silks swooshed as his sisters whirled to face him. They looked like birds of prey in their weeds, their veils thrown back over their dark hair.

He paused, studying them with an impersonal curiosity. They’d aged; Margaret was forty-two, a tall, commanding dark-haired despot with lines starting to score her cheeks and brow. Aurelia, forty-one, was shorter, fairer, brown-haired, and from the set of her lips looked to have grown even more severely disapproving with the years. Susannah…had made a better fist of growing older; she was thirty-three, four years younger than Royce, but her dark hair was up in a confec tion of curls, and her gown, although regulation black, was stylishly fashionable. From a distance, she might pass for an adult daughter of either of her elder sisters.

Imagining how well that thought would go down, he looked back at the older two, and realized they were struggling with the fraught question of how to address him now he was the duke, and no longer simply their younger brother.

Margaret drew in a huge breath, breasts rising portentously, then swept forward. “There you are, Royce!” Her chiding tone made it clear he should have been dutifully awaiting their arrival. She raised a hand as she neared-intending to grip his arm and shake it, as had been her habit when trying to make him do something. “I-”

She broke off-because he’d caught her eye. Breath strangling in her throat, she halted, hand in the air, faintly shocked.

Aurelia bobbed a curtsy-a perfunctory one not nearly deep enough-and came forward more cautiously. “A dreadful business. It’s been a very great shock.”

No “How are you?” No “How have you been these last sixteen years?”

“Of course, it’s been a shock.” Susannah strolled up. She met his eyes. ”And I daresay it was an even bigger shock for you, all things considered.” Reaching him, she smiled, stretched up, and kissed his cheek. “Welcome home.”

That, at least, had been genuine. He nodded to her. “Thank you.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the other two exchange an irritated glance. He scanned the sea of footmen sorting through the piles of boxes and trunks, preparing to cart them upstairs, saw Retford look his way, but he was searching for Minerva.

He found her in the center of the melee, talking to his brothers-in-law. She met his eyes; the men turned, saw him looking their way, and came to greet him.

With an easy smile, Peter, Earl of Orkney, held out his hand. “Royce. It’s good to see you again.”

Stepping forward, he grasped Peter’s hand, responding equally smoothly, then stepped still farther from his sisters to shake hands with David, Aurelia’s husband, and lastly to exchange a pleasant greeting with Hubert, Viscount Darby-wondering, as he always did when faced with Hubert, why Susannah had married the faintly bumbling, ineffably good-natured fop. It could only have been for his fortune. That, and his willingness to allow Susannah to do whatever she pleased.

His maneuvering had brought him to Minerva’s side. He caught her eye. “I take it everyone’s rooms are organized?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Retford, who nodded. “Everything’s in hand.”

“Excellent.” He looked at his brothers-in-law. “If you’ll excuse us, my chatelaine and I have estate business to attend to.”

He nodded to them; they inclined their heads in reply, turning away.

But before he could turn and head up the stairs, Margaret stepped forward. “But we’ve only just got here!”

He met her gaze. “Indeed. No doubt you’ll need to rest and refresh yourselves. I’ll see you at dinner.”

With that, he turned and climbed the stairs, ignoring Margaret’s gasp of outrage. An instant later, he heard Minerva’s slippers pattering up behind him and slowed; one glance at her face as she drew level was enough to tell him she disapproved of his brusqueness.

Wisely, she said nothing.

But on reaching the gallery, she halted a footman heading downstairs. “Tell Retford to offer afternoon tea to the ladies, and the gentlemen, too, if they wish, in the drawing room. Or if the gentlemen prefer, there are spirits in the library.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a bow, the footman hurried on.

She turned to him, eyes narrow, lips compressed. “Your sisters are going to be trying enough as it is-you don’t need to goad them.”

“Me? Goad them?”

“I know they’re irritating, but they always are. You used to be much better at ignoring them.”

He reached the study door and opened it. “That was before I was Wolverstone.”

Minerva frowned as she followed him into the study, leaving it to Jeffers, who’d trailed behind them upstairs, to close the door. “I suppose that’s true. Margaret will undoubtedly try to manage you.”

Dropping into the chair behind the desk, he flashed her a smile that was all teeth. “She’s welcome to try. She won’t succeed.”

She sank into her usual chair. “I suspect she’s guessed that.”

“One can only hope.” He fixed her with a gaze that, despite its distractingly rich darkness, was surprisingly sharp. “Tell me about the cottages up Usway Burn.”

“Ah-your meeting with Falwell and Kelso. Did they tell you the cottages should be demolished?”

When he nodded, she drew breath, then hesitated.

His lips thinned. “Minerva, I don’t need you to be polite, or politic, and certainly not self-effacing. I need you to tell me the truth, your conclusions, including your suspicions-and most especially your thoughts on how the estate people feel and think.” He hesitated, then went on, “I’ve already realized I can’t rely on Falwell or Kelso. I plan to retire them-pension them off with thanks-as soon as I can find suitable replacements.”

She exhaled. “That’s…welcome news. Even your father had realized their advice wasn’t getting him the results he wanted.”

“I assume that’s why he held off doing as they suggested over these cottages?” When she nodded, he ordered, “Tell me-from the beginning.”

“I’m not sure when the problems started-more than three years ago, at least. I didn’t start working alongside your father until after your mother died, so my knowledge starts from then.” She drew breath. “I suspect Kelso, backed by Falwell, had decided, more than three years ago, that old Macgregor and his sons-they hold the Usway Burn farm and live in the cottages-were more trouble than they’re worth, and that letting the cottages fall down, then plowing them under, thus increasing the acreage, then letting that land to other tenants to farm, was a preferable option to repairing the cottages.”

“You disagree.” No question; he steepled his fingers before his face, his dark eyes never moving from hers.

She nodded. “The Macgregors have farmed that land since before the Conquest-as far as I can make out, literally. Evicting them will cause a lot of disquiet on the estate-along the lines of, if it could happen to them, who’s safe? That’s not something we need in these already uncertain times. In addition, the issues aren’t as straightforward as Falwell makes out. Under the tenancy agreement, repair of damage from the wear and tear of use falls to the tenant, but structural work, repairs to the fabric needed to offset the effects of time and weather-that’s arguably the responsibility of the estate.

“However, in one respect Falwell and Kelso are correct-the estate can’t be seen to be repairing the first sort of damage, wear and tear. That would land us with requests from every tenant for the same consideration-but with the state the Usway Burn cottages are now in, you can’t repair the fabric without simultaneously repairing the wear and tear.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“The Macgregors and Kelso don’t get on, never have, hence the present situation. But the Macgregors, if approached correctly, are neither unreasonable nor intractable. The situation, as it is now, is that the cottages urgently need wholesale repair, and the Macgregors want to keep farming that land. I’d suggest a compromise-some system whereby both the estate and the Macgregors contribute to the outcome, and subsequently reap the benefits.”

He studied her in silence. She waited, not the least discom fited by his scrutiny. Rather more distracted by the allure that didn’t decrease even when, as with his sisters, he was being difficult. She’d always found the underlying danger in him fascinating-the sense of dealing with some being who was not, quite, safe. Not domesticated, nowhere near as civilized as he appeared.

The real him lurked beneath his elegant exterior-there in his eyes, in the set of his lips, in the disguised strength in his long-fingered hands.

“Correct me if I err”-his voice was a low, hypnotic purr-“but any such collaborative effort would step beyond the bounds of what I recall are the tenancy agreements used at Wolverstone.”

She dragged in air past the constriction banding her lungs. “The agreements would need to be renegotiated and redrawn. Frankly, they need to be, to better reflect the realities of today.”

“Did my father agree?”

She wished she could lie. “No. He was, as you know, very set in his ways. More, he was inimical to change.” After a moment, she added, “That was why he put off making any decision about the cottages. He knew that evicting the Macgregors and pulling down the cottages was the wrong thing to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to resolve the issue by altering tradition.”

One black brow quirked. “The tradition in question underpins the estate’s financial viability.”

“Which would only be strengthened by getting more equitable agreements in place, ones which encourage tenants to invest in their holdings, to make improvements themselves, rather than leaving everything to the landowner-which on large estates like Wolverstone usually means nothing gets done, and land and buildings slowly decay, as in this instance.”

Another silence ensued, then he looked down. Absentmindedly tapped one long finger on the blotter. “This is not a decision to be lightly made.”

She hesitated, then said, “No, but it must be made soon.”

Without raising his head, he glanced up at her. “You stopped my father from making a decision, didn’t you?”

Holding his dark gaze, she debated what to say…but he knew the truth; his tone said as much. “I made sure he remembered the predictable outcomes of agreeing with Falwell and Kelso.”

Both his brows rose, leaving her wondering whether he’d been as sure as his tone had suggested, or whether she’d been led to reveal something he hadn’t known.

He looked down at his hand, fingers now spread on the blotter. “I’ll need to see these cottages-”

A tap on the door interrupted him. He frowned and looked up. “Come.”

Retford entered. “Your Grace, Mr. Collier, from Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, has arrived. He’s awaiting your pleasure in the hall. He wished me to inform you he was entirely at your service.”

Royce inwardly grimaced. He glanced at his chatelaine, who was revealing unexpected depths of strength and determination. She’d been able to, not manipulate, but influence his father…which left him uneasy. Not that he imagined she’d acted from any but the purest of motives; her arguments were driven by her views of what was best for Wolverstone and its people. But the fact she’d prevailed against his father’s blustering, often bullying will-no matter how else he’d aged, that wouldn’t have changed-combined with his own continuing, indeed escalating obsession with her, all compounded by his need to rely on her, to keep her near and interact with her daily…

His sisters, by comparison, were a minor irritation.

Minerva was…a serious problem.

Especially as everything she said, everything she urged, everything she was, appealed to him-not the cold, calm, calculating, and risk-averse duke, but the other side of him-the side that rode young stallions just broken to the saddle over hill and dale at a madman’s pace.

The side that was neither cold, nor risk-averse.

He didn’t know what to do with her, how he could safely manage her.

He glanced at the clock on a bureau by the wall, then looked at Retford. “Show Collier up.”

Retford bowed and withdrew.

Royce looked at Minerva. “It’s nearly time to dress for dinner. I’ll see Collier, and arrange for him to read the will after dinner. If you can organize with Jeffers to show him to a room, and to have him fed…?”

“Yes, of course.” She rose, met his gaze as he came to his feet. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

She turned and walked to the door; Royce watched while she opened it, then went out, then he exhaled and sank back into his chair.

Dinner was consumed in a civil but restrained atmosphere. Margaret and Aurelia had decided to be careful; both avoided subjects likely to irritate him, and, in the main, held their tongues.

Susannah made up for their silence by relating a number of the latest on-dits, censored in deference to their father’s death. Nevertheless, she added a welcome touch of liveliness to which his brothers-in-law responded with easy good humor.

They dined in the family dining room. Although much smaller than the one in the main dining salon, the table still sat fourteen; with only eight of them spread along the board, there remained plenty of space between each place, further assisting Royce’s hold on his temper.

The meal, the first he’d shared with his sisters for sixteen years, passed better than he’d hoped. As the covers were drawn, he announced that the reading of the will would take place in the library.

Margaret frowned. “The drawing room would be more convenient.”

He raised his brows, set his napkin beside his plate. “If you wish you may repair to the drawing room. I, however, am going to the library.”

She compressed her lips, but rose and followed.

Collier, a neat individual in his late fifties, bespectacled, brushed, and burnished, was waiting, a trifle nervous, but once they’d settled on the chaise and chairs, he cleared his throat, and started to read. His diction was clear and precise enough for everyone to hear as he read through clause after clause.

There were no surprises. The dukedom in its entirety, entailed and private property and all invested funds, was left to Royce; aside from minor bequests and annuities, some new, others already in place, it was his to do with as he pleased.

Margaret and Aurelia sat silently throughout. Their handsome annuities were confirmed, but not increased; Minerva doubted they’d expected anything else.

When Collier finished, and had asked if there were any questions, and received none, she rose from the straight-backed chair she’d occupied and asked Margaret if she would like to repair to the drawing room for tea.

Margaret thought, then shook her head. “No, thank you, dear. I think I’ll retire…” She glanced at Aurelia. “Perhaps Aurelia and I could have tea in my room?”

Aurelia nodded. “What with the travel and this sad business, I’m greatly fatigued.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll have them send up a tray.” Minerva turned to Susannah.

Who smiled lightly. “I believe I’ll retire, too, but I don’t want tea.” She paused as her elder sisters rose, then, arm in arm, passed on their way to the door, then she turned back to Minerva. “When are the rest of the family arriving?”

“Your aunts and uncles are expected tomorrow, and the rest will no doubt follow.”

“Good. If I’m to be trapped here with Margaret and Aurelia, I’m going to need company.” Susannah glanced around, then sighed. “I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Minerva spoke to Hubert, who asked for a tisane to be sent to his room, then retreated. Peter and David had helped themselves to whisky from the tantalus, while Royce was talking with Collier by the desk. Leaving them all to their own devices, she left to order the tea tray and the tisane.

That done, she headed back to the library.

Peter and David passed her in the corridor; they exchanged good nights and continued on.

She hesitated outside the library door. She hadn’t seen Collier leave. She doubted Royce needed rescuing, yet she needed to ascertain if he required anything further from her that night. Turning the knob, she opened the door and stepped quietly inside.

The glow from the desk lamps and those by the chaise didn’t reach as far as the door. She halted in the shadows. Royce was still speaking with Collier, both standing in the space between the big desk and the window behind it, looking out at the night as they conversed.

She drew nearer, quietly, not wishing to intrude.

And heard Royce ask Collier for his opinion on the leasing arrangements for tied cottages.

“The foundation of the nation, Your Grace. All the great estates rely on the system-it’s been proven for generations, and is, legally speaking, solid and dependable.”

“I have a situation,” Royce said, “where it’s been suggested that some modification of the traditional form of lease might prove beneficial to all concerned.”

“Don’t be tempted, Your Grace. There’s much talk these days of altering traditional ways, but that’s a dangerous, potentially destructive road.”

“So your considered advice would be to leave matters as they are, and adhere to the standard, age-old form?”

Minerva stepped sideways into the shadows some way behind Royce’s back. She wanted to hear this, preferably without calling attention to her presence.

“Indeed, Your Grace. If I may make so bold”-Collier puffed out his chest-“you could not do better than to follow your late father’s lead in all such matters. He was a stickler for the legal straight and narrow, and preserved and grew the dukedom significantly over his tenure. He was shrewd and wise, and never one for tampering with what worked well. My counsel would be that whenever any such questions arise, your best tack would be to ask yourself what your sire would have done, and do precisely that. Model yourself upon him, and all will go well-it’s what he would have wished.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Royce inclined his head. “Thank you for your advice, Collier. I believe you’ve already been given a room-if you encounter any difficulty relocating it, do ask one of the footmen.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Collier bowed low. “I wish you a good night.”

Royce nodded. He waited until Collier had closed the door behind him, before saying, “You heard?”

He knew she was there, behind him in the shadows. He’d known the instant she’d walked into the room.

“Yes, I heard.”

“And?” He made no move to turn from the window and the view of the dark night outside.

Drifting closer to the desk, Minerva drew a tight breath, then stated, “He’s wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Your father didn’t wish you to be like him.”

He stilled, but didn’t turn around. After a moment, he asked, voice quiet, yet intense, “What do you mean?”

“In his last moments, when I was with him here, in the library, he gave me a message for you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you, so you would understand what he meant.”

“Tell me now.” A harsh demand.

“He said: ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’”

A long silence ensued, then he asked, voice soft, quietly deadly, “And what, in your opinion, am I to understand by that?”

She swallowed. “He was speaking in the most general terms. The widest and broadest terms. He knew he was dying, and that was the one thing he felt he had to say to you.”

“And you believe he wished me to use that as a guide in dealing with the cottages?”

“I can’t say that-that’s for you to decide, to interpret. I can only tell you what he said that day.”

She waited. His fingers had clenched, each hand gripping the other tightly. Even from where she stood, she could feel the dangerous energy of his temper, eddies swirling and lashing, a tempest coalescing around him.

She felt an insane urge to go closer, to raise a hand and lay it on his arm, on muscles that would be tight and tensed, more iron than steel beneath her palm. To try, if she could, to soothe, to drain some of that restless energy, to bring him some release, some peace, some surcease.

“Leave me.” His tone was flat, almost grating.

Even though he couldn’t see, she inclined her head, then turned and walked-calmly, steadily-to the door.

Her hand was on the knob when he asked, “Is that all he said?”

She glanced back. He hadn’t moved from his stance before the window. “That was all he told me to tell you. ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’ Those, exactly those, were his last words.”

When he said nothing more, she opened the door, went out, and shut it behind her.