Mastered By Love (44 page)

 

Hamish studied her face. “You didn’t want to hear that he loves you?”

 

“Of
course
I would
love
to hear that he loves me—but how can he say such a thing? He’s a Varisey, for heaven’s sake.”

 

“Hmm.” Letting the sheep jump away, Hamish leaned against the railing. “Perhaps the same way I tell Moll that I love her.”

 

“But that’s
you
. You’re not—” She broke off. Halting, head rising, she blinked at him.

 

He gave her a cynical smile. “Aye—think on it. I’m as much a Varisey as he is.”

 

She frowned. “But you’re not…” She waved south, over the hills.

 

“Castle-bred? True. But perhaps that just means I never
believed I wouldn’t love, not when the right woman came along.” He studied her face. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

 

“No—he was honest. He says he’ll try—that he wants more of his marriage, but”—she drew in a huge breath—“he can’t promise to love me because he doesn’t know if he can.”

 

Hamish made a disgusted sound. “You’re a right pair. You’ve been in love with him—or at least waiting to fall in love with him—for decades, and now you have—”

 

“You can’t know that.” She stared at him.

 

“Of course, I can. Not that he’s said all that much, but I can read between his lines, and yours, well enough—and you’re here, aren’t you?”

 

She frowned harder.

 

“Aye—it’s as I thought.” Hamish let himself out of the pen, latching the gate behind him. Leaning back against it, he looked at her. “You both need to take a good long look at each other. What do you think has made him even consider having a different sort of marriage? A love match—isn’t that what society calls them? Why do you imagine they’re called that?”

 

She scowled at him. “You’re making it sound simple and easy.”

 

Hamish nodded his great head. “Aye—that’s how love is. Simple, straightforward, and easy. It just happens. Where it gets complicated is when you try to think too much, to rationalize it, make sense of it, pick it apart—it’s not like that.” He pushed away from the gate, and started lumbering up the path; she fell in beside him. “But if you must keep thinking, think on this—love happens, just like a disease. And like any disease, the easiest way to tell someone’s caught it is to look for the symptoms. I’ve known Royce longer than you have, and he’s got every last symptom. He might not
know
he loves you, but he feels it—he acts on it.”

 

They’d reached the yard where she’d left Rangonel. Hamish halted and looked down at her. “The truth is, lass, he might never be able to honestly, knowingly, tell you he loves you—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”

 

She grimaced, rubbed a gloved finger in the center of her
forehead. “You’ve only given me
more
to think about.”

 

Hamish grinned. “Aye, well, if you must think, the least you can do is think of the right things.”

 

 

As Minerva rode south across the border and down through the hills, she had plenty of time to think of Royce and his symptoms. Plenty of time to ponder all Hamish had said; while helping her to her saddle, he’d reminded her that the late duchess had been unwaveringly faithful, not to her husband, but to her longtime lover, Sidney Camberwell.

 

The duchess and Camberwell had been together for over twenty years; remembering all she’d seen of the pair, thinking of “symptoms,” she had to conclude they’d been very much in love.

 

Perhaps Hamish was right; Royce could and might love her.

 

Regardless, she had to make up her mind, and soon—he hadn’t been joking when he’d mentioned Lady Osbaldestone—which was why she’d come out riding; Hamish’s farm had seemed an obvious destination.

 

Take whatever time you need to think.

 

She knew Royce far too well not to know that he’d meant: Take whatever time you need to think
as long as you agree to be my wife.

 

He would do everything in his power to ensure she did; henceforth he would feel completely justified in doing whatever it took to make her agree.

 

In his case, “whatever it took” covered a great deal—as he’d demonstrated that morning, with shattering results. She’d escaped only because the sun had risen. If it hadn’t, she would be at his mercy still.

 

In public, however, over breakfast, and then later when they’d met for their usual meeting in his study with Handley in attendance and Jeffers by the door, he’d behaved with exemplary decorum; she couldn’t fault him in that—while in private he might pressure her to decide quickly in his favor, he did nothing to raise speculation in others.

 

“For which,” she assured the hills at large, “I’m duly grateful. The last thing I need is Margaret, Aurelia, and Susannah hectoring me. I don’t even know which way they’d fall—for or against.”

 

An interesting question, but beside the point. She didn’t care what they thought, and Royce cared even less.

 

For the umpteenth time, she replayed his arguments. Most confirmed what she’d seen from the start; marrying her would be the best option for him, especially given his commitment to Wolverstone and to the dukedom as a whole. What didn’t fit the mold of convenience and comfort was his desire for a different sort of marriage; she couldn’t question the reality of that—he’d had to force himself to reveal it, and she’d felt his sincerity to her bones.

 

And he did care for her, in his own arrogant, high-handed way. There was an undeniably seductive triumph in being the only woman to have ever made a Varisey think of anything even approaching love. And especially Royce—to claim him as her own…but that was a piece of self-seduction.

 

If he did love her, would it last?

 

If he loved her as she loved him…

 

She frowned at Rangonel’s ears. “Regardless of Hamish’s opinion, I still have a
lot
to think through.”

 

 

Royce was in his study working through his correspondence with Handley when Jeffers tapped and opened the door. He looked up, arched a brow.

 

“Three ladies and a gentleman have arrived, Your Grace. The ladies are insisting on seeing you immediately.”

 

He inwardly frowned. “Their names?”

 

“The Marchioness of Dearne, the Countess of Lostwithiel, and Lady Clarice Warnefleet, Your Grace. The gentleman is Lord Warnefleet.”

 

“The gentleman isn’t asking to see me as well?”

 

“No, Your Grace. Just the ladies.”

 

Which was Jack Warnefleet’s way of warning him what the subject his wife and her two cronies wished to discuss
was. “Thank you, Jeffers. Show the ladies up. Tell Retford to make Lord Warnefleet comfortable in the library.”

 

As the door closed, he glanced at Handley. “We’ll have to continue this later. I’ll ring when I’m free.”

 

Handley nodded, gathered his papers, rose, and left. Royce stared at the closed door. There seemed little point in wondering what message Letitia, Penny, and Clarice had for him; he would know soon enough.

 

Less than a minute later, Jeffers opened the door, and the ladies—three of the seven wives of his ex-colleagues of the Bastion Club—swept in. Rising, he acknowledged their formal curtsies, then waved them to the chairs Jeffers angled before the desk.

 

He waited until they’d settled, then, dismissing Jeffers with a nod, resumed his seat. As the door closed, he let his gaze sweep the three striking faces before him. “Ladies. Permit me to guess—I owe this pleasure to Lady Osbaldestone.”

 

“And all the others.” Letitia, flanked by Penny and Clarice, flung her arms wide. “The entire pantheon of tonnish grandes dames.”

 

He let his brows rise. “Why, if I might ask, you—more specifically, why all three of you?”

 

Letitia grimaced. “I was visiting Clarice and Jack in Gloucestershire while Christian dealt with business in London. Penny had come up to join us for a few days when Christian relayed a summons from Lady Osbaldestone insisting I attend her immediately in London on a matter of great urgency.”

 

“Naturally,” Clarice said, “Letitia had to go, and Penny and I decided we could do with a week in London, so we went, too.”

 

“But,” Penny took up the tale, “the instant Lady Osbaldestone laid eyes on us, she made us joint emissaries with Letitia to carry the collective message of the grandes dames to your ears.”

 

“I suspect,” Clarice said, “that she thought you might be able to avoid Letitia, but you wouldn’t be able to slide
around all three of us.”

 

Clarice glanced at the other two, who returned her regard, then all three pairs of feminine eyes turned on him.

 

He raised his brows. “Your message?”

 

It was Letitia who answered. “You are hereby warned that unless you do as you intimated and announce your duchess-to-be forthwith, you will have to cope with a fleet of carriages turning up at your gates. And, of course, the occupants of those carriages won’t be the sort you can easily turn away.” She shrugged. “Their version was rather more formal, but that’s the gist of it.”

 

Penny frowned. “Actually, it seemed as if you have quite a few people in residence already—and more arriving.”

 

“My sisters are hosting a house party coincident with the local parish fair. It used to be a family tradition, but lapsed after my mother died.” He focused on Letitia. “Is there a time limit on the grandes dames’ threat?”

 

Letitia glanced at Clarice.

 

“We got the impression the limit is now.” Clarice widened her eyes at him. “Or more precisely, your period of grace expires at the time a missive from us confirming your noncompliance reaches Lady Osbaldestone.”

 

He tapped a finger on his blotter, letting his gaze sweep their faces again. Lady Osbaldestone had chosen well; with these three, intimidation wouldn’t work. And while he might have been able to divert—subvert—Letitia, with the three of them reinforcing each other, he stood not a chance.

 

Lips firming, he nodded. “You may report to the beldames that I have, indeed, chosen a bride—”

 

“Excellent!” Letitia beamed. “So you can draft an announcement, and we can take it back to London.”

 

“However”—he continued as if she hadn’t spoken—“the lady in question has yet to accept the position.”

 

They stared at him.

 

Clarice recovered first. “What is she? Deaf, dumb, blind—or all three?”

 

That surprised a laugh from him, then he shook his head. “It’s the reverse—she’s too damned insightful for my good. And please do include that in your report—it will make her ladyship’s day. Regardless, an announcement in the
Gazette
at this point could well prove inimical to our mutual goal.”

 

All three ladies fixed intrigued gazes on him. He regarded them impassively. “Is there anything else?”

 

“Who is she?” Letitia demanded. “You can’t just dangle a tale like that before us, and not give us her name.”

 

“Actually, I can. You don’t need to know.” They’d guess very quickly; he had as much confidence in their intelligence—individually and collectively—as he had in their husbands’.

 

Three pairs of eyes narrowed; three expressions grew flinty.

 

Penny informed him, “We’re under orders to remain here—under your feet—until you send a notice to the
Gazette.
”

 

Their continued presence might well work in his favor. Their husbands weren’t all that different from him—and Minerva had been starved of the companionship of females she could trust, confide in, and ask for advice. And these three might be disposed to help his cause.

 

Of course, they’d probably view it as assisting Cupid. Just as long as they succeeded, he didn’t care. “You’re very welcome to stay and join the festivities my sisters have planned.” Rising, he crossed to the bellpull. “I believe my chatelaine, Minerva Chesterton, is presently out, but she should return shortly. Meanwhile I’m sure my staff will make you comfortable.”

 

All three frowned.

 

Retford arrived, and he gave orders for their accommodation. They rose, distinctly haughty, and increasingly suspicious.

 

He ushered them to the door. “I’ll leave you to get settled. No doubt Minerva will look in on you as soon as she returns. I’ll see you at dinner—until then, you must excuse me. Busi
ness calls.”

 

They narrowed their eyes at him, but consented to follow Retford.

 

Letitia, the last to leave, looked him in the eye. “You know we’ll hound you until you tell us this amazingly insightful lady’s name.”

 

Unperturbed, he bowed her out; they’d know his lady’s name before he reached the drawing room that evening.

 

With an irritated “humph!” Letitia went.

 

Closing the door, he turned back to his desk.

 

And let his brows rise. Lady Osbaldestone and the other beldames might just have helped.

 

 

Returning from her ride, Minerva walked into the front hall to discover a handsome gentleman ambling about admiring the paintings.

 

He turned at the sound of her boot steps, and smiled charmingly.

 

“Good morning.” Despite his country-elegant attire, and that smile, she sensed a familiar hardness behind his façade. “Can I help you?”

 

He bowed. “Jack Warnefleet, ma’am.”

 

She glanced around, wondering where Retford was. “Have you just arrived?”

 

“No.” He smiled again. “I was shown into the library, but I’ve studied all the paintings there. My wife and two of her friends are upstairs, bearding Dal—Wolverstone—in his den.” Hazel eyes twinkled. “I thought I ought to come out here in case a precipitous retreat was in order.”

 

He’d nearly said Dalziel, which meant he was an acquaintance from Whitehall. She held out her hand. “I’m Miss Chesterton. I act as chatelaine here.”

 

He bowed over her hand. “Delighted, my dear. I have to admit I have no idea whether we’ll be staying or—” He broke off and looked up the stairs. “Ah—here they are.”

 

They both turned as three ladies preceded Retford down the stairs. Minerva recognized Letitia and smiled.