Mastered By Love (9 page)

 

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…