With skill and luck, one could steer Variseys; one couldn’t lead them.

Jeffers was on duty outside the study. He opened the door and she walked in.

Royce was pacing back and forth before the window behind the desk, looking out at his lands, his every stride invested with the lethal grace of a caged jungle cat, muscles sleekly taut, shifting beneath the fine weave of his coat and his thigh-hugging buckskin breeches.

She simply stood, unable to look away; instinct wouldn’t allow her to take her eyes from such a predatory sight.

And looking was no hardship.

She could sense his whipping temper, knew he could lash out, yet was utterly sure he would never hurt her. Or any woman. Yet the turbulent emotions seething within him, swirling in powerful currents all around him, would have most women, most men, edging away.

Not her. She was attracted to the energy, to the wild and compelling power that was so intrinsic a part of him.

Her dangerous secret.

She waited. The door had closed; he knew she was there. When he gave no sign, she advanced and sat in the chair.

Abruptly, he halted. He hauled in a huge breath, then swung around, and dropped into his chair. “The farm at Lin-shields. Who holds it these days-is it still the Carews?”

“Yes, but I think you probably remember Carew senior. It’s his son who runs the farm now.”

He kept her talking for the next hour, pressing her, questions flying at a cracking pace.

Royce tried to keep his mind wholly focused on business-on the information he drew from her-yet her answers flowed so freely he had time to truly listen, not just to what she was saying but to her voice, the timbre, the faint huskiness, the rise and fall of emotions as she let them color her words.

She had no reticence, no shields, not on this subject, not any longer. He didn’t need to watch for hints of prevarica tion, or of reserve.

So his wider senses had time to dwell on the rise and fall of her breasts, the way one errant curl fell across her forehead, time to note the gold flecks that came alive in her eyes when she smiled over some recounted incident.

Eventually, his questions ended, died. His temper dissipated, he sat back in his chair. Physically relaxed, inwardly brooding. His gaze on her.

“I didn’t thank you for saving me at luncheon.”

Minerva smiled. “Hubert was a surprise. And it was your relatives we saved, not you.”

He grimaced, reached out to reposition a pencil that had rolled across the blotter. “They’re right in that I will need to marry, but I can’t see why they’re so intent on pushing the subject at this time.” He glanced at her, a question in his eyes.

“I’ve no idea why, either. I’d expected them to leave that topic for at least a few months, mourning and all. Although I suppose no eyebrows would be raised if you became betrothed within the year.”

The fingers of one hand tapping the blotter, his gaze sharpened. “I’m not of a mind to let them dictate, or even dabble in, my future. It might, therefore, be wise to get some idea of the potential…candidates.”

She hesitated, then asked, “What style of candidate are you thinking of?”

He gave her a look that said she knew better than to ask. “The usual style-a typical Varisey bride. How does it go? Suitable breeding, position, connections and fortune, passable beauty, intelligence optional.” He frowned. “Did I forget anything?”

She fought to keep her lips straight. “No. That’s more or less the full description.”

No matter that he might differ from his father in managing people and the estate, he wouldn’t differ in his requirements of a bride. The tradition of Varisey marriages predated the dukedom by untold generations, and, even more telling, suited their temperament.

She saw no reason to disagree with his assessment. The new fashion of love matches within the nobility had little to offer the Variseys. They did not love. She’d spent more than twenty years among them, and had never seen any evidence to the contrary. It was simply the way they were; love had been bred out of them centuries ago-if it had ever been in their mix at all. “If you wish, I could make a list of the candidates your relatives-and no doubt the grandes dames who come up for the funeral-mention.”

He nodded. “Their gossip may as well be useful for something. Add anything relevant you know, or hear from reliable sources.” He met her eyes. “And, no doubt, you’ll add your opinion, as well.”

She smiled sweetly. “No, I won’t. As far as I’m concerned, choosing your bride is entirely your affair. I won’t be living with her.”

He gave her another of his bland, you-should-know-better looks. “Neither will I.”

She inclined her head, acknowledging that fact. “Regardless, your bride is not a subject on which I would seek to influence you.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to promulgate that view to my sisters?”

“Sadly, I must decline-it would be a waste of breath.”

He grunted.

“If there’s nothing else, I should go and see who else has arrived. Cranny, bless her, needs to know how many will sit down to dine.”

When he nodded, she rose and headed for the door. Reaching it, she glanced back, and saw him sprawled in his chair, that brooding look on his face. “If you have time, you might like to look at the tithing from the smaller crofts. At present, it’s stated as an absolute amount, but a percentage of profit might suit everyone better.”

He arched a brow. “Another radical notion?”

She shrugged and opened the door. “Just a suggestion.”


So here he was at Wolverstone, under his nemesis’s roof. His very large roof, in this far distant corner of Northumberland, which was a point, he now realized, that worked in his favor.

The estate was so very far from London that many of the visitors, especially those who were family, would stay for a time; the castle was so huge it could accommodate a small army. So there was, and would continue to be, plenty of cover; he would be safe enough.

He stood at the window of the pleasant room he’d been given in the east wing, looking down on the castle gardens, beautifully presented and bursting with colorful life in the last gasp of the short northern summer.

He had an appreciation for beautiful things, an eye that had guided him in amassing an exquisite collection of the most priceless items the French had had to offer. In exchange he’d given them information, information that, whenever he’d been able, had run directly counter to Royce’s commission.

Whenever possible, he’d tried to harm Royce-not directly, but through the men he’d commanded.

From all he’d been able to glean, he’d failed, dismally. Just as he’d failed, over the years, over all the times he’d been held up against Royce, measured against his glorious cousin and found wanting. By his father, his uncle, most of all by his grandfather.

His lips curled; his handsome features distorted in a snarl.

Worst of all, Royce had seized his prize, his carefully hoarded treasure. He’d stolen it from him, denying him even that. For all his years of serving the French, he’d received precisely nothing-not even the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused Royce pain.

In the world of men, and all through the ton, Royce was a celebrated success. And now Royce was Wolverstone to boot.

While he…was an unimportant sprig on a family tree.

It shouldn’t be so.

Dragging in a breath, he slowly exhaled, willing his features back into the handsome mask he showed the world. Turning, he looked around the room.

His eye fell on a small bowl sitting on the mantelpiece. Not Sevres, but Chinese, quite delicate.

He walked across the room, picked up the bowl, felt its lightness, examined its beauty.

Then he opened his fingers and let it fall.

It smashed to smithereens on the floor.


By late Wednesday afternoon, all the family were in residence, and the first of the guests invited to stay at the castle had begun to arrive.

Royce had been instructed by his chatelaine to be on hand to greet the more important; summoned by Jeffers, he gritted his teeth and descended to the hall to welcome the Duchess of St. Ives, Lady Horatia Cynster, and Lord George Cynster. Although St. Ives’s estates lay in the south, the two dukedoms shared a similar history, and the families had supported each other through the centuries.

“Royce!” Her Grace, Helena, Duchess of St. Ives-or the Dowager Duchess, as he’d heard she preferred to style herself-spotted him. She glided to meet him as he stepped off the stairs. “Mon ami, such a sad time.”

He took her hand, bowed, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles-only to have her swear in French, tug him lower, stretch up on her toes, and press a kiss first to one cheek, then to the other. He permitted it, then straightened, smiled. “Welcome to Wolverstone, Your Grace. You grow lovelier with the years.”

Huge, pale green eyes looked up at him. “Yes, I do.” She smiled, a glorious expression that lit her whole face, then she let her gaze skate appreciatively down him. “And you…” She muttered something in colloquial French he didn’t catch, then reverted to English to say, “We had expected to have you return to our salons-instead, you are now here, and no doubt plan to hide yourself away.” She wagged a delicate finger at him. “It will not do. You are older than my recalcitrant son, and must marry soon.”

She turned to include the lady beside her. “Horatia-tell him he must let us help him choose his bride tout de suite.”

“And he’ll pay as much attention to me as he will you.” Lady Horatia Cynster, tall, dark-haired, and commanding, smiled at him. “Condolences, Royce-or should I say Wolverstone?” She gave him her hand, and like Helena, pulled him nearer to touch cheeks. “Regardless of what you might wish, your father’s funeral is going to focus even more attention on your urgent need of a bride.”

“Let the poor boy find his feet.” Lord George Cynster, Horatia’s husband, offered Royce his hand. After a firm handshake, he shooed his wife and sister-in-law away. “There’s Minerva looking harassed trying to sort out your boxes-you might help her, or you might end with each other’s gowns.”

The mention of gowns had both grandes dames’ attention shifting. As they moved to where Minerva stood surrounded by a bewildering array of boxes and trunks, George sighed. “They mean well, but it’s only fair to warn you you’re in for a time of it.”

Royce raised his brows. “St. Ives didn’t come up with you?”

“He’s following in his curricle. Given what you just experienced, you can understand why he’d take rain, sleet, and even snow over spending days in the same carriage as his mother.”

Royce laughed. “True.” Beyond the open doors, he saw a procession of three carriages draw up. “If you’ll excuse me, some others have arrived.”

“Of course, m’boy.” George clapped him on the back. “Escape while you can.”

Royce did, going out through the massive doors propped open in welcome and down the shallow steps to where the three carriages were disgorging their passengers and baggage amid a chaos of footmen and grooms.

A pretty blond in a fashionable pelisse was directing a footman to take care of her boxes, unaware of Royce’s approach. “Alice-welcome.”

Alice Carlisle, Viscountess Middlethorpe, turned, wide-eyed. “Royce!” She embraced him, tugging him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. “What an unexpected event-and before you’d even returned.”

Gerald, her husband, heir to the earldom of Fyfe, stepped down from the carriage, Alice’s shawl in one hand. “Royce.” He held out his other hand. “Commiserations, old man.”

The others had heard, and quickly gathered, offering condolences along with strong hands, or scented cheeks and warm embraces-Miles Ffolliot, Baron Sedgewick, heir to the earldom of Wrexham, and his wife, Eleanor, and the Honorable Rupert Trelawny, heir to the Marquess of Rid-dlesdale, and his wife, Rose.

They were Royce’s closest friends; the three men had been at Eton with him, and the four had remained close through the subsequent years. Throughout his self-imposed social exile, theirs had been the only events-dinners, select soirees-that he’d attended. Over the last decade, he’d first encountered each of his many lovers at one or other of these three ladies’ houses, a fact of which he was sure they were aware.

These six made up his inner circle, the people he trusted, those he’d known the longest. There were others-the members of the Bastion Club and now their wives-whom he would likewise trust with his life, but these three couples were the people he shared closest connection with; they were of his circle, and understood the pressures he faced, his temperament, understood him.