He’d thought she liked being his chatelaine, that she enjoyed the challenge he posed to her management skills, but…after hearing of her vows, he no longer felt he had any claim at all on her, on her loyalty, her…affection.

Given his continued desire for her, and her continued lack of desire for him, the news of those vows had shaken him-and he wasn’t accustomed to that sort of shaking. Never had he felt such a hollow, desolate feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t suppose,” Hamish suggested, looking toward Wolverstone, too, “that there’s an easy way out of this?”

“What easy way?”

“Mayhap Minerva’s name could find its way onto your list?”

“Would that it could, but neither she nor anyone else will put it there. This morning’s list named six young ladies, all of whom have significant fortunes and hail from the senior noble families in the realm. Minerva’s well-bred, but not in that league, and her fortune can’t compare. Not that any of that matters to me, but it does to society, and therefore to her because of her damned vows.” He drew breath, held it. “But aside from all that-and I swear if you laugh at this I will hit you-she’s one of those rare females who have absolutely no interest in me.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hamish suck in his lips, trying manfully not to be hit. A very long pregnant moment passed, then Hamish dragged in a huge breath, and managed to get out, “Mayhap she’s grown hardened to the Varisey charm, seeing as she’s lived among you so long.”

His voice had quavered only a little, not enough for Royce to retaliate. It had been decades since he’d felt that going a few rounds with Hamish-one of the few men he’d have to work to fight-might make him feel better. Might let him release some of the tension inside.

That tension sang in his voice as he replied, “Presumably. Regardless, all those facts rule out the easy way-I want no reluctant, sacrificial bride. She’s not attracted to me, she wants me to marry appropriately so she can leave, yet if I offer for her, in the circumstances she might feel she has to, against all her expectations and inclinations, agree. I couldn’t stomach that.”

“Och, no.” Hamish’s expression suggested he couldn’t stomach it, either.

“Unfortunately, her resistance to the Varisey charm rules out the not-quite-so-easy way, too.”

Hamish frowned. “What’s that?”

“Once I fill the position of my duchess, I’ll be free to take a mistress, a long-term lover I can keep by my side.”

“You’d think to make Minerva your lover?”

Royce nodded. “Yes.”

He wasn’t surprised by the silence that followed, but when it lengthened, he frowned and glanced at Hamish. “You were supposed to clout me over the ear and tell me I shouldn’t have such lecherous thoughts about a lady like Minerva Chesterton.”

Hamish glanced at him, then shrugged. “In that depart ment, who am I to judge? I’m me, you’re you, and our father was something else again. But”-tilting his head, he stared toward Wolverstone-“strange to say, I could see it might work-you marrying one of those hoity ton misses, and having Minerva as your lover-cum-chatelaine.”

Royce grunted. “It would work, if she wasn’t unresponsive to me.”

Hamish frowned. “About that…have you tried?”

“To seduce her? No. Just think-I have to work closely with her, need to interact with her on a daily basis. If I made an advance and she rejected me, it would make life hellishly awkward for us both. And what if, after that, she decided to leave immediately despite her vows? I can’t go that route.”

He shifted on the wall. “Besides, if you want the honest truth, I’ve never seduced a woman in my life-I wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it.”

Hamish overbalanced and fell off the wall again.


Where was Royce? What was his nemesis up to?

Although the bulk of the guests had left, Allardyce, thank heaven, among them, enough remained for him to feel confident he still had sufficient cover, but the thinning crowd should have made his cousin easier to see, to keep track of.

In the billiard room with his male cousins, he played, laughed, and joked, and inwardly obsessed over what Royce might be doing. He wasn’t with Minerva, who was sitting with the grandes dames, and he wasn’t in his study because his footman wasn’t standing outside the door.

He hadn’t wanted to come to Wolverstone, but now he was there, the opportunity to linger, mingling with his other cousins who, together with Royce’s sisters, were planning what would amount to a highly select house party to capitalize on the fact they were there, together and out of sight of the ton, and, more importantly, their spouses, was tempting.

Yet his long-standing fear-that if Royce were to see him, were to look at him often enough, those all-seeing dark eyes would strike through his mask and Royce would see the truth, would know and act-remained, the nearness to his nemesis keeping it forever fermenting in one part of his brain.

From the first step he’d taken down the long road to becoming the successful-still living-traitorous spy he was, he’d known that the one being above all others he had to fear was Royce. Because once Royce knew, Royce would kill him without remorse. Not because he was an enemy, a traitor, not because he’d struck at Royce, but because he was family. Royce would not hesitate to erase such a blot on the family’s escutcheon.

Royce was far more like his father than he believed.

For years he’d carried his fear inside him, held close, a smoldering, cankerous coal forever burning a hole in his gut.

Yet now temptation whispered. While so many of his cousins remained at Wolverstone, he, too, could stay.

And over the years of living with his fear, of coming to know it so intimately, he’d realized there was, in fact, one way to make the living torment end.

For years he’d thought it could only end with his death.

Recently he’d realized it could end with Royce’s.

Six

R oyce walked into the drawing room that evening more uncertain about a woman than he’d ever been in his life.

After Hamish had staggered to his feet a second time, he’d made a number of suggestions, not all of which had been in jest. Yet the instant Royce’s gaze landed on Minerva, he rejected Hamish’s principal thesis-that his chatelaine was no more immune to him than the average lady, but was concealing her reactions.

From him? Gauging others was one of his strengths, one he’d exercised daily over the past sixteen years; she’d have to possess the most amazing control to hide such an awareness of him, from him.

As if sensing his regard, she turned and saw him; leaving the group with whom she’d been conversing, she glided to him. “Did you find the more detailed list of candidates I left on your desk?”

Her voice was cool, serene. She was annoyed with his treatment of her initial list.

“Yes.” There was nothing subtle about his tone.

Her eyes locked with his. “Have you read it?”

“No.”

Her lips tightened, but she didn’t press her luck. The drawing room was still comfortably well-populated; he’d thought more people would have left.

For an instant, she stood looking into his eyes, then she glanced around.

Backing down, thank God. He hadn’t realized before how arousing it was to have a lady cross swords with him; no other ever had.

For a moment he stood looking down at her, letting his eyes, his senses, feast, then silently cleared his throat and followed her gaze…“Bloody hell!” he muttered. “They’re all still here.”

“The grandes dames? I did tell you they were staying until Monday.”

“I thought you meant Therese Osbaldestone and maybe Helena and Horatia, not the whole damned pack.”

She glanced at him, then past him. “Regardless, here’s Retford.” She met his eyes briefly. “You have Lady Augusta again, of course.”

“Of. Course.” He bit back the acid comments burning the tip of his tongue; no point expending energy over what he couldn’t change. Besides, while the grandes dames might have stayed on, so, too, had many of his cousins, and some of his sisters’ friends. Two of his uncles and their wives were still there; they’d mentioned they’d be leaving tomorrow.

There were enough gentlemen still present for him to escape with after dinner. Until then, he would deploy his considerable skills in deflecting all inquisition on the subject of his bride.

Locating Lady Augusta, he went to claim her hand.


Royce practiced the art of avoidance throughout the following day. He didn’t disappear, but hid in plain sight.

In the morning, he confounded everyone by joining the group going to church; not one of the grandes dames was devoted to religion. He dallied after the service, chatting to the vicar and various locals, timing his return so that he walked into the castle as the luncheon gong rang.

He played the genial host throughout the informal meal, chatting easily about country pursuits. Considerate host that he was, the instant the platters were cleared he suggested a ride to a local waterfall.

His chatelaine looked at him, but said nothing.

They returned in the late afternoon. He’d managed to keep largely to himself; the others all thought that when he grew quiet, he was brooding over his father’s death. Not grieving-for that, one had to love-but angry over being denied his long-awaited confrontation with his sire.

He walked with the others into the front hall. Seeing no sign of grandes dames-or his chatelaine-he parted from the rest and went up the main stairs, and into the keep.

He headed for his study. No one had mentioned the words “marriage,” “bride,” or “wedding” in his hearing all day; he was feeling sufficiently mellow to wonder if his chatelaine had left him another amended list. If she had, she would have found her second list sitting alongside the first by his blotter. He would read them, but in his own good time, not at the behest of a pack of ladies, even be they grandes dames.

His hand was on the study doorknob, opening the door, before he registered that Jeffers wasn’t at his post. Not that he had to be when Royce wasn’t in the study, but the man had an uncanny sense of when he would be coming to the room. Pushing the door wide, he walked in-

And halted. He’d walked into an ambush.

Seven grandes dames were seated in a semicircle before his desk, the chairs carefully arranged so he hadn’t been able to see them, not until he’d walked too far in to retreat.

Only one lady-Therese Osbaldestone-turned her head to look at him. “Good afternoon, Wolverstone. We’d appreciate it if you would grant us a few minutes of your time.”

No real question, and his title, not his name; stiffly, he inclined his head.

Therese glanced behind the door, to where Jeffers stood with his back to the wall. “You may go.”

Jeffers looked at Royce. He endorsed the order with a curt nod.

As the door closed silently behind Jeffers, Royce walked forward. Slowly. Passing one end of the line of chairs, he rounded the desk, his gaze touching each determined face. Horatia, Helena, Therese, Augusta, Princess Esterhazy, Lady Holland, and Lady Melbourne. Behind the chairs to one side stood Letitia and Minerva.

Combining their various connections, with Letitia representing both the Vaux and Dearne, the group commanded the collective might of the upper echelons of the ton.

These were the ton’s foremost female generals.

He inclined his head. “Ladies.”

He sat, outwardly relaxed, and regarded them impassively.

Lady Osbaldestone was their elected speaker. “I’ve already discussed with you the reason you need to marry without delay.” Her obsidian gaze lowered to the blotter, on which three sheets-a new and longer list-lay spread. “We have pooled our knowledge-we believe that list includes every gel you might consider for the position of your duchess, along with her antecedents, her expected fortune, and sundry information we thought helpful.”

Her gaze rose from the list as Royce’s did; she met and held his gaze. “You now have all the information you need to choose your bride, which, as we’ve all been at pains to impress on you, you need to do forthwith. However, what you may not yet perceive is what will occur if you do not act promptly. Should the ton not hear of your betrothal soon, then you and this castle are likely to be stormed by every even halfway eligible chit in Christendom.” She rapped the floor with her cane. “And I can assure you they will be a great deal harder to repulse than any army!”