Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  The butler’s gaze fixed on him. Framed in the doorway, he bowed low. “Your Grace.” Straightening, he bowed more shallowly to Minerva, who rose to her feet. “Ma’am.”

  Refocusing on Royce, who, as Minerva was standing, rose, too, the stately personage intoned, “I am Retford, Your Grace. I am the butler here. On behalf of the staff, I wish to convey our condolences on the death of your father, and extend our welcome to you on your return.”

  Royce inclined his head. “Thank you, Retford. I believe I recall you as underbutler. Your uncle always had you polishing the silver.”

  Retford perceptibly thawed. “Indeed, Your Grace.” He glanced again at Minerva. “You wished me to inform you when luncheon was ready, ma’am.”

  Royce noted the meaningful look the pair exchanged before his chatelaine said, “Indeed, Retford. Thank you. We’ll be down directly.”

  Retford bowed to them both, then with another “Your Grace,” withdrew.

  Still standing, Royce caught Minerva’s eye. “Why are we going down directly?”

  She blinked her eyes wide. “I was sure you’d be hungry.” When he remained unmoving, patently waiting, her lips lifted fractionally. “And you need to allow the staff to formally greet you.”

  He summoned a not-entirely-feigned expression of horror. “Not the whole damned lot of them?”

  She nodded and turned to the door. “Every last one. Names and positions—you know the drill. This is a ducal residence, after all.” She watched as he came around the desk. “And if you’re not hungry now, I can guarantee you’ll be in dire need of sustenance by the time we’re finished.”

  Moving past her, he opened the door, held it. “You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you? Seeing me floundering.”

  As he followed her into the corridor, she shook her head. “You won’t flounder—I’m your chatelaine. I’m not allowed to let you flounder at such moments—that’s my job.”

  “I see.” He quelled an urge to take her arm; she clearly didn’t expect him to—she was already walking briskly toward the main stairs. Sinking his hands in his trouser pockets, he fixed his gaze on the floor before their feet. “So how, exactly, do you propose to do your job?”

  By whispering in his ear.

  She remained immediately on his left all the way down the long line of eager staff, murmuring their names and positions as he nodded to each one.

  He could have done without the distraction. The temptation. The all but constant taunting, however unintentional, of his less civilized self.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Cranshaw—Cranny as he’d always called her—blushed rosily when he smiled and called her by that long-ago nickname. Other than Retford and Milbourne, there were no others who hailed from the last time he’d been there.

  They finally reached the end of the long line. After the last scullery maid had blushed and bobbed, Retford, who had followed behind them radiating approval as much as a butler of his station ever did, stepped forward and bowed them into the smaller dining salon.

  Royce would have gone to his customary chair halfway down the table, but Retford swept to the large carver at its head and held it…he smoothly continued up the table and sat in his father’s place.

  Now his—a fact he was going to have to get used to.

  Jeffers sat Minerva on his left; from her and Jeffers’s behavior, that was her customary position.

  He remembered his need to create distance between them, remembered his question about the staff, but she’d left her papers upstairs.

  Luckily, as soon as the platters had been set before them and the majority of footmen withdrew, she asked, “One thing we—Retford, Milbourne, Cranny, and I—need to know is what staff you have, and which household you wish them attached to.”

  A safe, sensible question. “I have a valet—Trevor. He was with me before.”

  Staring ahead, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s younger than you, slightly tubby—at least he was.”

  A reasonable if brief description of Trevor.

  She glanced at Retford, standing back on Royce’s right; the butler nodded, indicating that he, too, remembered Trevor. “That’s fortuitous, as I doubt Walter, your father’s valet, would suit. However, that leaves us with the question of what to do with Walter—he won’t want to leave Wolverstone, or the family’s service.”

  “Leave that to me.” Royce had long ago learned to value experience. “I have an idea for a position that might suit him.”

  “Oh?” She looked her question, but when he didn’t reply, but instead served himself from a platter of cold meats, she frowned, then asked, “Is Henry still your groom?”

  He nodded. “I’ve already spoken with Milbourne—Henry should arrive tomorrow. He’ll remain my personal groom. The only other to join the household here will be Handley.” He met Minerva’s gaze. “My secretary.”

  He’d wondered how she would take that news. Somewhat to his surprise, she beamed. “Excellent. That will absolve me of dealing with your correspondence.”

  “Indeed.” A good first step in edging her out of his daily orbit. “Who dealt with my father’s correspondence?”

  “I did. But there are so many communications crossing a duke’s desk, and so much I have to attend to as chatelaine, if we’d entertained more, there would have been problems. As it was, things often didn’t get dealt with as expeditiously as I would have liked.”

  He was relieved she truly was prepared to let his correspondence pass out of her hands. “I’ll tell Handley to check with you if he has any questions.”

  She nodded, absorbed with peeling a fig. He watched her take the first bite, saw her lips glisten—quickly looked down at the apple he was coring.

  When next he glanced up, she was staring across the table, frowning in an abstracted way. As if sensing his gaze, she asked, still without looking at him, “Is there anyone else we should expect to accommodate?”

  It took a moment for him to catch her meaning; it was the word “accommodate” that finally impinged, confirmed by the faint blush tinting her cheeks. “No.” Just to ensure she—and Retford, too—were quite clear on the point, he stated, “I don’t have a mistress. At present.”

  He’d tacked on the “at present” to make sure they believed him. Rapidly canvassing the possible eventualities, he added, “And unless I inform you otherwise, you should act on the assumption that that situation remains unchanged.”

  Mistresses, for him, constituted a certain danger, something he’d learned before he’d reached twenty. Because he’d been heir to one of the wealthiest dukedoms, his mistresses—due to his tastes, inevitably drawn from the ton—had shown a marked tendency to develop unrealistic ideas.

  His declaration had tweaked Minerva’s curiosity, but she merely nodded, still not meeting his eyes. She finished her fig, and laid down her fruit knife.

  He pushed back from the table. “I need a list of the stewards and agents for each of the various properties.”

  She rose as Jeffers drew out her chair. “I have a list prepared—I left it on my desk. I’ll bring it to the study.”

  “Where is your lair?”

  She glanced at him as they headed for the stairs. “The duchess’s morning room.”

  He didn’t say anything, but walked by her side up the stairs and into the keep, to the room that, centuries ago, had been a solar. Its oriel window looked out over the rose garden to the south and west of the keep.

  Following her into the room, he halted just over the threshold. While she went to a bureau against one wall, he scanned the room, searching for some sense of his mother. He saw the tapestry cushions she’d loved to make idly cast on the sofas, but other than that the room held few lingering hints of her. It was light, airy, distinctly feminine, with two vases of fresh flowers scenting the air.

  Minerva turned and walked toward him, perusing a number of lists. She was so alive, so anchored in the here and now, he doubted any ghosts could linger near.

  She looked up, saw him; a fro
wn formed in her eyes. She glanced at the twin sofas, the only place they might sit, then faced him. “We’ll do better going over these in the study.”

  She was uncomfortable having him in her domain. But she was right; the study was the more appropriate setting. Even more to the point, it had a desk behind which he could hide the worst of his reaction to her.

  Stepping aside, he waved her through the door. He trailed her around the gallery, but finding his gaze transfixed by her subtly swaying hips, he lengthened his stride to walk alongside her.

  Once they were ensconced in the study—once more firmly in their roles of duke and chatelaine—he went through her list of his stewards and agents, extracting every detail he deemed useful—in addition to the names and positions, physical descriptions and her personal opinion of each man. At first she balked at voicing the latter, but when he insisted proved his point by providing a comprehensive and astute character study for each incumbent.

  His memories of her from long ago weren’t all that detailed; what he had was an impression of a no-nonsense female uninclined to histrionics or flights of fancy, a girl with her feet firmly planted on the ground. His mother had trusted her implicitly, and from all he was learning, so had his sire.

  And his father had never trusted easily, no more than he.

  By the time they reached the end of her lists, he was convinced that he, too, could trust her. Implicitly. Which was a huge relief. Even keeping her at a physical distance, he would need her help to get through the next days, possibly weeks. Possibly even months. Knowing that her loyalties lay firmly with the dukedom—and thus with him as the duke—was reassuring.

  Almost as if he could trust her to protect his back.

  Which was a distinctly odd notion for a man like him to have of a woman. Especially a lady like her.

  Unknowingly underscoring his conclusion, having re-gathered her scattered papers, leaving those he’d appropriated, she hesitated. When he caught her eye and arched a brow, she said, “Your father’s man of business is Collier—not the same Collier as Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, but their cousin.”

  He could now read her tone. “Whom you don’t trust.”

  “Not so much don’t trust as have no confidence that he knows all that much about managing money. Heaven knows, I don’t, but I’ve seen the returns on the dukedom’s investments, and they don’t impress. I get significantly better returns on my funds, which are handled by another firm.”

  He nodded. “I have my own man of business—Montague, in the city. He does get impressive returns. I’ll instruct him to contact Collier and go through the books, then assume control.”

  She smiled. “Excellent.” She shifted, looked at the lists before him. “If you don’t need me for anything else…?”

  He wished he didn’t, but he had to know, and she was the only one he could ask. He focused on the pen in his hand—his father’s. “How did my father die?”

  She stilled. He didn’t look up, but waited; he sensed she was ordering her thoughts. Then she said, “He had a seizure. He was perfectly well earlier—we met over breakfast—then he went into the library as he always did on Sunday mornings to read the news sheets. We don’t know when he was struck down, but when he didn’t ring for his elevenses, as he invariably did, the cook sent Jeffers to check. Jeffers found him lying on the floor behind his desk. He’d tried to reach the bellpull, but had collapsed.”

  She paused, then went on, “Retford summoned me. I stayed with your father while they sent for the doctor and made a stretcher to carry him to his room. But he didn’t last that long.”

  Royce glanced up. Her gaze was far away, unfocused. “You were with him when he died?”

  She nodded.

  He looked down, turned the pen in his fingers. “Did he say anything?”

  “He was unconscious until quite close to the end. Then he stirred, and asked for you.”

  “Me?” He looked up. “Not my sisters?”

  “No—he’d forgotten. He thought you were here, at Wolverstone. I had to tell him you weren’t.” She refocused on him. “He passed away quite peacefully—if he had been in pain, it was before we found him.”

  He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “Thank you.” After a moment, he asked, “Have you told the others?”

  She knew to whom he was referring—his father’s illegitimate children.

  “The girls are on one or other of the estates, so I sent letters out yesterday. Other than O’Loughlin, to whom I sent word, the males are out of reach—I’ll pen letters once we know the bequests, and you can sign them.” She looked at him. “Or Handley could do it, if you wish.”

  “No. I’d appreciate it if you would handle that. You know them—Handley doesn’t. But leave O’Loughlin to me. I don’t want to start mysteriously losing sheep.”

  She rose. “He wouldn’t, would he?”

  “He would, if nothing else to gain my attention. I’ll deal with him.”

  “Very well. If there’s nothing more you need from me, I’ll start planning the funeral, so once your sisters arrive we can proceed without delay.”

  He nodded curtly. “Please God.”

  He heard a soft chuckle as she glided to the door. Then she left, and he could, at last, focus on picking up the dukedom’s reins.

  He spent the next two hours going over her lists and the notes he’d made, then penning letters—short, to-the-point scrawls; he was already missing Handley.

  Jeffers proved invaluable, knowing the fastest route to fly his communications to each of his holdings; it appeared he needed a personal footman after all. Through Jeffers he arranged to meet with Wolverstone’s steward, Falwell, and Kelso, the agent, the following morning; both lived in Harbottle, so had to be summoned.

  After that…once Jeffers had left with the last of his missives, Royce found himself standing at the window behind the desk, looking north toward the Cheviots and the border. The gorge through which the Coquet ran was visible here and there through the trees. A race had been cut into the steep bank some way north of the castle, channeling water to the castle mill; only the mill’s slate roof was visible from the study. After the mill, the race widened into an ornamental stream, a series of pools and ponds slowing the pummeling torrent until it flowed peacefully into the large manmade lake south of the castle.

  Royce followed the line of the stream, his gaze fixing on the last pool before the view was cut off by the castle’s north wing. In his mind, he continued along the banks, to where the stream reached the lake, then farther around the western bank…to where the icehouse stood back from the shore in a grove of sheltering willows.

  He stood for a while more, feeling rather than thinking. Then accepting the inevitable, he turned and walked to the door. Stepping out, he looked at Jeffers. “I’m going for a walk. If Miss Chesterton looks for me, tell her I’ll see her at dinner.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He turned and started walking. He supposed he’d get used to the form of address, yet…it wasn’t supposed to have been like this.

  The evening, blissfully quiet though it was, felt like the lull before a storm; after dinner, sitting in the library watching Minerva embroider, Royce could sense the pressures building.

  Viewing the body laid out in the icehouse hadn’t changed anything. His father had aged, yet was recognizably the same man who’d banished him—his only son—for sixteen years, the same man from whom he’d inherited name, title and estate, his height and ruthless temperament, and not much else. Yet temper, temperament, made the man; looking down on his father’s no longer animate face, harsh featured even in death, he’d wondered how different they truly were. His father had been a ruthless despot; at heart, so was he.

  Sunk in the large armchair angled before the hearth wherein a small fire burned incongruously bright, he sipped the fine malt whisky Retford had poured him, and pretended that the ancient, luxurious yet comfortable surroundings had relaxed him.

  Even if he hadn’t sens
ed storms on his horizon, having his chatelaine in the same room guaranteed he wouldn’t—couldn’t—relax.

  His eyes seemed incapable of shifting for any length of time away from her; his gaze again drawn to her as she sat on the chaise, eyes on her needlework, the firelight gilding her upswept hair and casting a rosy sheen over her cheeks, he wondered anew at the oddity—the inconvenient fact—that she wasn’t attracted to him, that he apparently didn’t impinge on her awareness while he—every sense he possessed—was increasingly fixated on her.

  The arrogance of the thought occurred to him, yet in his case was nothing more than the truth. Most ladies found him attractive; he usually simply took his pick of those offering, crooked his finger, and that lady was his for however long he wanted her.

  He wanted his chatelaine with an intensity that surprised him, yet her disinterest precluded him from having her. He’d never pursued a woman, actively seduced a woman, in his life, and at his age didn’t intend to start.

  After dressing for dinner—mentally thanking Trevor who had foreseen the necessity—he’d gone to the drawing room armed with a catechism designed to distract them both. She’d been happy to oblige, filling in the minutes before Retford had summoned them to the dining room, then continuing through the meal, reminding him of the local families, both ton and gentry, casting her net as far as Alnwick and the Percys, before segueing into describing the changes in local society—who were now the principal opinion makers, which families had faded into obscurity.

  Not that much had changed; with minor adjustments, his previous view of this part of the world still prevailed.

  Then Retford had drawn the covers and she’d risen, intending to leave him to a solitary glass of port. He’d opted instead to follow her to the library and the whisky his father had kept there.

  Prolonging the torture of being in her presence, yet he hadn’t wanted to be alone.

  When he’d commented on her using the library instead of the drawing room, she’d told him that after his mother’s death, his father had preferred her to sit with him there…suddenly recalling it was he, not his father, walking beside her, she’d halted. Before she could ask if he’d rather she repaired to the drawing room, he’d said he had further questions and waved her on.