Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  “At the risk of sounding arrogantly smug, I got the impression you haven’t been accustomed to…life’s little subtleties.”

  His tone made it clear to what he was referring; life’s little subtleties, indeed! “Of course not. I’ve been your mother’s confidante and your father’s chatelaine for the past eleven years. Why would I know of such things?”

  She glanced his way, and saw a faintly puzzled, somewhat quizzical look on his face.

  The same qualities resonated in his voice when he replied, “Strangely, those same criteria gave rise to my question.”

  She looked ahead, felt his gaze on her face.

  “I take it your past lovers weren’t…shall we say, imaginative?”

  Her past lovers were nonexistent, but she wasn’t going to tell him that—he who had known more women than he could count. Literally.

  That he, expert that he was, hadn’t detected her inexperience left her feeling faintly chuffed. She cast about in her mind for a suitable retort. As she stepped off the bridge and set off down the path, with every step closer to the castle feeling more like herself, she inclined her head in his direction. “I suspect few men are as imaginative as you.”

  She felt certain that was nothing more than the truth, and if it caused him to preen and think he’d advanced his cause, so much the better.

  After the afternoon’s debacle, she was going to have to give avoiding him much more serious thought. He thought she’d had lovers.

  Then again, Variseys were sneaky, underhanded, and utterly untrustworthy when it came to something they wanted; he was quite capable of paying her a roundabout compliment like that in the hopes of further softening her brain.

  Which, where he was concerned, was already soft enough.

  Late that night, so late the moon was riding an inky sky over the Cheviots, casting a pearlescent sheen over every tree and rock, Minerva stood at her bedroom window and, arms folded, stared unseeing at the evocative landscape.

  The door was locked; she suspected Royce could pick locks, so she’d left the key in the hole and turned it fully, then wedged a handkerchief around it, just to be sure.

  She’d spent the evening with the other ladies, metaphorically clinging to their skirts. Although her bedroom was in the keep proper, opposite the duchess’s morning room, not all that far from the ducal apartments and Royce’s ducal bed, by steering the guests up the main keep stairs, she’d been able to tag along, stopping at her door while the ladies with rooms in the east wing walked on.

  Royce had noticed her strategy, but other than an appreciative quirk to his lips, had made nothing of it.

  She, however, was clearly going to have to take a stand against him.

  The speculation the assembled ladies had indulged in after dinner, in the drawing room before the men had rejoined them, had underscored what she shouldn’t have needed to be reminded of; they were all waiting to learn who he’d chosen as his bride.

  Any day now, they would hear.

  And then where would she be?

  “Damn all Variseys—especially him!” The muttered sentiment relieved a little of her ire, but the major part was self-directed. She’d known what he was like all along; what she hadn’t known, hadn’t realized, was that he could take her idiotic infatuation-obsession and with a few lustful kisses, a few illicit caresses, convert it into outright desire.

  Flaming desire—the sort that burned.

  She felt like she was smoldering, just waiting to ignite. If he touched her, kissed her, she would—and she knew where that would lead. He’d even told her—to his ducal bed.

  “Humph!” Despite wanting—now, thanks to him and his expertise, wanting quite desperately—to experience in the flesh all that her fanciful imagination had ever dreamed, despite her smoldering desire to lie beneath him, there was one equally powerful consideration that, no matter that damning desire, had her holding adamantly, unwaveringly, to her original decision never to grace his bed.

  If she did…would infatuation–obsession–smoldering desire convert to something more?

  If it did…

  If she ever did anything so foolish as to fall in love with a Varisey—and with him in particular—she would deserve every iota of the emotional devastation that was guaranteed to follow.

  Variseys did not love. The entire ton knew that.

  In Royce’s case it was widely known that his lovers never lasted long, that he inevitably moved on to another, then another, with no lingering attachment of any kind. He was a Varisey to his toes, and he’d never pretended otherwise.

  To fall in love with such a man would be unjustifiably stupid. She strongly suspected that, for her, it would be akin to emotional self-immolation.

  So she wasn’t going to—could not allow herself to—take the risk of falling in with his seduction, if it even could be called that—his highly charged sexual game.

  And while she might be crossing swords with a master, she had a very good idea how to avoid his thrust—indeed, he’d told her himself.

  Somewhat grimly, she considered ways and means. She wasn’t, when she dwelled on it, as short of defenses as she’d thought.

  Ten

  The next morning, she commenced her campaign to protect her heart from the temptation of falling in love with Royce Varisey.

  Her strategy was simple; she had to keep as far as possible from his ducal bed.

  She knew him; he was stubborn, not to say muleheaded, to a fault. Given he’d declared that he would first have her in the huge four-poster—even to denying himself over the point—as long as she kept clear of his bedroom and that bed, she would be safe.

  After breakfasting with the other guests rather than in the keep’s private parlor, she sent a message to the stables for the gig, went down to the kitchens and filled a basket with a selection of preserves made from fruit from the castle’s orchards, then strolled out to the stables.

  She was waiting for the gig’s harness to be tightened when Sword came thundering in, Royce on his back.

  Bringing the stallion under control, he raked her with his gaze. “Wither away?”

  “There are some crofter families I need to call on.”

  “Where?”

  “Up Blindburn way.”

  His gaze lowered to Sword. He’d ridden the stallion hard, and would need another mount if he chose to come with her; the gig couldn’t hold the basket and them both.

  He glanced at her. “If you’ll wait while they fetch my curricle, I’ll drive us there. I should meet these crofters.”

  She considered, then nodded. “All right.”

  He dismounted, with a few orders dispatched Henry and two grooms to harness his blacks to his curricle, while others unharnessed the old cob from the gig.

  When the curricle was ready, she let him take her basket and stow it beneath the seat, then hand her up; she’d remembered his demon-bred horses—with them between the shafts, he wouldn’t be able to devote any attention to her.

  To seducing her.

  He climbed up beside her, and with a flick of his wrist, sent the blacks surging; the curricle rattled out of the stable yard and down the drive, then he headed the flighty pair up Clennell Street.

  Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a group of low stone cottages huddled against a hillside. Royce was quietly relieved that his expensive pair had, once they’d accepted that he wasn’t going to let them run, managed the less-than-even climb without breaking any legs.

  He drew the horses to a halt at the edge of a flattened area between the three cottages. Children instantly appeared from every aperture, some literally tumbling out of windows. All were wide-eyed with wonder. They quickly gathered around, staring at the blacks.

  “Coo—oo!” one boy reverently breathed. “Bet they go like the clappers.”

  Minerva climbed down, then reached in for her basket. She caught his eye. “I won’t be too long.”

  A sudden feeling—it might have been panic—assailed him at the notion of bein
g left at the mercy of a pack of children for hours. “How long is ‘too long’?”

  “Perhaps half an hour—no more.” With a smile, she headed for the cottages. All the children chorused a polite “Good morning, Miss Chesterton,” which Minerva answered with a smile, but the brats immediately returned their attention to him—or rather, his horses.

  He eyed the motley crew gradually inching closer; they ranged from just walking to almost old enough to work in the fields—whatever ages those descriptions translated to. He’d had very little to do with children of any sort, not since he’d been one himself; he didn’t know what to say, or do.

  Their bright, eager gazes flicked from the horses to him, but the instant they saw him watching, they looked back at the horses. He revised his earlier conclusion; they were interested in him, but the horses were easier to approach.

  He was their duke; they were his future workers.

  Mentally girding his loins, moving slowly and deliberately, he tied off the reins, then stepped down and strolled to the horses’ heads. Some of the children were quite small, and the blacks, although temporarily quiet, were completely untrustworthy.

  The crowd drew back a step or two, the older boys and girls bobbing bows and curtsies. The younger ones weren’t sure what to do or why. One girl hissed to her recalcitrant little brother, “He’s the new dook, stoopid.”

  Royce pretended he hadn’t heard. He nodded amiably—a general nod that included them all—then, catching his leader’s bridle, reached up and smoothed a hand down the long arched neck.

  An instant passed, then—

  “Do you ride ’em, Y’r Grace? Or are they just for hauling th’ carriage?”

  “Have you won any races with ’em, Y’r Grace?”

  “Is this here a curricle, or one of them phaetons, Y’r Grace?”

  “How fast can they go, Y’r Grace?”

  He very nearly told them to stop “Y’r Grace”-ing him, but realized it might sound like a reprimand. Instead, he set himself to answering their questions in a calm, unruffled manner.

  Somewhat to his surprise, the approach he used with horses worked with children, too. They relaxed, and he had the chance to turn the tables enough to learn a little about the small settlement. Minerva had told him five families lived in the three cottages. The children confirmed that only the older women were at home; all the other adults and youths were in the fields, or working in the forge a little way farther along the track. They themselves weren’t at school because there was no school nearby; they learned their letters and numbers from the older women.

  After a few such exchanges, the children clearly felt the ice had been broken and their bona fides sufficiently established to ask about him.

  “We did hear tell,” the lad he thought was the oldest said, “that you was working in London for the government—that you were a spy!”

  That surprised him; he’d thought his father would have ensured his occupation had remained a dim, dark secret.

  “No, silly!” The oldest girl blushed when Royce and the others looked her way, but gamely went on, “Ma said as you were the chief spy—the one in charge—and that you were responsible for bringing down Boney.”

  “Well…not by myself. The men I organized did very dangerous things, and yes, they contributed to Napoleon’s downfall, but it took Wellington and the whole army, and Blucher and the others, too, to finally get the deed done.”

  Naturally, they took that as an invitation to pepper him with questions about his men’s missions; borrowing freely from otherwise classified exploits, it was easy enough to keep the expectant horde satisfied, although they were rather put out to learn he hadn’t actually seen Napoleon dragged away in chains.

  After delivering the preserves she’d brought, and being introduced to the latest addition to the combined households by its grandmother, juggling the swaddled infant in her arms, cooing while it batted at her hair, Minerva went to the window the better to see the child’s eyes, glanced out—and tensed to hand the babe back so she could rush out and rescue its siblings.

  Or Royce, whichever applied…but after an instant of looking, taking in the tableau centered on the black horses, the curricle—and the most powerful duke in England, who appeared to be telling some tale—she relaxed and, smiling, turned back to the baby and cooed some more.

  The baby’s grandmother came to the window; she, too, took in the scene outside. Her brows rose. After a moment, she said, “Looking at that, if I couldn’t see with my own eyes that he’s the last lord’s get, I’d be thinking some cuckoo had got into the ducal nest.”

  Minerva’s smile deepened; the idea of Royce as a cuckoo…“He’s definitely a Varisey, born and bred.”

  The old woman humphed. “Aye, we’ll all be locking up our daughters, no doubt. Still…” She turned from the window and headed back to her work. “If that had been his father out there, he would have snarled at the brats and sent them scurrying—just because he could.”

  Minerva couldn’t disagree, yet old Henry would never have even considered coming out with her on her rounds.

  Nevertheless, she didn’t tempt fate; handing the baby back to its grandmother, she collected her basket, and was saying her farewells when a large presence darkened the doorway. Royce had to duck low to enter.

  The three women immediately bobbed curtsies; Minerva introduced them before he could make any abrupt demand that they leave.

  He acknowledged the women smoothly, then his gaze flicked over her, taking in the empty basket in her hand. But again, before he could say anything, the matriarch, who’d seized the moment to size him up, came forward to show him her grandchild.

  Minerva held her breath, sensed him tense to step back— retreating from the baby—but then he stiffened and held his ground. He nodded formally at the matriarch’s words, then, about to turn and leave, hesitated.

  He reached out and touched the back of one long finger to the baby’s downy cheek. The baby gurgled and batted with tiny fists. The grandmother’s face was wreathed in smiles.

  She saw Royce notice, saw him take in the way the other women softened, too. Then he glanced at her.

  She gestured with her basket. “We should be going.”

  He nodded, inclined his head to the women. “Ladies.” Turning, he ducked out of the cottage.

  After exchanging impressed looks with the crofter women, Minerva followed. Crossing the yard to the curricle, she saw and heard enough to know that the children had lost all fear of their duke; their eyes now shone with a species of hero worship more personal than simple awe.

  His father had had no real relationship, no personal interaction, with his people; he’d managed them from a distance, through Falwell and Kelso, and had spoken with any directly only when absolutely necessary. He’d therefore only spoken to the senior men.

  Royce, it seemed, might be different. He certainly lacked his father’s insistence on a proper distance being preserved between his ducal self and the masses.

  Once again he took the basket, stowed it, then handed her up. Retrieving the reins from the oldest lad, he joined her. She held her tongue and let him direct the children back. Round-eyed, they complied, watched as he carefully turned the skittish pair, then waved wildly and sang their farewells as he guided the curricle down the lane.

  As the cottages fell behind, the peace, serenity—and isolation—of the hills closed around them. Reminded of her goal, she thought quickly, then said, “Now we’re out this way, there’s a well over toward Shillmoor that’s been giving trouble.” She met his hard gaze as his head swung her way. “We should take a look.”

  He held her gaze for an instant, then had to look back to his horses. The only reply he gave was a grunt, but when they reached the bottom of the lane, he turned the horses’ heads west, toward Shillmoor.

  Rather than, as she was perfectly certain he’d intended to, make for the nearest secluded lookout.

  Sitting back, she hid a smile. As long as she avoided bei
ng alone with him in a setting he could use, she would be safe, and he wouldn’t be able to advance his cause.

  It was early evening when Royce stalked into his dressing room and started stripping off his clothes while Trevor poured the last of a succession of buckets of steaming water into the bath in the bathing chamber beyond.

  His mood was distinctly grim. His chatelaine had successfully filled their entire day; they’d left the little hamlet near Shillmoor with barely enough time to drive back to the castle and bathe before dinner.

  And after overseeing the final stages of reconstruction of the well’s crumbling walls and sagging roof, then taking an active part in reassembling and correctly recommissioning the mechanism for pulling water up from the depths of the very deep well, he needed a bath.

  The local men had taken the day off from working their fields and had gathered to repair the aging well, a necessity before winter; when he and Minerva had driven up, they’d been well advanced with the repairs to the walls. Their ideas for shoring up the roof, however, were a recipe for disaster; he’d stepped in and used his unquestioned authority to redesign and direct the construction of a structure that would have some hope of withstanding the weight of snow they commonly experienced in those parts.

  Far from resenting his interference, the men, and the women, too, had been relieved and sincerely grateful. They’d shared their lunch—cider, thick slabs of cheese, and freshly baked rye bread, which he and Minerva had graciously accepted—then been even more amazed when, after watching the men scratch their heads and mutter over the mechanism they’d disassembled, he’d shrugged out of his hacking jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work with them, sorting the various parts and helping reassemble, realign, and reposition the mechanism—he was taller and stronger than any of those there—finally resulting in a rejuvenated and properly functioning well.

  There’d been cheers all around as one of the women had pulled up the first brimming pail.

  He and Minerva had left with a cacophony of thanks ringing in their ears, but it hadn’t escaped his notice how surprised and intrigued by him the villagers had been. Clearly, his way of dealing with them was vastly different from that of his sire.