Staring into his dark eyes, Minerva felt her emotions surge and swell; she was in very deep water, in danger of being swept away. Being pulled under; the tug of his words, of his lure, was that strong—strong enough to tempt her, even her, even though she knew the price…she frowned. “Are you saying that you’ll remain faithful to your duchess?”
“Not to my duchess. But to you? Yes.”
Oh, clever answer; her heart skipped a beat. She looked into his eyes, saw his implacable, immovable will looking back—and the room spun. She drew an unsteady breath; the planets had just realigned. A Varisey was promising fidelity. “What brought this on?”
What on earth had proved strong enough to bring him to this?
He didn’t immediately answer, but his eyes remained steady on hers.
Eventually he said, “I’ve seen over the years what Rupert, Miles, and Gerald have found with Rose, Eleanor, and Alice. I’ve spent more time in their households than in this one—and what they have is what I want. I’ve more recently seen my ex-colleagues find their brides—and they, too, found wives and marriages that offered far more than convenience and dynastic advance.”
He shifted slightly beneath her, for the first time glanced beyond her, but then he brought his gaze back to her face—forced it back. His jaw tightened. “Then the grandes dames came and made clear what they expected—and not one thought that I would want, much less deserved, anything better than the customary Varisey marriage.” His voice hardened. “But they were wrong. I want you—and I want more.”
She inwardly shivered. She would have sworn she didn’t outwardly, but his hands, until then warm and strong about her waist, left her, and he reached for the counterpane, drew it up to drape around and over her shoulders. She caught the edges, drew them closer. She wasn’t cold; she was emotionally shaken.
To her toes.
“I…” She refocused on him.
He was looking at his hands adjusting the counterpane around her. “Before you say anything…when I went to see Hamish today, I asked his advice about what I might say to you to convince you to accept my suit.” His eyes lifted and met hers. “He told me I should tell you that I loved you.”
She couldn’t breathe; she was trapped in the unfathomable darkness of his eyes.
They remained locked with hers. “He told me that you would want me to say that—to claim I loved you.” He drew breath, went on, “I will never lie to you—if I could tell you I loved you, I would. I will do anything I need to to make you mine, to have you as my duchess—except lie to you.”
He seemed to have as much trouble breathing as she did; the next breath he drew shuddered. He let it out as his eyes searched hers. “I care for you, in a way and to a depth that I care for no one else. But we both know I can’t say I love you. We both know why. As a Varisey I don’t know the first thing about love, much less how to make it happen. I don’t even know if the emotion exists within me. But what I can—and will—promise, is that I will try. For you, I will try—I will give you everything I have in me, but I can’t promise it’ll be enough. I can promise to try, but I can’t promise I’ll succeed.” He held her gaze unflinchingly. “I can’t promise to love you because I don’t know if I can.”
Moments passed; she remained immersed in his eyes, seeing, hearing, knowing. Finally she drew in a long, slow breath, refocused on his face, looked again into those dark, tempestuous eyes. “If I agree to marry you, will you promise me that? Promise you’ll remain faithful, and that you’ll try?”
The answer was immediate, uncompromising. “Yes. For you, I’ll promise that, in whatever way, whatever words, you wish.”
She felt strung tight, emotionally tense—poised on a wire above an abyss. Assessing her tension made her aware of his; beneath her thighs, her bottom, his muscles were all steel—he otherwise hid it well, his uncertainty.
Gazes locked, they were both teetering. She drew breath, and pulled back. “I need to think.” She swiftly replayed his words, arched a brow. “You haven’t actually proposed.”
He was silent for a moment, then succinctly stated, “I’ll propose when you’re ready to accept.”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“I know.”
She studied him, sensed his uncertainty, but even more his unwavering determination. “You’ve surprised me.” She’d thought of marrying him, fantasized and dreamed of it, but she’d never thought it might come to be—any more than she’d thought she would share his bed, let alone on a regular basis, yet here she was—a warning in itself. “A large part of me wants to say yes, please ask, but becoming your duchess isn’t something I can decide on impulse.”
He’d offered her everything her heart could desire—short of promising her his. In one arrogant sweep, he’d moved them into a landscape she’d never imagined might exist—and in which there were no familiar landmarks.
“You’ve thrown me into complete mental turmoil.” Her thoughts were chaotic, her emotions more so; her mind was a seething cauldron in which well-known fears battled unexpected hopes, uncataloged desires, unsuspected needs.
Still he said nothing, too wise to press.
Indeed. She couldn’t let him, or her wilder self, rush her into this—a marriage that, if it went wrong, guaranteed emotional obliteration. “You’re going to have to give me time. I need to think.”
He didn’t protest.
She dragged in a breath, threw him a warning look, then slid off him, back to her side of the bed; turning onto her side, facing away from him, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders and snuggled down.
After a moment of regarding her through the dark, Royce turned and slid down in the bed, spooning his body around hers. Sliding his arm over her waist, he eased her back against him.
She humphed softly, but wriggled back, setting her hips against his abdomen. With a small sigh, she relaxed slightly.
He was still tense, his gut still churning. So much of his life, his future, was now riding on this, on her; he’d just placed his life in her hands—at least she hadn’t handed it straight back.
Which, realistically, was all he could ask of her at that point.
Lifting her hair aside, he pressed a kiss to her nape. “Go to sleep. You can take whatever time you need to think.”
After a moment, he murmured, “But when Lady Osbaldestone comes back up here and demands who I’ve chosen as my bride, I’ll have to tell her.”
Minerva snorted. Her lips curved, then, against every last expectation, she did as he’d bid her and fell fast asleep.
Seventeen
Hamish O’Loughlin, you mangy Scot, how dare you tell Royce to tell me he loves me!”
“Huh?” Hamish looked up from the sheep he was examining.
Folding her arms, Minerva fell to pacing alongside the pen.
Hamish studied her face. “You didn’t want to hear that he loves you?”
“Of course I would love to hear that he loves me—but how can he say such a thing? He’s a Varisey, for heaven’s sake.”
“Hmm.” Letting the sheep jump away, Hamish leaned against the railing. “Perhaps the same way I tell Moll that I love her.”
“But that’s you. You’re not—” She broke off. Halting, head rising, she blinked at him.
He gave her a cynical smile. “Aye—think on it. I’m as much a Varisey as he is.”
She frowned. “But you’re not…” She waved south, over the hills.
“Castle-bred? True. But perhaps that just means I never believed I wouldn’t love, not when the right woman came along.” He studied her face. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”
“No—he was honest. He says he’ll try—that he wants more of his marriage, but”—she drew in a huge breath—“he can’t promise to love me because he doesn’t know if he can.”
Hamish made a disgusted sound. “You’re a right pair. You’ve been in love with him—or at least waiting to fall in love with him—for decades, and now you have—”
“You
can’t know that.” She stared at him.
“Of course, I can. Not that he’s said all that much, but I can read between his lines, and yours, well enough—and you’re here, aren’t you?”
She frowned harder.
“Aye—it’s as I thought.” Hamish let himself out of the pen, latching the gate behind him. Leaning back against it, he looked at her. “You both need to take a good long look at each other. What do you think has made him even consider having a different sort of marriage? A love match—isn’t that what society calls them? Why do you imagine they’re called that?”
She scowled at him. “You’re making it sound simple and easy.”
Hamish nodded his great head. “Aye—that’s how love is. Simple, straightforward, and easy. It just happens. Where it gets complicated is when you try to think too much, to rationalize it, make sense of it, pick it apart—it’s not like that.” He pushed away from the gate, and started lumbering up the path; she fell in beside him. “But if you must keep thinking, think on this—love happens, just like a disease. And like any disease, the easiest way to tell someone’s caught it is to look for the symptoms. I’ve known Royce longer than you have, and he’s got every last symptom. He might not know he loves you, but he feels it—he acts on it.”
They’d reached the yard where she’d left Rangonel. Hamish halted and looked down at her. “The truth is, lass, he might never be able to honestly, knowingly, tell you he loves you—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”
She grimaced, rubbed a gloved finger in the center of her forehead. “You’ve only given me more to think about.”
Hamish grinned. “Aye, well, if you must think, the least you can do is think of the right things.”
As Minerva rode south across the border and down through the hills, she had plenty of time to think of Royce and his symptoms. Plenty of time to ponder all Hamish had said; while helping her to her saddle, he’d reminded her that the late duchess had been unwaveringly faithful, not to her husband, but to her longtime lover, Sidney Camberwell.
The duchess and Camberwell had been together for over twenty years; remembering all she’d seen of the pair, thinking of “symptoms,” she had to conclude they’d been very much in love.
Perhaps Hamish was right; Royce could and might love her.
Regardless, she had to make up her mind, and soon—he hadn’t been joking when he’d mentioned Lady Osbaldestone—which was why she’d come out riding; Hamish’s farm had seemed an obvious destination.
Take whatever time you need to think.
She knew Royce far too well not to know that he’d meant: Take whatever time you need to think as long as you agree to be my wife.
He would do everything in his power to ensure she did; henceforth he would feel completely justified in doing whatever it took to make her agree.
In his case, “whatever it took” covered a great deal—as he’d demonstrated that morning, with shattering results. She’d escaped only because the sun had risen. If it hadn’t, she would be at his mercy still.
In public, however, over breakfast, and then later when they’d met for their usual meeting in his study with Handley in attendance and Jeffers by the door, he’d behaved with exemplary decorum; she couldn’t fault him in that—while in private he might pressure her to decide quickly in his favor, he did nothing to raise speculation in others.
“For which,” she assured the hills at large, “I’m duly grateful. The last thing I need is Margaret, Aurelia, and Susannah hectoring me. I don’t even know which way they’d fall—for or against.”
An interesting question, but beside the point. She didn’t care what they thought, and Royce cared even less.
For the umpteenth time, she replayed his arguments. Most confirmed what she’d seen from the start; marrying her would be the best option for him, especially given his commitment to Wolverstone and to the dukedom as a whole. What didn’t fit the mold of convenience and comfort was his desire for a different sort of marriage; she couldn’t question the reality of that—he’d had to force himself to reveal it, and she’d felt his sincerity to her bones.
And he did care for her, in his own arrogant, high-handed way. There was an undeniably seductive triumph in being the only woman to have ever made a Varisey think of anything even approaching love. And especially Royce—to claim him as her own…but that was a piece of self-seduction.
If he did love her, would it last?
If he loved her as she loved him…
She frowned at Rangonel’s ears. “Regardless of Hamish’s opinion, I still have a lot to think through.”
Royce was in his study working through his correspondence with Handley when Jeffers tapped and opened the door. He looked up, arched a brow.
“Three ladies and a gentleman have arrived, Your Grace. The ladies are insisting on seeing you immediately.”
He inwardly frowned. “Their names?”
“The Marchioness of Dearne, the Countess of Lostwithiel, and Lady Clarice Warnefleet, Your Grace. The gentleman is Lord Warnefleet.”
“The gentleman isn’t asking to see me as well?”
“No, Your Grace. Just the ladies.”
Which was Jack Warnefleet’s way of warning him what the subject his wife and her two cronies wished to discuss was. “Thank you, Jeffers. Show the ladies up. Tell Retford to make Lord Warnefleet comfortable in the library.”
As the door closed, he glanced at Handley. “We’ll have to continue this later. I’ll ring when I’m free.”
Handley nodded, gathered his papers, rose, and left. Royce stared at the closed door. There seemed little point in wondering what message Letitia, Penny, and Clarice had for him; he would know soon enough.
Less than a minute later, Jeffers opened the door, and the ladies—three of the seven wives of his ex-colleagues of the Bastion Club—swept in. Rising, he acknowledged their formal curtsies, then waved them to the chairs Jeffers angled before the desk.
He waited until they’d settled, then, dismissing Jeffers with a nod, resumed his seat. As the door closed, he let his gaze sweep the three striking faces before him. “Ladies. Permit me to guess—I owe this pleasure to Lady Osbaldestone.”
“And all the others.” Letitia, flanked by Penny and Clarice, flung her arms wide. “The entire pantheon of tonnish grandes dames.”
He let his brows rise. “Why, if I might ask, you—more specifically, why all three of you?”
Letitia grimaced. “I was visiting Clarice and Jack in Gloucestershire while Christian dealt with business in London. Penny had come up to join us for a few days when Christian relayed a summons from Lady Osbaldestone insisting I attend her immediately in London on a matter of great urgency.”
“Naturally,” Clarice said, “Letitia had to go, and Penny and I decided we could do with a week in London, so we went, too.”
“But,” Penny took up the tale, “the instant Lady Osbaldestone laid eyes on us, she made us joint emissaries with Letitia to carry the collective message of the grandes dames to your ears.”
“I suspect,” Clarice said, “that she thought you might be able to avoid Letitia, but you wouldn’t be able to slide around all three of us.”
Clarice glanced at the other two, who returned her regard, then all three pairs of feminine eyes turned on him.
He raised his brows. “Your message?”
It was Letitia who answered. “You are hereby warned that unless you do as you intimated and announce your duchess-to-be forthwith, you will have to cope with a fleet of carriages turning up at your gates. And, of course, the occupants of those carriages won’t be the sort you can easily turn away.” She shrugged. “Their version was rather more formal, but that’s the gist of it.”
Penny frowned. “Actually, it seemed as if you have quite a few people in residence already—and more arriving.”
“My sisters are hosting a house party coincident with the local parish fair. It used to be a family tradition, but lapsed after my mother died.” He focused on Let
itia. “Is there a time limit on the grandes dames’ threat?”
Letitia glanced at Clarice.
“We got the impression the limit is now.” Clarice widened her eyes at him. “Or more precisely, your period of grace expires at the time a missive from us confirming your noncompliance reaches Lady Osbaldestone.”
He tapped a finger on his blotter, letting his gaze sweep their faces again. Lady Osbaldestone had chosen well; with these three, intimidation wouldn’t work. And while he might have been able to divert—subvert—Letitia, with the three of them reinforcing each other, he stood not a chance.
Lips firming, he nodded. “You may report to the beldames that I have, indeed, chosen a bride—”
“Excellent!” Letitia beamed. “So you can draft an announcement, and we can take it back to London.”
“However”—he continued as if she hadn’t spoken—“the lady in question has yet to accept the position.”
They stared at him.
Clarice recovered first. “What is she? Deaf, dumb, blind—or all three?”
That surprised a laugh from him, then he shook his head. “It’s the reverse—she’s too damned insightful for my good. And please do include that in your report—it will make her ladyship’s day. Regardless, an announcement in the Gazette at this point could well prove inimical to our mutual goal.”
Mastered by Love Page 33