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.
On reaching the library, they’d sat; while Retford had fetched the whisky, he’d asked about the London house. That topic hadn’t taken long to exhaust; other than having to rethink his notion of having his butler Hamilton take over as butler there, all else was as he’d supposed.
A strangely comfortable silence had ensued; she was, it seemed, one of those rare females who didn’t need to fill every silence with chatter.
Then again, she’d spent the last three years’ evenings sitting with his father; hardly surprising she’d grown used to long silences.
Unfortunately, while the silence normally would have suited him, tonight it left him prey to increasingly illicit thoughts of her; those currently prevailing involved stripping her slowly of her weeds, unwrapping her curves, her graceful limbs, and investigating her hollows.
All of which seemed guiltily wrong, almost dishonorable.
He inwardly frowned at her-a picture of ladylike decorum as, entirely oblivious of the pain she was causing him, needle flashing she worked on a piece of the same sort of embroidery his mother had favored, petit point he thought it was called. Technically, her living unchaperoned under his roof might be termed scandalous, yet given her position and how long she’d resided there…“How long have you been chatelaine here?”
She glanced up, then returned to her work. “Eleven years. I took on the duties when I turned eighteen, but neither your mother nor your father would consent to me to being titled chatelaine, not until I turned twenty-five and they finally accepted I wouldn’t wed.”
“They’d expected you to marry.” So had he. “Why didn’t you?”
She glanced up, flashed a light smile. “Not for want of offers, but no suitor offered anything I valued enough to grant him my hand-enough to change the life I had.”
“So you’re satisfied being Wolverstone’s chatelaine?”
Unsurprised by the bald question, Minerva shrugged. She would willingly answer any question he asked-anything to disrupt the effect that him sitting there, at his languid, long-legged ease in a sprawl that was so quintessentially masculine-broad shoulders against the high back of the chair, forearms resting along the padded arms, the long fingers of one hand cradling a cut-crystal tumbler, powerful thighs spread apart-was having on her benighted senses. Her nerves were so taut his presence made them flicker and twang like violin strings. “I won’t be chatelaine forever-once you marry, your duchess will take up the reins, and then I plan to travel.”
“Travel? Where to?”
Somewhere a long way from him. She studied the rose she must have just embroidered; she couldn’t remember doing it. “Egypt, perhaps.”
“Egypt?” He didn’t sound impressed by her choice. “Why there?”
“Pyramids.”
The darkly brooding look he’d had before he’d asked when she’d become chatelaine returned. “From all I’ve heard, the area around the pyramids is rife with Berber tribesmen, barbarians who wouldn’t hesitate to kidnap a lady. You can’t go there.”
She imagined informing him that she’d long had a dream of being kidnapped by a barbarian, tossed over his shoulder, and carted into his tent, there to be dropped on a silk-draped pallet and thoroughly ravished-of course he’d been the barbarian in question-and then pointing out that he had no authority over where she went. Instead, she settled for a response he’d like even less. Smiling gently, she looked back at her work. “We’ll see.”
No, they wouldn’t. She wasn’t going anywhere near Egypt, or any other country seething with danger. Royce toyed with lecturing her that his parents hadn’t raised her to have her throw her life away on some misguided adventure…but with his temper so uncertain, and her response guaranteed to only escalate the tension, he kept his lips shut and swallowed the words.
To his intense relief, she slipped her needle into her work, then rolled the piece up and placed it into a tapestry bag that apparently lived beneath one end of the chaise. Leaning down, she tucked the bag back into position, then straightened and looked at him. “I’m going to retire.” She rose. “Don’t stir-I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”
He managed a growled “good night” in reply. His eyes followed her to the door-while he fought to remain in the chair and let her go. Her idea about Egypt hadn’t helped, stirring something primitive-even more primitive-within him. Sexual hunger was a tangible ache as the door shut softly behind her.
Her room would be in the keep, somewhere not far from his new rooms; despite the ever-increasing temptation, he wasn’t going there.
She was his chatelaine, and he needed her.
Until he was solidly established as duke, the reins firmly in his hands, she was his best, most well-informed, reliable, and trustworthy source of information. He would avoid her as much as possible-Falwell and Kelso would help with that-but he would still need to see her, speak with her, on a daily basis.
He’d see her at meals, too; this was her home after all.
Both his parents had been committed to raising her; he had every intention of honoring that commitment even though they were gone. Although not formally a ward of the dukedom, she stood in much the same position…perhaps he could cast himself as in loco parentis?
That would excuse the protectiveness he felt-that he knew he would continue to feel.
Regardless, he would have to bear with her being always around, until, as she’d pointed out, he married.
That was something else he would have to arrange.
Marriage for him, as for all dukes of Wolverstone, indeed, for all Variseys, would be a cold-bloodedly negotiated affair. His parents’ and sisters’ marriages had been that, and had worked as such alliances were meant to; the men took lovers whenever they wished, and once heirs were produced, the women did the same, and the unions remained stable and their estates prospered.
His marriage would follow that course. Neither he nor any Varisey was likely to indulge in the recent fashion for love matches, not least because, as was recognized by all who knew them, Variseys, as a breed, did not love.
Not within marriage, and not, as far as anyone knew, in any other capacity, either.
Of course, once he was wed, he’d be free to take a mistress, a long-term one, one he could keep by his side…
The thought rewoke all the fantasies he’d spent the last hour trying to suppress.
With a disgusted grunt, he drained the amber liquid in his glass, then set it down, rose, adjusted his trousers, and headed off to his empty bed.