“Where?” He was lying-she could see he was-but he was willing to dance to her tune.
“In Bond Street.”
“At one of the jewelers?”
Slowly, he nodded. “Aspreys.”
Royce’s aunt Emma, seated next to Minerva, leaned forward. “Did you see what they were looking at?”
“They spent quite a bit of time looking at brooches. I saw the attendant bring out a tray-on it were-”
Minerva sat back, a vacuous smile on her face, and let Hubert run on. He was well-launched, and with a wife like Susannah, his knowledge of the jewelry to be found in Aspreys was extensive.
All attention had swung to him.
Leaving Royce to finish his meal without further aggravation; he needed no encouragement to apply himself to the task.
Hubert had only just passed on to the necklaces the royal couple had supposedly examined when Royce pushed away his plate, waved Retford’s offer of the fruit bowl aside, dropped his napkin beside his plate, and stood.
The movement broke Hubert’s spell. All attention swung to Royce.
He didn’t bother to smile. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a dukedom to run.” He started striding down the room on his way to the door. Over the heads, he nodded to Hubert. “Do carry on.”
Drawing level, his gaze pinned Minerva. “I’ll see you in the study when you’re free.”
She was free now. As Royce strode from the room, she patted her lips, edged back her chair, waited for the footman to draw it out for her. She smiled at Hubert as she stood. “I know I’ll regret not hearing the rest of your news-it’s like a fairy tale.”
He grinned. “Never mind. There’s not much more to tell.”
She swallowed a laugh, fought to look suitably disappointed as she hurried from the room in Royce’s wake.
He’d already disappeared up the stairs; she climbed them, then walked quickly to the study, wondering which part of the estate he’d choose to interrogate her on today.
Since their visit to Usway Burn on Friday, he’d had her sitting before his desk for a few hours each day, telling him about the estate’s tenant farms and the families who held them. He didn’t ask about profits, crops, or yields, none of the things Kelso or Falwell were responsible for, but about the farms themselves, the land, the farmers and their wives, their children. Who interacted with whom, the human dynamics of the estate; that was what he questioned her on.
When she’d passed on his father’s dying message, she hadn’t known whether he’d actually had it in him to be different; Variseys tended to breed true, and along with their other principal traits, their stubbornness was legendary.
That was why she hadn’t delivered the message immediately. She’d wanted Royce to see and know what his father had meant, rather than just hear the words. Words out of context were too easy to dismiss, to forget, to ignore.
But now he’d heard them, absorbed them, and made the effort, responded to the need, and scripted a new way forward with the Macgregors. She was too wise to comment, not even to encourage; he’d waited for her to say something, but she’d stepped back and left him to define his own way.
With skill and luck, one could steer Variseys; one couldn’t lead them.
Jeffers was on duty outside the study. He opened the door and she walked in.
Royce was pacing back and forth before the window behind the desk, looking out at his lands, his every stride invested with the lethal grace of a caged jungle cat, muscles sleekly taut, shifting beneath the fine weave of his coat and his thigh-hugging buckskin breeches.
She simply stood, unable to look away; instinct wouldn’t allow her to take her eyes from such a predatory sight.
And looking was no hardship.
She could sense his whipping temper, knew he could lash out, yet was utterly sure he would never hurt her. Or any woman. Yet the turbulent emotions seething within him, swirling in powerful currents all around him, would have most women, most men, edging away.
Not her. She was attracted to the energy, to the wild and compelling power that was so intrinsic a part of him.
Her dangerous secret.
She waited. The door had closed; he knew she was there. When he gave no sign, she advanced and sat in the chair.
Abruptly, he halted. He hauled in a huge breath, then swung around, and dropped into his chair. “The farm at Lin-shields. Who holds it these days-is it still the Carews?”
“Yes, but I think you probably remember Carew senior. It’s his son who runs the farm now.”
He kept her talking for the next hour, pressing her, questions flying at a cracking pace.
Royce tried to keep his mind wholly focused on business-on the information he drew from her-yet her answers flowed so freely he had time to truly listen, not just to what she was saying but to her voice, the timbre, the faint huskiness, the rise and fall of emotions as she let them color her words.
She had no reticence, no shields, not on this subject, not any longer. He didn’t need to watch for hints of prevarica tion, or of reserve.
So his wider senses had time to dwell on the rise and fall of her breasts, the way one errant curl fell across her forehead, time to note the gold flecks that came alive in her eyes when she smiled over some recounted incident.
Eventually, his questions ended, died. His temper dissipated, he sat back in his chair. Physically relaxed, inwardly brooding. His gaze on her.
“I didn’t thank you for saving me at luncheon.”
Minerva smiled. “Hubert was a surprise. And it was your relatives we saved, not you.”
He grimaced, reached out to reposition a pencil that had rolled across the blotter. “They’re right in that I will need to marry, but I can’t see why they’re so intent on pushing the subject at this time.” He glanced at her, a question in his eyes.
“I’ve no idea why, either. I’d expected them to leave that topic for at least a few months, mourning and all. Although I suppose no eyebrows would be raised if you became betrothed within the year.”
The fingers of one hand tapping the blotter, his gaze sharpened. “I’m not of a mind to let them dictate, or even dabble in, my future. It might, therefore, be wise to get some idea of the potential…candidates.”
She hesitated, then asked, “What style of candidate are you thinking of?”
He gave her a look that said she knew better than to ask. “The usual style-a typical Varisey bride. How does it go? Suitable breeding, position, connections and fortune, passable beauty, intelligence optional.” He frowned. “Did I forget anything?”
She fought to keep her lips straight. “No. That’s more or less the full description.”
No matter that he might differ from his father in managing people and the estate, he wouldn’t differ in his requirements of a bride. The tradition of Varisey marriages predated the dukedom by untold generations, and, even more telling, suited their temperament.
She saw no reason to disagree with his assessment. The new fashion of love matches within the nobility had little to offer the Variseys. They did not love. She’d spent more than twenty years among them, and had never seen any evidence to the contrary. It was simply the way they were; love had been bred out of them centuries ago-if it had ever been in their mix at all. “If you wish, I could make a list of the candidates your relatives-and no doubt the grandes dames who come up for the funeral-mention.”
He nodded. “Their gossip may as well be useful for something. Add anything relevant you know, or hear from reliable sources.” He met her eyes. “And, no doubt, you’ll add your opinion, as well.”
She smiled sweetly. “No, I won’t. As far as I’m concerned, choosing your bride is entirely your affair. I won’t be living with her.”
He gave her another of his bland, you-should-know-better looks. “Neither will I.”