“Lady Augusta.” He went forward, took the hand she offered him, half bowed.
To the gentleman beside her, he offered his hand. “My lord.”
The Marquess of Huntly smiled benignly. “It’s been a long time, Royce. Sad that we have to meet again in such circumstances.”
“Indeed.” Lady Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, one of the most influential ladies of the ton, eyed him measuringly. “But circumstances aside, we’ll need to talk, my lad, about your bride. You must marry, and soon-you’ve been dragging your heels for the past decade, but now the time has come, and you’ll have to choose.”
“We’re here to bury my father.” Royce’s accent made the statement a none-too-subtle rebuke.
Lady Augusta snorted. “Indeed.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Which is precisely my point. No mourning for you-in the circumstances the ton will excuse you, and gladly.”
“Lady Augusta!” Minerva hurried down the main stairs, all but tripping in her haste to rescue them all. “We were expecting you yesterday and wondered what had happened.”
“Hubert happened, or rather Westminster called, and he was delayed, so we set out rather later than I’d wished.” Augusta turned to envelop her in a warm embrace. “And how are you, child? Managing with the son as well as you did with the father, heh?”
Minerva shot Royce a look, prayed he’d keep his mouth shut. “I’m not sure about that, but do come upstairs, both of you.” She linked her arm with Augusta’s, then did the same with Hubert on her other side. “Helena and Horatia are already here. They’re in the upstairs salon in the west wing.”
Chatting easily, she determinedly towed the pair up the stairs. As she turned them along the gallery, she glanced down and saw Royce standing where they’d left him, an expression like a thundercloud on his usually impassive face.
Meeting his eyes, she fleetingly shrugged, brows high; she had yet to learn what was fueling the grandes dames’ avid interest in the matter of his bride.
Correctly interpreting her look, Royce watched her guide the pair out of his sight, even more certain that Letitia had been right.
Whatever was coming, he wasn’t going to like it.
Five
That evening, Royce walked into the great drawing room in no good mood; neither he, Minerva, nor Trevor had yet managed to learn exactly what was going on. The large room was crowded, not just with family but also with the elite of the ton, including representatives of the Crown and the Lords, all gathered for the funeral tomorrow, and talking in hushed tones as they waited for the summons to dine.
Halting just over the threshold, Royce surveyed the assembly-and instantly perceived the answer to his most pressing need. The most powerful grande dame of them all, Lady Therese Osbaldestone, was seated between Helena and Horatia on the chaise before the fireplace. She might have been a mere baroness in the company of duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses, yet she wielded more power, political and social, than any other lady of the ton.
More, she was on excellent terms with said duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses; whatever she decreed, they would support. Therein lay much of her power, especially over the male half of society.
Royce had always treated her with respect. Power, the amassing and wielding of it, was something he understood; it was bred in his marrow-something her ladyship appreciated.
She must have arrived while he was out riding.
He walked to the chaise, inclined his head to her companions, then to her. “Lady Osbaldestone.”
Intensely black eyes-true obsidian-fixed on his face. She nodded, trying to read him, and failing. “Wolverstone.”
It was the first time she’d called him that-the first time he’d felt the weight of the mantle on his shoulders. Taking the hand she offered, he bowed, careful not to overdo the observance; she respected those who knew their place, knew what was due to them.
“My condolences on your father’s death. Sadly, it comes to us all, although in his case the timing could have been better.”
He inclined his head, declined to rise to the lure.
She uttered a soft “humph.” “We need to talk-later.”
He acquiesced with a half bow. “Later.”
Swallowing his impatience, he moved away, letting those of his relatives and connections he’d thus far avoided have at him. Weathering their greetings and accepting their condolences grated on his nerves; he was relieved when Minerva joined the circle about him and set about distracting those he’d already spoken with, subtly but effectively moving them on.
Then Retford announced that dinner was served. Minerva caught his eye, whispered as she passed close, “Lady Augusta.”
He assumed that was who he was to lead in to dinner; he located the marchioness-yet his senses, ensorcelled simply by Minerva passing so close, continued to track her.
She wasn’t doing anything to attract his notice. In her weeds, she should have faded into the sea of black surrounding him; instead she-just she-seemed to shine in his awareness. The dull black suited her golden loveliness. With an effort hauling his mind from slaveringly dwelling on the loveliness inside the dull black, he surrendered to duty and strolled to Lady Augusta, while trying to push the lingering, elusive, wantonly feminine scent of his chatelaine from his brain.
The conversations in the drawing room had been muted. Continuing the trend, dinner proved an unexpectedly somber meal, as if everyone had suddenly recalled why they were there-and who no longer was. For the first time since he’d viewed the body, he felt touched by his father’s absence, sitting in the great carver where his sire used to sit, looking down the long table, lined by more than sixty others, to Margaret sitting at the other end.
A different perspective, one not previously his.
His gaze tracked back to Minerva, seated toward the table’s center, opposite Susannah, and surrounded by his cousins. There were nine male cousins present from both sides of his family, Variseys and Debraighs; given the numbers attending, his younger female cousins weren’t expected.
His maternal uncle, the Earl of Catersham, was seated on Margaret’s right, while the eldest of his paternal aunts, Winifred, Countess Barraclough, sat on Royce’s left. Beyond her sat his heir, Lord Edwin Varisey, the third brother of his grandfather’s generation, while on his right, next to Lady Augusta and facing Edwin, was his cousin several times removed, Gordon Varisey, eldest son of the late Cameron Varisey, Edwin’s younger brother; after the childless Edwin, Gordon stood next in line for the ducal crown.
Edwin was an ancient fop. Gordon was dark and dour, but underneath a sound man. Neither expected to inherit the dukedom, which was just as well; despite his resistance to discussing the subject with all and sundry, Royce had every intention of marrying and siring an heir to whom he would pass the title. What he failed to comprehend was why he needed the help of the grandes dames to achieve that goal, and why it had to be achieved so urgently.
Luckily, the mood of the dinner, with the ladies in dull black, gray, or deep purple, with no jewels beyond jet and no fans or furbelows, and the gentlemen in black coats, many sporting black cravats, had suppressed all talk of his nuptials. Conversations continued to be low-voiced, constant, yet no one laughed, or smiled other than wistfully; across him, Augusta, Winifred, and Edwin swapped tales of his father, to which he pretended to pay attention.