He turned more leaves. After a moment, he said, “This is your writing.”
“I was her amanuensis-I stuck the pieces in and noted the dates.”
He did as she’d thought he would, and flipped forward to where the entries ended. Paused. “This is the notice from the Gazette announcing the end of my commission. It ran…” His finger tapped the date. “Two weeks ago.” He glanced at her. “You continued after my mother died?”
Her eyes had adjusted; she held his gaze. This was the difficult part. “Your father knew.” His face turned to stone, but…he kept listening. “I think he’d always known, at least for many years. I kept the folio, so I knew when it moved. Someone was leafing through it-not the staff. It always happened late at night. So I kept watch, and saw him. Every now and then he’d go to the morning room very late, and sit and go through it, reading the latest about you.”
He looked down, and she went on, “After your mother died, he insisted I kept it up. He’d circle any mention as he went through the news sheets, so I wouldn’t miss any relevant article.”
A long silence ensued; she was about to step back, and leave him with his parents’ memento of his last sixteen years, when he said, his voice low, soft, “He knew I was coming home.”
He was still looking down. She couldn’t see his face. “Yes. He was…waiting.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “He didn’t know how you would feel, but he…wanted to see you. He was…eager. I think that’s why he got confused, thinking you were here, that you’d already come, because he’d been seeing you here again in his mind.”
Her throat closed up. There wasn’t anything more she had to say.
She forced herself to murmur, “Tomorrow I’ll bring you that list once I’ve made it.”
Turning, she walked to the door, went through without looking back, and left him to his parents’ memories.
Royce heard her go, despite the sorrow pouring through him, wished she’d stayed. Yet if she had…
She could make her list, but there was only one lady he wanted in his bed.
Reaching out blindly, he found his chair, drew it closer, then sat and stared at the folio. In the quiet darkness, no one could see if he cried.
By eleven the next morning, Minerva had made an excellent start on a list of potential candidates for the position of Duchess of Wolverstone.
Sitting in the duchess’s morning room, she wrote down all she’d thus far gleaned of the young ladies and why each in particular had been suggested.
She felt driven, after last night even more so, to see the matter of Royce’s wedding dealt with as expeditiously as possible. What she felt for him…it was ridiculous-she knew it was-yet her infatuation-obsession was only growing and deepening. The physical manifestations-and the consequent difficulties-were bad enough, but the tightness in her chest, around her heart, the sheer sorrow she’d felt last night, not for his dead father but for him, the nearly overwhelming urge to round his damned desk and lay a hand on his arm, to comfort him-even in the dangerous state he’d been in to recklessly offer comfort…
“No, no, no, and no!” Lips set, she added the latest name Lady Augusta had suggested to her neat list.
He was a Varisey, and she, better than anyone, knew what that meant.
A tap sounded on the door.
“Come!” She glanced up as Jeffers looked in.
He smiled. “His Grace asked if you could attend him, ma’am. In his study.”
She looked down at her list; it was complete to this moment. “Yes.” She rose and picked it up. “I’ll come right away.”
Jeffers accompanied her across the keep and held open the study door. She walked in to find Royce sitting behind his desk, frowning at the uncluttered expanse.
“I spoke with Handley this morning-he said that as far as he knew there were no estate matters pending.” He fixed her with an incipient glare. “That can’t be right.”
Handley, his secretary, had arrived earlier in the week, and to her immense relief had proved to be a thoroughly dependable, extremely efficient, exemplarily loyal man in his early thirties; he’d been a huge help through the preparations and the funeral itself. “Handley’s correct.” She sat in the chair before the wide desk. “We dealt with all matters likely to arise last week. Given we were going to have so many visitors at the castle, it seemed wise to clear your desk.” She looked at the expanse in question. “There’s nothing likely to land on it before next week.”
She looked at the list in her hand. “Except, of course, for this.” She held it out to him.
He hesitated, then, reluctantly, reached out and took it. “What is it?”
“A list of potential candidates for the position you need to fill.” She gave him a moment to cast his eyes over the page. “It’s only a partial list at present-I haven’t had a chance to check with Helena and Horatia yet-but you could start considering these ladies, if there’s any one that stands out…”
He tossed the list on his blotter. “I don’t wish to consider this subject now.”
“You’re going to have to.” She had to get him married so she could escape. “Aside from all else, the grandes dames are staying until Monday, and I have a strong suspicion they expect to hear a declaration from you before they leave.”
“They can go to the devil.”
“The devil wouldn’t have them, as you well know.” She dragged in a breath, reached for patience. “Royce, you know you have to decide on your bride. In the next few days. You know why.” She let her gaze fall to the list before him. “You need to make a start.”
“Not today.” Royce fixed her with a glare, one powerful enough to have her pressing her lips tight against the words he sensed were on her tongue.
The situation…was insupportable. Literally. He felt tense, edgy; his restlessness had developed an undercurrent with which he was familiar-he’d been without a woman too long.
Except he hadn’t. That wasn’t, exactly, the problem. His problem was sitting across his desk wanting to lecture him about the necessity of choosing some mindless ninnyhammer as his bride. As the lady who would share his bed.
Instead of her.
He needed…to get away from her before his temper-or his restlessness, both were equally dangerous-slipped its leash. Before she succeeded in prodding him to that extent. Unfortunately, his friends and their wives had left that morning; he’d wanted to beg them to stay, but hadn’t-they all had young families awaiting them at home, and had been eager to get back.
Devil had left, as well, driving himself down the Great North Road. He wished he could have gone, too; they could have raced each other back to London…except all he wanted, all he now needed, was here, at Wolverstone.
A good part of what he wanted sat across the desk, waiting to see what he was going to do, ready to counter it, to pressure him into making his choice…
He narrowed his eyes on her face. “Why are you so keen to assist the grandes dames in this matter”-he let his voice soften, grow quieter-“even against my wishes?” Eyes locked on hers, he raised his brows. “You’re my chatelaine, are you not?”
She held his gaze, then fractionally, instinctively, raised her chin. “I’m Wolverstone’s chatelaine.”
He was a master interrogator; he knew when he hit a vein. He considered her for a moment, then evenly said, “I am Wolverstone, a fact you haven’t forgotten, so what exactly do you mean?”
Her debating-whether-to-tell-him expression surfaced; he waited, outwardly patient, knowing she’d conclude that she had to.