“So you have to give them your decision.”
“What decision?”
She mentally cursed; his tone was far too mild. “The name of which lady you’ve chosen as your bride.”
The front hall loomed ahead. Voices carried in the corridors; the ladies had heard. They stirred, rising to their feet, looking at him expectantly.
He glanced back at her, then looked stonily at them. “No.”
The word was an absolute, incontestable negative.
Without breaking his stride, he inclined his head coldly as he strode past the assembled female might of the ton. “I wish you Godspeed.”
With that, he swung onto the main stairs, rapidly climbed them, and disappeared into the gallery above.
Leaving Minerva, and all the grandes dames, staring after him.
A moment of stunned silence ensued.
Dragging in a breath, she turned to the grandes dames-and discovered every eagle eye riveted on her.
Augusta gestured up the stairs. “Do you want to? Or should we?”
“No.” She didn’t want him saying something irretrievable and alienating any of them; they were, despite all, well disposed toward him, and their support would be invaluable-to him and even more to his chosen bride-in the years to come. She swung back to the stairs. “I’ll talk to him.”
Lifting her skirts, she climbed quickly up, then hurried after him into the keep. She needed to seize the moment, engage with him now, and get him to make some acceptable statement, or the grandes dames would stay. And stay. They were as determined as he was stubborn.
She assumed he would make for the study, but…“Damn!” She heard his footsteps change course for his apartments.
His private apartments; she recognized the implied warning, but had to ignore it. She’d failed to dissuade the grandes dames, so here she now was, chasing a snarling wolf into his lair.
No choice.
Royce swept into his sitting room, sending the door swinging wide. He fetched up in the middle of the Aubusson rug, listened intently, then cursed and left the door open; she was still coming on.
A very unwise decision.
All the turbulent emotions of the previous evening, barely calmed to manageable levels by his long, bruising ride, had roared back to furious, aggressive life at the sight of the grandes dames camped in his front hall-metaphorically at his gates-intent on forcing him to agree to marry one of the ciphers on their infernal list.
He’d studied the damned list. He had no idea in any personal sense of who any of the females were-they were all significantly younger than he-but how-how?-could the grandes dames imagine he could simply-so cold-bloodedly-just choose one, and then spend the rest of his life tied to her, condemning her to a life tied to him…
Condemning them both to living-no, existing-in exactly the same sort of married life his father and his mother had had.
Not the married life his friends enjoyed, not the supportive unions his ex-colleagues had forged, and nothing like the marriage Hamish had.
No. Because he was Wolverstone, he was to be denied any such comfort, condemned instead to the loveless union his family had traditionally engaged in, simply because of the name he bore.
Because they-all of them-thought they knew him, thought that, because of his name, they knew what sort of man he was.
He didn’t know what sort of man he truly was-how could they?
Uncertainty had plagued him from the moment he’d stepped away from the created persona of Dalziel, then been compounded massively by his accession to the title so unexpectedly, so unprepared. At twenty-two he’d been entirely certain who Royce Henry Varisey was, but when he’d looked again sixteen years later…none of his previous certainties had fitted.
He no longer fitted the construct of the man, the duke, he’d thought he would be.
Duty, however, was one guiding light he’d always recognized, and still did. So he’d tried. He’d spent all night poring over their list, trying to force himself to toe the expected line.
He’d failed. He couldn’t do it-couldn’t force himself to choose a woman he didn’t want.
And the prime reason he couldn’t was about to enter the room behind him.
He hauled in a massive breath, then snarled and flung himself into one of the large armchairs set before the windows, facing the open doorway.
Just as she sailed in.
Minerva knew from long experience of Variseys that this was no time for caution, much less meekness. The sight that met her eyes as she came to a halt inside the ducal sitting room-the wall of fury that assailed her senses-confirmed that; he’d roll right over her, smother her, if she gave him half a chance.
She fixed him with an exasperated, aggravated gaze. “You have to make a choice, make it and declare it-or else give me something I can take downstairs that will satisfy the ladies, or they’re not going to leave.” She folded her arms and stared him down. “And you’ll like that even less.”
A long silence ensued. She knew he used silences to undermine; she didn’t budge an inch, just waited him out.
His eyes narrowed. Eventually, one dark, diabolically winged brow rose. “Are you really that keen to explore Egypt?”
She frowned. “What?” Then she made the connection. Tightened her lips. “Don’t try to change the subject. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s your bride.”
His gaze remained fixed on her face, on her eyes. “Why are you so keen to have me declare who I’ll wed?” His voice had lowered, softened, his tone growing strangely, insidiously suggestive. “Are you so eager to escape from Wolverstone and your duties, and all those here?”
The implication pricked a spot she hadn’t, until that instant, realized was sensitive. Her temper flared, so quickly and completely she had no chance to rein it back. “As you know damned well”-her voice dripped fury, her eyes, she knew, would be all golden scorn-“Wolverstone is the only home I’ve ever known. It is my home. While you might know every rock, every stone, I know every single man, woman, and child on this estate.” Her voice deepened, vibrating with emotion. “I know the seasons, and how each affects us. I know every facet of the dynamics of the castle community and how it runs. Wolverstone has been my life for more than twenty years, and loyalty to-and love for-it and its people is what has kept me here so long.”
She dragged in a tight breath. His eyes dropped briefly to her breasts, mounding above her neckline; uncaring, she trapped his gaze as it returned to her face. “So no, I’m not keen to leave-I would much rather stay-but leave I must.”
“Why?”
She flung up her hands. “Because you have to marry one of the ladies on that damned list! And once you do, there’ll be no place for me here.”
If he was taken aback by her outburst, she saw no hint of it; his face remained set, the lines chiseled stone. The only sense she gained from him was one of implacable, immovable opposition.
His gaze shifted from her to the mantelpiece, following the long line of armillary spheres she’d kept dusted and polished. His dark gaze rested on them for a long moment, then he murmured, “You’re always telling me to go my own road.”
She frowned. “This is your own road, the one you would naturally take-it’s only the timing that’s changed.”
He looked at her; she tried, but, as usual, could read nothing in his dark eyes. “What,” he asked, his voice very soft, “if that’s not the road I want to take?”
She sighed through her teeth. “Royce, stop being difficult for the sake of it. You know you’re going to choose one of the ladies on that list. The list is extensive, indeed complete, so those are your choices. So just tell me the name and I’ll take it downstairs, before the grandes dames decide to barge in here.”