Those fabulous eyes were no longer wide, but narrowed in irritation; her lush lips had compressed to a grim line.
“Indeed.” She hesitated, then, clasping her hands before her, lifted her chin. “I gather you aren’t aware of it, but I’m chatelaine here.”
Contrary to Minerva’s expectation, the information did not produce any softening in the stony face regarding her. No easing of the rigid line of his lips, no gleam of recognition in his dark eyes-no suggestion that he’d realized she was someone he needed to help him, even though, at last, he’d placed her: Minerva Miranda Chesterton, his mother’s childhood friend’s orphaned daughter. Subsequently his mother’s amanuensis, companion, and confidante, more recently the same to his father, although that was something he most likely didn’t know.
Of the pair of them, she knew precisely who she was, what she was, and what she had to do. He, in contrast, was probably uncertain of the first, even more uncertain of the second, and almost certainly had no clue as to the third.
That, however, she’d been prepared for. What she wasn’t prepared for, what she hadn’t foreseen, was the huge problem that now faced her. All six-plus feet of it, larger and infinitely more powerful in life than even her fanciful imagination had painted him.
His stylish greatcoat hung from shoulders that were broader and heavier than she recalled, but she’d last seen him when he’d been twenty-two. He was a touch taller, too, and there was a hardness in him that hadn’t been there before, investing the austere planes of his face, his chiseled features, the rock-hard body that had nearly sent her flying.
Had sent her flying, more than physically.
His face was as she remembered it, yet not; gone was any hint of civilized guise. Broad forehead above striking slashes of black brows that tilted faintly, diabolically, upward at the outer ends, a blade of a nose, thin mobile lips guaranteed to dangerously fascinate any female, and well-set eyes of such a deep dark brown they were usually unreadable. The long black lashes that fringed those eyes had always made her envious.
His hair was still solidly sable, the thick locks fashionably cropped to fall in waves about his well-shaped head. His clothes, too, were fashionably elegant, restrained, understated, and expensive. Even though he’d been traveling hard, all but racing for two days, his cravat was a subtle work of art, and beneath the dust, his Hessians gleamed.
Regardless, no amount of fashion could screen his innate masculinity, could dim the dangerous aura any female with eyes could detect. The passing years had honed and polished him, revealing rather than concealing the sleekly powerful, infinitely predatory male he was.
If anything, that reality seemed enhanced.
He continued to stand twenty feet away, frowning as he studied her, making no move to come closer, giving her witless, swooning, drooling senses even more time to slaver over him.
She’d thought she’d outgrown her infatuation with him. Sixteen years of separation should surely have seen it dead.
Apparently not.
Her mission, as she viewed it, had just become immeasurably more complicated. If he learned of her ridiculous susceptibility-perhaps excusable in a girl of thirteen, but hideously embarrassing in a mature lady of twenty-nine-he’d use the knowledge, ruthlessly, to stop her from pressuring him into doing anything he didn’t wish to do. At that moment, the only positive aspect to the situation was that she’d been able to disguise her reaction to him as understandable surprise.
Henceforth she would need to continue to hide that reaction from him.
Simple…was one thing that wasn’t going to be.
Variseys as a breed were difficult, but she’d been surrounded by them from the age of six, and had learned how to manage them. All except this Varisey…oh, this was not good. Unfortunately not one, but two deathbed promises bound her to her path.
She cleared her throat, tried hard to clear her head of the disconcerting distraction of her still jangling senses. “I didn’t expect you so early, but I’m glad you made such good time.” Head high, eyes locked on his face, she walked forward. “There’s a huge number of decisions to be made-”
He shifted, turning away, then restlessly turned back to her. “I daresay, but at present, I need to wash off the dust.” His eyes-dark, fathomless, his gaze impossibly sharp-scanned her face. “I take it you’re in charge?”
“Yes. And-”
He swung away, was off again, his long legs carrying him swiftly around the gallery. “I’ll come and find you in an hour.”
“Very well. But your room’s not that way.”
He halted. Once again stood facing away for the space of three heartbeats, then, slowly, he turned.
Again she felt the dark weight of his gaze, this time pinning her more definitely. This time, rather than converse over the yawning gap that once again separated them, a gap she now would have preferred to maintain, he walked, stalked, slowly back to her.
He kept walking until no more than a foot remained between them, which left him towering over her. Physical intimidation was second nature to male Variseys; they learned it from the cradle. She would have liked to say the ploy had no effect, and in truth it didn’t have the effect he intended. The effect was something quite other, and more intense and powerful than she’d ever dreamed. Inside she quaked, trembled; outwardly she held his gaze and calmly waited.
First round.
He lowered his head slightly so he could look directly into her face. “The keep hasn’t rotated in all the centuries since it was built.” His voice had lowered, too, but his diction had lost nothing of its lethal edge. If anything that had sharpened. “Which means the west tower lies around the gallery.”
She met his dark gaze, knew better than to nod. With Variseys one never conceded the slightest point; they were the sort that, if one surrendered an inch, took the whole county. “The west tower lies that way, but your room is no longer there.”
Tension rippled through him; the muscle in the side of his jaw tightened. His voice, when he spoke, had lowered to a warning growl. “Where are my things?”
“In the ducal apartments.” In the central part of the keep, facing south; she didn’t bother telling him what he already knew.
She stepped back, just far enough to wave him to join her as, greatly daring, she turned her back on him and started strolling farther into the keep. “You’re the duke now, and those are your rooms. The staff have slaved to have everything in readiness there, and the west tower room has been converted into a guest chamber. And before you ask”-she heard him reluctantly follow her, his longer legs closing the distance in a few strides-“everything that was in the west tower room is now in the duke’s rooms-including, I might add, all your armillary spheres. I had to move every single one myself-the maids and even the footmen refuse to touch them for fear they’ll fall apart in their hands.”
He’d amassed an exquisite collection of the astrological spheres within spheres; she hoped mention of them would encourage him to accept the necessary relocation.
After a moment of pacing silently beside her, he said, “My sisters?”
“Your father passed away on Sunday, a little before noon. I dispatched the messenger to you immediately, but I wasn’t sure what you wished, so I held back from informing your sisters for twenty-four hours.” She glanced at him. “You were the farthest away, but we needed you here first. I expect they’ll arrive tomorrow.”
He glanced at her, met her eyes. “Thank you. I appreci ate the chance to find my feet before having to deal with them.”