Which, of course, was why she’d done it. “I sent a letter with the messenger to you for Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe.”
“I sent it on with a covering letter from me, asking them to attend me here, with the will, at the earliest opportunity.”
“Which means they’ll arrive tomorrow, too. Late afternoon, most likely.”
“Indeed.”
They turned a corner into a short hall just as a footman closed the massive oak door at the end. The footman saw them, bowed low, then retreated.
“Jeffers will have brought up your bags. If you need anything else-”
“I’ll ring. Who’s the butler here these days?”
She’d always wondered if he’d had anyone in the household feeding him information; obviously not. “Retford the younger-old Retford’s nephew. He was the underbutler before.”
He nodded. “I remember him.”
The door to the duke’s apartments neared. Clinging to her chatelaine’s glamour, she halted beside it. “I’ll join you in the study in an hour.”
He looked at her. “Is the study in the same place?”
“It hasn’t moved.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
She inclined her head, was about to turn away when she noticed that, although his hand had closed about the doorknob, he hadn’t turned it.
He was standing staring at the door.
“If it makes any difference, it’s been over a decade since your father used this room.”
That got her a frowning look. “Which room did he use?”
“He moved to the east tower room. It’s remained untouched since he died.”
“When did he move there?” He looked at the door before him. “Out of here.”
It wasn’t her place to hide the truth. “Sixteen years ago.” In case he failed to make the connection, she added, “When he returned from London after banishing you.”
He frowned, as if the information made no sense.
Which made her wonder, but she held her tongue. She waited, but he asked no more.
Brusquely he nodded in dismissal, turned the knob, and opened the door. “I’ll see you in the study in an hour.”
With a serene inclination of her head, she turned and walked away.
And felt his dark gaze on her back, felt it slide down from her shoulders to her hips, eventually to her legs. Managed to hold back her inner shiver until she was out of his acutely observant sight.
Then she picked up her pace, walking swiftly and determinedly toward her own domain-the duchess’s morning room; she had an hour to find armor sufficiently thick to protect her against the unexpected impact of the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.
Royce halted just inside the duke’s apartments; shutting the door, he looked around.
Decades had passed since he’d last seen the room, but little had changed. The upholstery was new, but the furniture was the same, all heavy polished oak, glowing with a rich, golden patina, the edges rounded by age. He circled the sitting room, running his fingers over the polished tops of sideboards and the curved backs of chairs, then went into the bedroom-large and spacious with a glorious view south over the gardens and lake to the distant hills.
He was standing before the wide window drinking in that view when a tap on the outer door had him turning. He raised his voice. “Come.”
The footman he’d seen earlier appeared in the doorway from the sitting room carrying a huge china urn. “Hot water, Your Grace.”
He nodded, then watched as the man crossed the room and went through the doorway into the dressing room and bathing chamber.
He’d turned back to the window when the footman reappeared. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but would you like me to unpack your things?”
“No.” Royce looked at the man. He was average in everything-height, build, age, coloring. “There’s not enough to bother with…Jeffers, is that right?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. I was the late duke’s footman.”
Royce wasn’t sure he’d need a personal footman, but nodded. “My man, Trevor, will be arriving shortly-most likely tomorrow. He’s a Londoner, but he’s been with me for a long time. Although he has been here before, he’ll need help to remember his way.”
“I’ll be happy to keep an eye out for him and assist in whatever way I can, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Royce turned back to the window. “You may go.”
When he heard the outer door click shut, he quit the window and headed for the dressing room. He stripped, then washed; drying himself with the linen towel left ready on the washstand, he tried to think. He should be making mental lists of all he had to do, juggling the order in which to do them…but all he seemed able to do was feel.
His brain seemed obsessed with the inconsequential, with matters that were not of immediate importance. Such as why his father had moved out of the duke’s apartments immediately after their confrontation.
The act smacked of abdication, yet…he couldn’t see how such a proposition could mesh with reality; it didn’t match his mental picture of his father.
His bag contained a complete set of fresh clothes-shirt, cravat, waistcoat, coat, trousers, stockings, shoes. He donned them, and immediately felt better able to deal with the challenges that waited beyond the door.
Before returning through the bedroom to the sitting room, he glanced around, assessing the amenities.
Minerva-his chatelaine-had been right. Not only were these rooms appropriate given he was now the duke, the atmosphere felt right-and he had a sneaking suspicion his old room wouldn’t have suited him, fitted him, anymore. He certainly appreciated the greater space, and the views.
Walking into the bedroom, his gaze fell on the bed. He felt certain he would appreciate that, too. The massive oak four-poster supporting a decadently thick mattress and silk covers, piled high with thick pillows, dominated the large room. It faced the window; the view would always be restful, yet interesting.
At present, however, restful yet interesting couldn’t sate his need; as his gaze returned to the crimson-and-gold silk-brocade bedspread, took in the crimson silk sheets, his mind supplied a vision of his chatelaine reclining there.
Naked.
He considered the vision, deliberately indulged; his imagination was more than up to the task.
As unlooked-for developments went, his chatelaine took the prize. Little Minerva was no longer so little, yet…
Being his mother’s protйgйe, and thus under his father’s protection, too, would normally have placed her off-limits to him, except that both his father and mother were now dead, and she was still there, in his household, an established spinster of his class, and she was…what? Twenty-nine?
Within their circles, by anyone’s assessment she was now fair game, except…while he’d developed an immediate and intense lust for her, she’d shown no sign whatever that she returned his interest; she’d appeared coolly, calmly unaffected throughout.
If she’d reacted to him as he had to her, she would have been in there now-more or less as he was imagining her, boneless and drowsy, a smile of satiation curving her lush lips as she lay sprawled, naked and utterly ravished, on his bed.
And he would be feeling a great deal better than he was. Sexual indulgence was the only distraction capable of taking the violent edge from his temper, capable of dulling it, dampening it, draining it.
Given his temper was so restlessly aroused, and desperately seeking an outlet, he wasn’t surprised it had immediately fixed on the first attractive woman to cross his path, transmuting in a heartbeat to a driving lustful passion. What he was surprised by was the intensity, the incredible clarity with which his every sense, every fiber of his being, had locked on her.
Possessively and absolutely.
His arrogance knew few bounds, yet all the ladies who’d ever caught his eye…he’d always caught theirs first. That he wanted Minerva while she didn’t want him had thrown him off-balance.