He studied her in silence. She waited, not the least discom fited by his scrutiny. Rather more distracted by the allure that didn’t decrease even when, as with his sisters, he was being difficult. She’d always found the underlying danger in him fascinating-the sense of dealing with some being who was not, quite, safe. Not domesticated, nowhere near as civilized as he appeared.

The real him lurked beneath his elegant exterior-there in his eyes, in the set of his lips, in the disguised strength in his long-fingered hands.

“Correct me if I err”-his voice was a low, hypnotic purr-“but any such collaborative effort would step beyond the bounds of what I recall are the tenancy agreements used at Wolverstone.”

She dragged in air past the constriction banding her lungs. “The agreements would need to be renegotiated and redrawn. Frankly, they need to be, to better reflect the realities of today.”

“Did my father agree?”

She wished she could lie. “No. He was, as you know, very set in his ways. More, he was inimical to change.” After a moment, she added, “That was why he put off making any decision about the cottages. He knew that evicting the Macgregors and pulling down the cottages was the wrong thing to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to resolve the issue by altering tradition.”

One black brow quirked. “The tradition in question underpins the estate’s financial viability.”

“Which would only be strengthened by getting more equitable agreements in place, ones which encourage tenants to invest in their holdings, to make improvements themselves, rather than leaving everything to the landowner-which on large estates like Wolverstone usually means nothing gets done, and land and buildings slowly decay, as in this instance.”

Another silence ensued, then he looked down. Absentmindedly tapped one long finger on the blotter. “This is not a decision to be lightly made.”

She hesitated, then said, “No, but it must be made soon.”

Without raising his head, he glanced up at her. “You stopped my father from making a decision, didn’t you?”

Holding his dark gaze, she debated what to say…but he knew the truth; his tone said as much. “I made sure he remembered the predictable outcomes of agreeing with Falwell and Kelso.”

Both his brows rose, leaving her wondering whether he’d been as sure as his tone had suggested, or whether she’d been led to reveal something he hadn’t known.

He looked down at his hand, fingers now spread on the blotter. “I’ll need to see these cottages-”

A tap on the door interrupted him. He frowned and looked up. “Come.”

Retford entered. “Your Grace, Mr. Collier, from Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, has arrived. He’s awaiting your pleasure in the hall. He wished me to inform you he was entirely at your service.”

Royce inwardly grimaced. He glanced at his chatelaine, who was revealing unexpected depths of strength and determination. She’d been able to, not manipulate, but influence his father…which left him uneasy. Not that he imagined she’d acted from any but the purest of motives; her arguments were driven by her views of what was best for Wolverstone and its people. But the fact she’d prevailed against his father’s blustering, often bullying will-no matter how else he’d aged, that wouldn’t have changed-combined with his own continuing, indeed escalating obsession with her, all compounded by his need to rely on her, to keep her near and interact with her daily…

His sisters, by comparison, were a minor irritation.

Minerva was…a serious problem.

Especially as everything she said, everything she urged, everything she was, appealed to him-not the cold, calm, calculating, and risk-averse duke, but the other side of him-the side that rode young stallions just broken to the saddle over hill and dale at a madman’s pace.

The side that was neither cold, nor risk-averse.

He didn’t know what to do with her, how he could safely manage her.

He glanced at the clock on a bureau by the wall, then looked at Retford. “Show Collier up.”

Retford bowed and withdrew.

Royce looked at Minerva. “It’s nearly time to dress for dinner. I’ll see Collier, and arrange for him to read the will after dinner. If you can organize with Jeffers to show him to a room, and to have him fed…?”

“Yes, of course.” She rose, met his gaze as he came to his feet. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

She turned and walked to the door; Royce watched while she opened it, then went out, then he exhaled and sank back into his chair.


Dinner was consumed in a civil but restrained atmosphere. Margaret and Aurelia had decided to be careful; both avoided subjects likely to irritate him, and, in the main, held their tongues.

Susannah made up for their silence by relating a number of the latest on-dits, censored in deference to their father’s death. Nevertheless, she added a welcome touch of liveliness to which his brothers-in-law responded with easy good humor.

They dined in the family dining room. Although much smaller than the one in the main dining salon, the table still sat fourteen; with only eight of them spread along the board, there remained plenty of space between each place, further assisting Royce’s hold on his temper.

The meal, the first he’d shared with his sisters for sixteen years, passed better than he’d hoped. As the covers were drawn, he announced that the reading of the will would take place in the library.

Margaret frowned. “The drawing room would be more convenient.”

He raised his brows, set his napkin beside his plate. “If you wish you may repair to the drawing room. I, however, am going to the library.”

She compressed her lips, but rose and followed.

Collier, a neat individual in his late fifties, bespectacled, brushed, and burnished, was waiting, a trifle nervous, but once they’d settled on the chaise and chairs, he cleared his throat, and started to read. His diction was clear and precise enough for everyone to hear as he read through clause after clause.

There were no surprises. The dukedom in its entirety, entailed and private property and all invested funds, was left to Royce; aside from minor bequests and annuities, some new, others already in place, it was his to do with as he pleased.

Margaret and Aurelia sat silently throughout. Their handsome annuities were confirmed, but not increased; Minerva doubted they’d expected anything else.

When Collier finished, and had asked if there were any questions, and received none, she rose from the straight-backed chair she’d occupied and asked Margaret if she would like to repair to the drawing room for tea.

Margaret thought, then shook her head. “No, thank you, dear. I think I’ll retire…” She glanced at Aurelia. “Perhaps Aurelia and I could have tea in my room?”

Aurelia nodded. “What with the travel and this sad business, I’m greatly fatigued.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll have them send up a tray.” Minerva turned to Susannah.

Who smiled lightly. “I believe I’ll retire, too, but I don’t want tea.” She paused as her elder sisters rose, then, arm in arm, passed on their way to the door, then she turned back to Minerva. “When are the rest of the family arriving?”

“Your aunts and uncles are expected tomorrow, and the rest will no doubt follow.”

“Good. If I’m to be trapped here with Margaret and Aurelia, I’m going to need company.” Susannah glanced around, then sighed. “I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Minerva spoke to Hubert, who asked for a tisane to be sent to his room, then retreated. Peter and David had helped themselves to whisky from the tantalus, while Royce was talking with Collier by the desk. Leaving them all to their own devices, she left to order the tea tray and the tisane.

That done, she headed back to the library.

Peter and David passed her in the corridor; they exchanged good nights and continued on.

She hesitated outside the library door. She hadn’t seen Collier leave. She doubted Royce needed rescuing, yet she needed to ascertain if he required anything further from her that night. Turning the knob, she opened the door and stepped quietly inside.

The glow from the desk lamps and those by the chaise didn’t reach as far as the door. She halted in the shadows. Royce was still speaking with Collier, both standing in the space between the big desk and the window behind it, looking out at the night as they conversed.

She drew nearer, quietly, not wishing to intrude.

And heard Royce ask Collier for his opinion on the leasing arrangements for tied cottages.

“The foundation of the nation, Your Grace. All the great estates rely on the system-it’s been proven for generations, and is, legally speaking, solid and dependable.”

“I have a situation,” Royce said, “where it’s been suggested that some modification of the traditional form of lease might prove beneficial to all concerned.”

“Don’t be tempted, Your Grace. There’s much talk these days of altering traditional ways, but that’s a dangerous, potentially destructive road.”

“So your considered advice would be to leave matters as they are, and adhere to the standard, age-old form?”

Minerva stepped sideways into the shadows some way behind Royce’s back. She wanted to hear this, preferably without calling attention to her presence.

“Indeed, Your Grace. If I may make so bold”-Collier puffed out his chest-“you could not do better than to follow your late father’s lead in all such matters. He was a stickler for the legal straight and narrow, and preserved and grew the dukedom significantly over his tenure. He was shrewd and wise, and never one for tampering with what worked well. My counsel would be that whenever any such questions arise, your best tack would be to ask yourself what your sire would have done, and do precisely that. Model yourself upon him, and all will go well-it’s what he would have wished.”