Releasing him, Royce turned to the last cottage. “I should look at them all while I’m here.”

“Aye.” Macgregor stumped past him. “Come along, then. Not much different to the others, but there’s a crooked corner in this one.”

He beckoned Royce to follow, and he did.

Sean stood, mouth a-cock, and watched as Royce ducked through the cottage door in his father’s wake. After a moment, he said, “He’s really looking.”

“Indeed. And when he comes out, I suspect he’ll want to discuss what can be done.” Minerva looked at Sean. “Can you speak for your brothers?”

He shifted his gaze to her face, nodded. “Aye.”

“In that case, I suggest we wait here.”

Her prophecy proved correct. When Royce emerged from the dimness of the third cottage, his lips were set in a determined line. He met her gaze, then turned to Macgregor, who had followed him into the mild sunshine. “Let’s talk.”

They-Royce, Minerva, Macgregor, and Sean-sat at the deal table in the big cottage and thrashed out an arrangement that satisfied them all. While not condoning Kelso’s and Falwell’s tack, Royce made it clear that the precedent that would be set if the cottages were repaired under the current lease was not one he would countenance; instead, he offered to refashion the lease. It took them an hour to agree on the basic principles; deciding how to get the work done took mere minutes.

Somewhat to her surprise, Royce took charge. “Your lads need to give their time to the harvest first. Once that’s in, they can help with the building. You”-he looked at Macgregor-“will supervise. It’ll be up to you to make sure the work is done as it should be. I’ll come up with Hancock”-he glanced at Minerva-“I assume he’s still the castle builder?” When she nodded, he went on, “I’ll bring him here, and show him what we need done. We have less than three months before the first snow-I want all three cottages leveled and three new ones completed before winter sets in.”

Macgregor blinked; Sean still looked stunned.

When they left the cottage, Minerva was beaming. So, too, were Macgregor and Sean. Royce, in contrast, had his inscrutable mask on.

She hurried to get her horse, Rangonel. There was a convenient log by the fence for a mounting block; scrambling into her saddle, she settled her skirts.

After shaking hands with the Macgregors, Royce cast her a glance, then retrieved Sword and mounted. She urged Rangonel alongside as he turned down the track.

At the last, she waved to the Macgregors. Still beaming, they waved back. Facing forward, she glanced at Royce. “Am I allowed to say I’m impressed?”

He grunted.

Smiling, she followed him back to the castle.


“Damn it!” With the sounds of a London evening-the rattle of wheels, the clop of hooves, the raucous cries of jarveys as they tacked down fashionable Jermyn Street-filling his ears, he read the short note again, then reached for the brandy his man had fortuitously just set on the table by his elbow.

He took a long swallow, read the note again, then tossed it on the table. “The duke’s dead. I’ll have to go north to attend his funeral.”

There was no help for it; if he didn’t appear, his absence would be noted. But he was far from thrilled by the prospect. Until that moment, his survival plan had revolved around total and complete avoidance, but a ducal funeral in the family eradicated that option.

The duke was dead. More to the point, his nemesis was now the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.

It would have happened sometime, but why the hell now? Royce had barely shaken the dust of Whitehall from his elegantly shod heels-he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten the one traitor he’d failed to bring to justice.

He swore, let his head fall back against the chair. He’d always assumed time-the simple passage of it-would be his salvation. That it would dull Royce’s memories, his drive, distract him with other things.

Then again…

Straightening, he took another sip of brandy. Perhaps having a dukedom to manage-one unexpectedly thrust upon him immediately following an exile of sixteen years-was precisely the distraction Royce needed to drag and hold his attention from his past.

Royce had always had power; his inheriting the title changed little in that regard.

Perhaps this really was for the best?

Time, as ever, would tell, but, unexpectedly, that time was here.

He thought, considered; in the end he had no choice.

“Smith! Pack my bags. I have to go to Wolverstone.”


In the breakfast parlor the following morning, Royce was enjoying his second cup of coffee and idly scanning the latest news sheet when Margaret and Aurelia walked in.

They were gowned, coiffed. With vague smiles in his direction, they headed for the sideboard.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, confirming it was early, not precisely the crack of dawn, yet for them…

His cynicism grew as they came to the table, plates in hand. He was at the head of the table; leaving one place empty to either side of him, Margaret sat on his left, Aurelia on his right.

He took another sip of coffee, and kept his attention on the news sheet, certain he’d learn what they wanted sooner rather than later.

His father’s four sisters and their husbands, and his mother’s brothers and their wives, together with various cousins, had started arriving yesterday; the influx would continue for several days. And once the family was in residence, the connections and friends invited to stay at the castle for the funeral would start to roll in; his staff would be busy for the next week.

Luckily, the keep itself was reserved for immediate family; not even his paternal aunts had rooms in the central wing. This breakfast parlor, too, on the ground floor of the keep, was family only, giving him a modicum of privacy, an area of relative calm in the center of the storm.

Margaret and Aurelia sipped their tea and nibbled slices of dry toast. They chatted about their children, their intention presumably to inform him of the existence of his nephews and nieces. He studiously kept his gaze on the news sheet. Eventually his sisters accepted that, after sixteen years of not knowing, he was unlikely to develop an interest in that direction overnight.

Even without looking, he sensed the glance they exchanged, heard Margaret draw in one of her portentous breaths.

His chatelaine breezed in. “Good morning, Margaret, Aurelia.” Her tone suggested she was surprised to find them down so early.

Her entrance threw his sisters off-balance; they murmured good mornings, then fell silent.

With his eyes, he tracked Minerva to the sideboard, taking in her plain green gown. Trevor had reported that on Saturday mornings she eschewed riding in favor of taking a turn about the gardens with the head gardener in tow.

Royce returned his gaze to the news sheet, ignoring the part of him that whispered, “A pity.” He wasn’t entirely pleased with her; it was just as well that when he rode out shortly, he wouldn’t come upon her riding his hills and dales, so he wouldn’t be able to join her, her and him alone, private in the wild.

Such an encounter would do nothing to ease his all but constant pain.

As Minerva took her seat farther down the board, Margaret cleared her throat and turned to him. “We’d wondered, Royce, whether you had any particular thoughts about a lady who might fill the position of your duchess.”

He held still for an instant, then lowered the news sheet, looked first at Margaret, then at Aurelia. He’d never gaped in his life, but…“Our father isn’t even in the ground, and you’re talking about my wedding?”

He glanced at his chatelaine. She had her head down, her gaze fixed on her plate.

“You’ll have to think of the matter sooner rather than later.” Margaret set down her fork. “The ton isn’t going to let the most eligible duke in England simply”-she gestured-“be!”

“The ton won’t have any choice. I have no immediate plans to marry.”

Aurelia leaned closer. “But Royce-”

“If you’ll excuse me”-he stood, tossing the news sheet and his napkin on the table-“I’m going riding.” His tone made it clear there was no question involved.

He strode down the table, glanced at Minerva as he went past.

He halted; when she looked up, he caught her autumn eyes. His own narrow, he pointed at her. “I’ll see you in the study when I get back.”

When he’d ridden far enough, hard enough, to get the tempest of anger and lust roiling through him under control.

Striding out, he headed for the stables.


By lunchtime on Sunday he was ready to throttle his elder sisters, his aunts, and his aunts-by-marriage, all of whom had, it seemed, not a thought with which to occupy their heads other than who-which lady-would be most suitable as his bride.

As the next Duchess of Wolverstone.

He’d breakfasted at dawn to avoid them. Now, in the wake of the ruthlessly cutting comments he’d made the previous night, silencing all such talk about the dinner table, they’d conceived the happy notion of discussing ladies, who all just happened to be young, well-bred, and eligible, comparing their attributes, weighing their fortunes and connections, apparently in the misguided belief that by omitting the words “Royce,” “marriage,” and “duchess from their comments, they would avoid baiting his temper.

He was very, very close to losing it-and inching ever closer by the second.

What were they thinking? Minerva couldn’t conceive what Margaret, Aurelia, and Royce’s aunts hoped to achieve-other than a blistering set-down which looked set to be delivered in a thunderous roar at any minute.