Royce had always treated her with respect. Power, the amassing and wielding of it, was something he understood; it was bred in his marrow-something her ladyship appreciated.

She must have arrived while he was out riding.

He walked to the chaise, inclined his head to her companions, then to her. “Lady Osbaldestone.”

Intensely black eyes-true obsidian-fixed on his face. She nodded, trying to read him, and failing. “Wolverstone.”

It was the first time she’d called him that-the first time he’d felt the weight of the mantle on his shoulders. Taking the hand she offered, he bowed, careful not to overdo the observance; she respected those who knew their place, knew what was due to them.

“My condolences on your father’s death. Sadly, it comes to us all, although in his case the timing could have been better.”

He inclined his head, declined to rise to the lure.

She uttered a soft “humph.” “We need to talk-later.”

He acquiesced with a half bow. “Later.”

Swallowing his impatience, he moved away, letting those of his relatives and connections he’d thus far avoided have at him. Weathering their greetings and accepting their condolences grated on his nerves; he was relieved when Minerva joined the circle about him and set about distracting those he’d already spoken with, subtly but effectively moving them on.

Then Retford announced that dinner was served. Minerva caught his eye, whispered as she passed close, “Lady Augusta.”

He assumed that was who he was to lead in to dinner; he located the marchioness-yet his senses, ensorcelled simply by Minerva passing so close, continued to track her.

She wasn’t doing anything to attract his notice. In her weeds, she should have faded into the sea of black surrounding him; instead she-just she-seemed to shine in his awareness. The dull black suited her golden loveliness. With an effort hauling his mind from slaveringly dwelling on the loveliness inside the dull black, he surrendered to duty and strolled to Lady Augusta, while trying to push the lingering, elusive, wantonly feminine scent of his chatelaine from his brain.

The conversations in the drawing room had been muted. Continuing the trend, dinner proved an unexpectedly somber meal, as if everyone had suddenly recalled why they were there-and who no longer was. For the first time since he’d viewed the body, he felt touched by his father’s absence, sitting in the great carver where his sire used to sit, looking down the long table, lined by more than sixty others, to Margaret sitting at the other end.

A different perspective, one not previously his.

His gaze tracked back to Minerva, seated toward the table’s center, opposite Susannah, and surrounded by his cousins. There were nine male cousins present from both sides of his family, Variseys and Debraighs; given the numbers attending, his younger female cousins weren’t expected.

His maternal uncle, the Earl of Catersham, was seated on Margaret’s right, while the eldest of his paternal aunts, Winifred, Countess Barraclough, sat on Royce’s left. Beyond her sat his heir, Lord Edwin Varisey, the third brother of his grandfather’s generation, while on his right, next to Lady Augusta and facing Edwin, was his cousin several times removed, Gordon Varisey, eldest son of the late Cameron Varisey, Edwin’s younger brother; after the childless Edwin, Gordon stood next in line for the ducal crown.

Edwin was an ancient fop. Gordon was dark and dour, but underneath a sound man. Neither expected to inherit the dukedom, which was just as well; despite his resistance to discussing the subject with all and sundry, Royce had every intention of marrying and siring an heir to whom he would pass the title. What he failed to comprehend was why he needed the help of the grandes dames to achieve that goal, and why it had to be achieved so urgently.

Luckily, the mood of the dinner, with the ladies in dull black, gray, or deep purple, with no jewels beyond jet and no fans or furbelows, and the gentlemen in black coats, many sporting black cravats, had suppressed all talk of his nuptials. Conversations continued to be low-voiced, constant, yet no one laughed, or smiled other than wistfully; across him, Augusta, Winifred, and Edwin swapped tales of his father, to which he pretended to pay attention.

Then the covers were drawn, and Margaret rose and led the ladies back to the drawing room, leaving the men to enjoy port and brandy in relative peace. Some of the formality eased as gentlemen moved to form groups along the table. Royce’s cousins congregated in the center, while the older men gravitated to flank his uncle Catersham at the far end.

His friends came to join him, filling the chairs the ladies and Edwin and Gordon had vacated. Joining them, Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, passing behind his chair, briefly clasped his shoulder. His pale green eyes met Royce’s as he glanced up. Devil had lost his father and succeeded to his dukedom when he’d been fifteen. With a nod, Devil moved on, leaving Royce reflecting that at least he was shouldering the burden at a significantly older age; then again, Devil had had his uncle, George, to rely on, and George Cynster was a wise, knowledgeable, and capable man.

Devil took the seat next to Christian, easily sliding into the camaraderie of the group; they all opted for whisky, and sat savoring the smoky liquor, lazily exchanging the latest sporting news, and a few salaciously risquй on-dits.

With his impatience to learn what Lady Osbaldestone would tell him steadily mounting, as soon as it was reasonable he led the gentlemen back to the drawing room. Devil ambled beside him; they stopped shoulder to shoulder just inside the room, letting the other men pass by.

Royce surveyed the gathering; from the glances that came his way, many conversations had reverted to the subject of his bride. “At least no one’s expecting you to marry tomorrow.”

Devil’s black brows rose. “You obviously haven’t spoken to my mother on that subject.”

“She called you recalcitrant.”

“Indeed. And you have to remember she’s French, which is the excuse she uses to be as outrageous as she pleases in pursuit of her goal.”

“You’re hardly in your dotage,” Royce returned. Devil was six years younger than he. “And you’ve a string of acceptable heirs. What’s the rush?”

“Precisely my question,” Devil purred, his green eyes fixed on someone in the crowd. Then he slanted a glance at Royce, one brow arching. “Your chatelaine…?”

A fist clamped about his heart. The effort not to react-not to snarl and show his teeth-almost stole his breath. He waited a heartbeat, his eyes locked with Devil’s, then quietly murmured, “No.” After an instant, he added, “I believe she’s spoken for.”

“Is she?” Devil held his gaze for an instant longer, then he glanced across the room-at Minerva. “Earlier, she just frowned and told me to go away.”

“Unlike most ladies, she probably meant it.” Royce couldn’t stop himself from adding, “If I were you, I’d take her at her word. Heaven knows, I do.” He imbued the last words with sufficient masculine long-suffering to have Devil grin once more.

“Ah, well-I won’t be here that long.”

“Abstinence, they say, is good for the soul.”

Devil shot him a look as if asking who he thought he was fooling, then wandered off into the crowd.

Royce watched him go, and muttered to himself, “However, abstinence is hell on the temper.” And his was worse that most to begin with.

In search of relief, he located Lady Osbaldestone and would have immediately gone to her side, except for the numerous guests who lined up to waylay him.

Not family, but the ton’s elite, including Lord Haworth, representing the Crown, and Lord Hastings, representing the Lords. None were people he could dismiss with just a word, not even a word and a smile; he had to interact, engage in social exchanges all too often layered with multiple mean ings…he was reaching, had come close to socially stumbling, when Minerva appeared beside him, serenely calm, a stately smile on her lips, and the hints he needed ready on her tongue.

After just a few words, he realized she was an adept in this sphere, and gratefully, if reluctantly, attached himself to her apron strings. The alternative was too damning to permit him to indulge in any pretense.

He needed her. So he had to metaphorically grit his teeth and bear the sexual abrasion of her nearness-it was that or come to social grief, and he’d be damned if he did that. Failure in anything had never been an option, yet this arena was not one in which he’d had any real experience. Yet now he was Wolverstone, people expected him to simply take on the mantle; they seemed to have forgotten the sixteen years he’d spent outside their pale.

For the next half hour, Minerva was his anchor, his guide, his savior.

Courtesy of her vows, she had to be, or, damn him, he’d founder on the social shoals, or come to grief on the jagged rocks of political repartee.

She managed the glib exchanges with half her brain-the other half was entirely consumed by something akin to panic. A frenzied awareness of what would happen if he brushed her shoulder with his arm, if, for some benighted reason, he thought to take her hand. Beneath her smiles, underneath her ready replies, ran an expectation of disaster that clenched her lungs tight, leaving her nearly breathless, every nerve taut, ready to leap with hypersensitive reaction.

At one point, after she’d excused them from a group where the exchanges had looked set to grow too pointed for his-or her-good, he seized the moment of fleeting privacy to lower his head, lower his voice, and ask, “Was my father any good at this?”