She hadn’t seen Royce since he’d sent her off with his response to the grandes dames’ demand. He hadn’t joined the guests still remaining for dinner; she hadn’t been surprised. But she wasn’t in any hurry to meet him, not until she felt more like herself, hence her wariness as, toast finished, tea drunk, she rose and headed for the stables.

Retford had confirmed that His Grace had breakfasted earlier and gone riding; he was most likely far away by now, but she didn’t want to run into him if he’d cut short his ride and was returning to the keep. Avoiding the west courtyard, his favored route, she exited via the castle’s east wing, and set off through the gardens.

She’d spent an unsettled evening, and an even more restless night, going over in her mind the ladies on the list, trying to predict whom he’d chosen. She’d met some of them during the seasons she and his mother had spent in the capital; while she couldn’t imagine any of them as his duchess, that lack of enthusiasm didn’t explain the hollow, deadening feeling that had, over the last days, been growing inside her.

That had intensified markedly after she’d delivered his declaration to the grandes dames and waved them on their way.

Certainly, being forced to state out aloud her unhappiness over leaving Wolverstone, giving voice to what she truly felt, hadn’t helped. By the time she’d retreated to her room last night, that unexpected, welling emotion was approaching desolation. As if something was going horribly wrong.

It was nonsensical. She’d done what she’d had to do-what her vows had committed her to do-and she’d succeeded. Yet her emotions had swung crazily in the opposite direction; she didn’t feel as if she’d won, but as if she’d lost.

Lost something vital.

Which was silly. She’d always known the time would come when she’d have to leave Wolverstone.

It had to be some irrational twisting of her emotions caused by the increasingly fraught battle she constantly had to wage to keep her frustrating and irritating, infatuation-obsession-driven physical reactions to Royce completely hidden-hidden so completely not even he would see.

The stables loomed ahead. She walked into the courtyard, smiling when she saw Rangonel waiting, saddled and patient by the mounting block, a groom at his head. She went forward-a flash of gray and the steel tattoo of dancing hooves had her glancing around.

Sword pranced on the other side of the yard, saddled and…waiting. She tried to tell herself Royce must have just ridden in…but the stallion looked fresh, impatient to be off.

Then she saw Royce-pushing away from the wall against which he’d been leaning chatting to Milbourne and Henry.

Henry went to calm Sword and untie his reins.

Milbourne rose from the bench on which he’d been sitting.

And Royce walked toward her.

Quickening her pace, she clambered onto the mounting block and scrambled, breathless, into her sidesaddle.

Royce halted a few paces away and looked up at her. “I need to talk to you.”

Doubtless about his bride. Her lungs constricted; she felt literally ill.

He didn’t wait for any agreement, but took the reins Henry offered, and swung up to Sword’s back.

“Ah…we should discuss the mill. There are decisions that need to be made-”

“We can talk when we stop to rest the horses.” His dark gaze raked her, then he turned Sword to the archway. “Come on.”

This time, he led.

She had no option but to follow. Given the pace he set, that took all her concentration; only when he slowed as they started up Lord’s Seat did she have wits to spare to start wondering what, exactly, he was going to say.

He led her up to a sheltered lookout. A grassy shelf on the side of the hill where a remnant of woodland enclosed a semicircular clearing, it had one of the best views in the area, looking south down the gorge through which the Coquet tumbled, to the castle, bathed in sunlight, set against the backdrop of the hills beyond.

Royce had chosen the spot deliberately; it gave the best, most complete view of the estate, the fields as well as the castle.

He rode Sword to the trees, swung down from the stallion’s back, and tied the reins to a branch. On her bay, Minerva followed more slowly. Allowing her time to slip down from her saddle and tie her horse, he crossed the lush grass to the rim of the clearing; looking out over his lands, he seized the moment to rehearse his arguments one more time.

She didn’t want to leave Wolverstone, and, as the pristine condition of his armillary spheres testified, she felt something for him. It might not be the counterpart of his desire for her, and she hadn’t seen enough of him to have developed an admiration and appreciation of his talents reciprocal to his for hers. But it was enough.

Enough for him to work with, enough for him to suggest as a basis for their marriage. It was a damned sight more than could possibly exist between him and any of the ladies on the grandes dames’ list.

He’d come prepared to persuade.

She was twenty-nine, and had admitted no man had offered her anything she valued.

She valued Wolverstone, and he would offer her that.

Indeed, he was willing to offer her anything it was in his power to give, just as long as she agreed to be his duchess.

She might not be as well-connected or well-dowered as the candidates on the list, but her birth and fortune were more than sufficient that she needn’t fear the ton would consider their union a mйsalliance.

More, in marrying him herself, she would be satisfying her vows to his parents in unarguably the most effective way-she was the only female who had ever stood up to him, ever faced him down.

As she’d proved yesterday, she would tell him whatever she deemed he needed to hear regardless of him wanting to hear it. And she would do so knowing that he could rip up at her, knowing how violent his temper could be. She already knew, was demonstrably confident, that he would never lose it with-loose it on-her.

That she knew him that well spoke volumes. That she had the courage to act on her knowledge said even more.

He needed a duchess who would be more than a cipher, a social ornament for his arm. He needed a helpmate, and she was uniquely qualified.

Her caring for the estate, her connection with it, was the complement of his; together, they would give Wolverstone-castle, estate, title, and family-the best governance it could have.

And when it came to the critical issue of his heirs, having her in his bed was something he craved; he desired her-more than he would any of the grandes dames’ ciphers, no matter how beautiful. Physical beauty was the most minor attractant to a man like him. There had to be more, and in that respect Minerva was supremely well-endowed.

Yesterday, while she’d been insisting he appease the grandes dames, he’d finally accepted that, if he wanted a marriage like his friends’, then, regardless of what he had to do to make it happen, it was Minerva he needed as his wife. That if he wanted something more than a loveless marriage, he would have to strike out, and, as he had with her help in other respects, try to find a new road.

With her.

The certainty that had gripped him, infused him, hadn’t waned; with the passing hours, it had grown more intense. He’d never felt more certain, more set on any course, more confident it was the right one for him.

No matter what he had to do-no matter the hurdles she might place in his path, no matter where the road led or how fraught the journey might be, no matter what she or the world might demand of him-it was she he had to have.

He couldn’t sit back and wait for it to happen; if he waited any longer, he’d be wed to someone else. So he would do whatever it took, swallow whatever elements of his pride he had to, learn to persuade, to seduce, to entice-do whatever he needed to to convince her to be his.

Mind and senses returning to the here and now, poised to speak, he mentally reached for her-and realized she hadn’t yet joined him.

Turning, he saw her still sitting her horse. She’d swung the big bay to face the view. Hands folded before her, she looked past him down the valley.

He shifted, caught her eye. Beckoned. “Come down. I want to talk to you.”

She looked at him for a moment, then nudged her horse forward. Halting the big bay alongside, she looked down at him. “I’m comfortable here. What did you want to talk about?”

He looked up at her. Proposing while she was perched above him was beyond preposterous. “Nothing I can discuss while you’re up there.”

She’d eased her boots from the stirrups. He reached up and plucked her from her saddle.

Minerva gasped. He’d moved so fast she’d had no time to block him-to prevent him from closing his hands around her waist and lifting her…

Increasingly slowly, he lowered her to the ground.

The look on his face-utter, stunned disbelief-would have been priceless if she hadn’t known what put it there.

She’d reacted to his touch. Decisively and definitely. She’d stiffened. Her lungs had seized; her breath had hitched in a wholly damning way. Focused on her, his hands tight about her waist, he hadn’t missed any of the telltale signs.

Long before her feet got within a foot of the lush grass, he’d guessed her secret.

Knew it beyond question.

She read as much in the subtle shift of his features, in the suddenly intent-ruthlessly intent-look that flared in his eyes.

She panicked. The instant her feet touched earth, she forced in a breath, opened her lips-