Minerva paused in her pacing, and raised her head. “Then he told me I was the lady he wanted as his duchess.”

“Of course he told you.” Penny humphed.

Minerva nodded. “Indeed-but I’d always known that the last thing, the very last thing I should do if I wanted a marriage based on love, was to marry Royce, or any Varisey. No Varisey marriage in history has been based on love, or in any way included love.” She drew a deep breath, her gaze fixed across the room. “Until last night, I believed that if I married Royce, ours would be a typical Varisey arrangement, and he, and everyone else-all the ton, in fact-would expect me to stand meekly by while he indulged as he wished with any lady who took his fancy.”

Frowning, Letitia nodded. “The typical Varisey union.”

Minerva inclined her head. “And I couldn’t do that. Even before I fell in love with him, I knew I’d never be able to stand that-that knowing he didn’t love me as I loved him, when he went to another’s bed, and then another’s, I’d wither, pine, and go mad like Caro Lamb.”

Their expressions stated that they fully understood.

“So what happened last night?” Clarice asked.

That needed another deep breath. “Last night, Royce swore that if I agree to be his duchess, he’ll be faithful.”

Complete silence reigned for several minutes.

Eventually, Penny said, “I can see how that…changes things.”

Clarice grimaced. “If it weren’t Royce we were talking about, I’d ask if you believed him.”

Letitia snorted. “If he says he will, let alone swears he will, he will.”

Minerva nodded. “Exactly. And at first glance, that should make it easy for me to agree, but, as I realized once I managed to find time to think, while him being faithful clears away one problem, it creates another.”

Gripping the back of the sofa, she focused on the tea tray on the low table between the sofas. “He says he will never lie to me, and that I accept. He says he cares for me as he cares for no other-and I accept that, too. But what happens when, if we wed, and a few years pass, and he no longer comes to my bed.” She raised her gaze, and met Clarice’s, then Penny’s, then lastly Letitia’s. “How am I going to feel then? Knowing he no longer desires me, but because of his vow, is simply…” She gestured. “Existing. Abstaining. Him, of all men.”

They didn’t rush to reassure her.

Eventually, Letitia sighed. “That’s not a comforting-or comfortable-thought.”

Clarice grimaced. Penny did, too.

“If he loved me,” Minerva said, “the problem wouldn’t exist. But he’s been brutally honest-and I can’t fault him in that. He will promise me all that’s in his power to give, but he won’t promise love. He can’t. He admitted he doesn’t know if he even has it in him to give.”

Clarice humphed. “That’s not so odd-they never do know.”

“Which leads me to ask”-Letitia swung to look up at her-“are you sure he isn’t in love with you, but doesn’t know it?”

Penny leaned forward. “If you haven’t been in love before…are you sure you would know if he was?”

Minerva was silent for a long moment. “Someone recently told me that love is like a disease, and the easiest way to know if someone’s caught it is to look for the symptoms.”

“Excellent advice,” Clarice affirmed.

Penny nodded. “Love isn’t a passive emotion-it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do.”

“It makes you take risks you otherwise wouldn’t.” Letitia looked at Minerva. “So what do you think? Might Royce be in love with you, but not know?”

A catalog of minor incidents, comments, tiny revelations, all the little things about him that had surprised her, ran though her mind, but it was Hamish’s comment echoing her own earlier thought that held most weight. What on earth had proved strong enough to move him, the man he was, to break with long tradition and actively seek-want enough to strive for-a different marriage, one that, if she’d understood him correctly, he hoped as much as she might come to encompass love?

“Yes.” She slowly nodded. “He might.”


If she accepted the position of Royce’s duchess, from the instant she said “yes” there would be no turning back.

The luncheon gong had curtailed her discussion with the other ladies; neither Royce nor Jack Warnefleet had appeared, but the rest of the company had, making it impossible to further pursue their debate-at least not aloud.

She spent most of the meal mentally enumerating Royce’s symptoms, but while indicative, neither singly nor collectively were they conclusive.

Retford waylaid her on her way back to the morning room; the others went ahead while she detoured to assess the spirits store. After conferring with Retford, Cranny, and Cook, on impulse she asked after Trevor.

Fate smiled, and she found him alone in the ironing room, busily ironing his master’s cravats. He saw her as she entered, quickly set the iron down, and turned.

“No, no.” She waved him back to the board. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Hesitantly, he picked up the iron from the stand perched above a fire in the small hearth. “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

This could be supremely embarrassing, but she had to ask, had to know. She drew breath, and plunged in. “Trevor-you’ve been with His Grace for some time, have you not?”

“Over seventeen years, ma’am.”

“Indeed. Just so. So you would know if there’s anything in the way in which he behaves toward me that differs from how he’s behaved in the past with other ladies.”

The iron froze in midair. Trevor looked at her, and blinked.

Embarrassment clutched at her chest; she hurried to add, “Of course, I will understand completely if you feel your duty to His Grace precludes you from answering.”

“No, no-I can answer.” Trevor blinked again, and his expression eased. “My answer, ma’am, is that I really can’t say.”

“Oh.” She deflated; all that whipping up her courage for nothing.

But Trevor hadn’t finished. “I’ve never known about any other ladies, you see. He never brought any home.”

“He didn’t?”

His attention on the strip of linen he was carefully flattening, Trevor shook his head. “Never. Cardinal rule. Always their beds, never his.”

Minerva stared at the valet for a long moment, then she nodded and turned away. “Thank you, Trevor.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”


“Well! That’s encouraging.” Perched on the arm of one of the sofas, Clarice watched her pace. “Especially if he’s been so adamant over using his bed, not yours.”

Letitia and Penny, seated on the other sofa, nodded in agreement.

“Yes, but,” Minerva said, “who’s to say that it’s not just him viewing me as his duchess. He’d made up his mind I should marry him before he seduced me, so it’s entirely in character for him to insist on treating me as if I already were what he wants me to be-his wife.”

Letitia made a rude sound. “If Royce decided to ignore your wishes and roll over you, horse, foot, and guns, he’d have simply sent a notice to the Gazette-and then informed you of your impending change in station. That really would be in character. No, this news is definitely encouraging, but”-she held up a hand to stay Minerva’s protest-“I agree that, for your purpose, you need something more definite.”

Penny nodded. “Something more cut and dried.”

“Something,” Minerva stated, “that’s more than just indicative, or suggestive. Something that’s not open to other interpretations.” Halting, she threw up her hands. “At present, this is the equivalent of reading tea leaves. I need something he absolutely wouldn’t do unless he loves me.”

Clarice blew out a breath. “Well, there is one thing you might try. If you’re game…”


Later that night, after a final consultation with her mentors, Minerva hurried back to her bedroom. The rest of the company had retired some time ago; she was late-Royce would be wondering where she was.

If he asked where she’d been, she could hardly tell him she’d been receiving instruction in the subtle art of how to lead a nobleman to reveal his heart.

Reaching her door, she opened it and rushed inside-and came up hard against his chest.

His hands closed on her shoulders and steadied her as the door swung shut behind her. He frowned down at her. “Where-”

She held up a hand. “If you must know, I’ve been dealing with your friends’ wives.” She whisked out of his hold and backed away, already unbuttoning her gown. “Go to your room-I’ll follow as soon as I’ve changed.”

He hesitated.

She got the impression he wanted to help her with her gown, but wasn’t sure he trusted himself. She waved him off. “Go! I’ll get there sooner if you do.”

“All right.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be waiting.”

The door shut soundlessly behind him just as she recalled she should have warned him not to undress.

“Damn!” Wrestling with her laces, she hurried even faster.


He was not happy. The last weeks had crawled by without any real satisfaction.

It had taken Lady Ashton longer than he’d expected to get here, and then, instead of creating any difficulty for Royce-not even the slightest scene-the damned woman had, so it appeared, accepted her congй without even a tantrum-not even a decent sulk!

That was one thing. Her rejection of him was quite another.

Seething, he stalked out of the west wing into the deeper shadows of the keep’s gallery. He’d gone to her room assuming that, as Royce had declined to share her bed-a fact she’d made light of when, at his subtle prod, Susannah had asked-then the delectable Lady Ashton would be amenable to entertaining him. She had a mouth he’d fantasized about using ever since Royce’s interest had focused his attention on her.