Stephanie Laurens - The Edge of Desire

Many had requested a briefing, seeking to remind him that they existed, to establish a connection with his alter ego-his real self. He’d viewed such requests with due cynicism, but in the main hadn’t denied them, knowing he’d have to make the transition to his other self sooner rather than later.

That as of today, the individual known as Dalziel had ceased to exist.

He snorted softly. Steepling his fingers, he set them before his face. Relaxed in the chair, he stared across the room. And consciously tried to bring his other self to mind. To life.

But sixteen years was a long time.

And a name changed nothing of what a man truly was.

Distantly, beyond the solid walls, he heard a horse clatter up and come to a stamping halt in the street outside; although his mind recognized and identified the sound, sunk in a survey of the past he didn’t register its import.

The front door knocker was another matter; plied with considerable force, it jerked him from recollections-some painful-of his distant past.

Hauled from his reverie, he focused on the door. Ears straining, he heard his butler, Hamilton, cross the front hall. An instant later, muffled by doors and walls, came the sound of men’s voices-Hamilton’s and one other’s. Presumably the rider’s.

The cadence of the unknown rider’s accent unexpectedly kicked premonition to life.

Had his heart pumping just a tad faster, had him steeling himself against what was coming.

His mind raced, imagining what the message might be, what latest hurdle was to be erected in his path.

What else his father might think to throw at him.

He was waiting, tense inside but outwardly at ease, his hands, long fingers relaxed, draped over the end of each chair arm, when Hamilton approached the study door, knocked briefly, and entered.

Royce’s gaze went to his butler’s hands, expecting to see his silver salver with a missive lying upon it.

But Hamilton’s hands were empty.

Raising his gaze to Hamilton’s face, Royce read his expression with the barest glance.

Felt like he’d been kicked in the chest.

His features grave, Hamilton bowed-lower than usual. “Your grace. A rider has arrived from Wolverstone.”

No further explanation was necessary; the title said it all.

It could only be his if…

Somehow he gathered enough wit to speak. “Thank you, Hamilton. Please see to the comfort of whoever it is. I’ll speak with him shortly.”

Once he’d absorbed the latest blow.

Once he had the rage roaring through him contained.

Hamilton bowed. “Indeed, your grace.” He silently withdrew.

Leaving Royce to face a prospect he hadn’t, despite all his experience of dicing with fate, ever contemplated.

His father had been a constant in his life-over the last decade a constant foe. One to whom he’d owed filial obedience, but filial obedience had stretched only so far.

Paternal command hadn’t stopped him from serving his country in the way his country had needed, in the way he was so uniquely qualified to do.

Paternal denunciation-one step short of outright disinheritance, but socially even more damning-had seen him adopt a name from a distant branch of his mother’s family tree.

His father had drawn his line short of disinheritance purely because he’d had only one son.

So he’d had to make do with Royce, a son who openly chose to live by his own creed, by an interpretation of loyalty, honor, courage, and service to his country that was significantly different from that of the generation of noblemen to which his father belonged.

Had belonged.

It was from his mother’s family he’d inherited that finer, more selfless creed; they’d always been warriors. His father’s family had been the money-makers, the power brokers, the kingmakers; serving their country had, for them, had a different meaning.

Brought up beneath his father’s heavy hand, but with his mother, strong and vibrant, an equal influence, he’d always been aware of the distinction.

When his father had learned of the exact nature of his commission, he’d been forced to choose between his father’s creed or that other. Forced to make a choice between his father’s approval and his country.

He’d chosen, and his father had made his stand-in the main room of White’s, of all places. Carefully chosen to be a bastion of his generation, a perfect setting to support him in bringing his errant son to heel.

Only the encounter hadn’t gone as his father had expected.

He’d never expected Royce to take all his fury, then, with a face carved from stone, simply turn and walk out.

Out of society, out of his father’s life.

His reentry into both had been imminent for the last month. He’d been putting off the moment, finding reasons to delay resigning his commission, which, while overdue, his superiors had been in no hurry to receive.

He’d chosen the Monday after Christian Allardyce’s wedding as the first day of his return to his past life, the first day of becoming once again the Marquess of Winchelsea, the courtesy title bestowed upon the first son and heir of the Duke of Wolverstone.

It had seemed appropriate to choose the first weekday after the last of his seven ex-colleagues of the Bastion Club had wed. He’d assumed he would drive north, walk into his father’s presence and see what came next.

Instead…

There wasn’t going to be any “next.” No reconciliation, no understanding.

Certainly no apology.

Given the events of the past decade, let alone the commendations, royal and otherwise, he and his men had earned, even his father would have been hard-pressed to deny him the latter.

Except he, and fate, had, in the one way Royce had no power to control.

Staring across his study, he all but snarled as, fingers now locked white about the chair’s arms, he sat up. “Damn you!”

Whether he was addressing fate or his dead father wasn’t entirely clear.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Biting off the words, he surged to his feet. Swinging around, he stalked to the wall and tugged the bellpull.

When Hamilton appeared, he delivered his orders in a crisp, even tone, one that brooked no question, much less invited any. “Have my curricle brought around-I’ll want the blacks. Tell Henry I won’t need him with me-he’s to follow with the luggage.” Henry was his personal groom who’d followed him from Wolverstone, disregarding his father’s edict against anyone in his households giving his errant son succor.

“Tell Trevor to pack everything and travel up to Wolverstone with Henry as soon as he can. For now, all I’ll need is a small bag-he’ll know what to pack.” Trevor was his valet-another hangover from his father’s days, but one he’d never had the heart to dismiss. And Trevor was useful in more ways than the purely sartorial. With both Henry and Trevor behind the scenes, he’d be well placed to handle whatever waited for him at Wolverstone.

He hadn’t set foot on the property-on any of his father’s diverse and numerous holdings-since that scene in White’s sixteen years ago; he had absolutely no idea who was managing what, or if they were competent. While he could have asked any number of people for information-which they would have given him, conflict of interest or not-he’d been too nice, and too proud, to drag others into the firing line between himself and his father.

“Tell Handley when he comes in that I’ll need him at Wolverstone, too. As soon as he can arrange it.” Handley was his amanuensis, another he could rely on to see his orders carried out to the letter.

“And I suppose I’d better check that someone has remembered to notify Collier, Collier and Whiticombe.” His father’s solicitors. “I’ll write a letter before I go, and there’ll be another I’ll want delivered to Montague in the city.”

“Yes, my l-” Hamilton caught himself. “Your grace.”

Royce’s lips twisted. “Indeed. We’re both going to have to get used to that.”

Mentally reviewing his preparations, he could think of only one thing he’d missed. “And if anyone calls, you may tell them I’ve gone north, and that I have no notion of when I’ll be back.”

New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS specializes in writing historical romances set in Regency England. The Edge of Desire is her thirty-second such work and her seventh in a group of novels about the members of the exclusive Bastion Club, first introduced in her novel The Lady Chosen.