His hand tightened about hers and he smiled back, openly, honestly, his customary shields lowered, for once set aside.
No! No, no, no, no—how could this have happened?
Deep in the crowd, surrounded by, jostled by, the raucous, gibbering throng, all transported with delight over the news of Royce’s wedding, he stood stunned, unable to think—unable to drag his eyes from the picture of Royce and Minerva standing on the dais, lost in each other’s eyes.
Royce was an excellent actor when he wanted to be—he knew that. Minerva could hold her own, too…
He shook his head, wished he could deny what his eyes were telling him. Neither was acting—what he was seeing, what the entire crowd about him was taking in and responding to, was real.
Royce wanted to marry Minerva.
And she wanted to marry him.
She was in love with him—nothing else could account for the softness in her face.
And while Royce couldn’t possibly love her, he definitely cared for her—in a far warmer way than he’d ever have thought possible.
Minerva wasn’t, had never been, just another of Royce’s legion of lovers. She’d been the one, all along—the lady he’d wanted as his wife…
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He ground the words out through clenched teeth, fighting to keep his face a mask of utter blankness.
Their marriage was supposed to be a farce, a travesty—it was supposed to be painful. Instead, all his maneuvering had done was hand Royce precisely what he’d wanted.
He, through Susannah, had been instrumental in giving Royce the last thing he needed to complete the tapestry of an already rich and satisfying existence. He’d been instrumental in giving Royce something he craved, something he treasured…
Suddenly, he knew. Suddenly, he saw.
His features eased.
Then, slowly, he smiled, too.
Increasingly delightedly. He laughed, and clapped Rohan on the back when he passed him in the crowd.
Yes, of course. Now he saw it.
Royce had been the motive, the cause in bringing him his treasure—only then to take it away.
So fitting, then, that he would be the one to give Royce his greatest treasure—so he could return the favor.
Royce had taken his treasure.
Now he would take Royce’s.
That evening, Royce, Minerva, Letitia, Clarice, Penny, and Handley met in the duchess’s morning room. In the wake of the hugely successful fair—made even more notable by the news they’d shared—dinner had been an informal affair. After refreshing themselves, they’d left the relaxed and apparently pleasantly exhausted company downstairs, and retired to address the logistics of a ducal wedding.
While the others settled, Royce, subsiding beside Minerva on one of the sofas, considered his wife-to-be. “Did you say something to the others downstairs? They seem strangely unexercised by our betrothal.”
“I simply explained that Susannah’s intervention was misjudged, and that as your duchess, I would be severely displeased were anyone to paint our betrothal in anything other than the correct light.”
Sinking onto the sofa opposite, Penny chuckled. “It was masterful. She made Susannah’s action appear a childish prank—one of those occurrences that are so excruciatingly awkward that it would be a kindness to Susannah to pretend it never happened.”
Joining Penny on the sofa, Letitia added, “She only had to speak to the ladies—Jack reported that as none of the men were on the battlements, they were very ready to pretend it never happened. But turning the event around so it reflected on Susannah was a master stroke. I would never have thought of it, but it served wonderfully well.”
“No doubt,” Clarice said, settling on the end of the sofa, “your facility comes from having to deal with Variseys for decades.”
“Indeed.” Minerva turned to Royce, met his eyes. “Now, for our wedding.”
Very early that morning, he’d suggested as soon as possible, and been informed that wasn’t in his cards. When he’d grumbled, he’d been further informed, at length, why. “Three weeks, I believe you said?”