obsession with her, all compounded by his need to rely on her, to keep her near and interact with her daily… His sisters, by comparison, were a minor irritation. Minerva was…a serious problem. Especially as everything she said, everything she urged, everything she was, appealed to him— not the cold, calm, calculating, and risk-averse duke, but the other side of him—the side that rode young stallions just broken to the saddle over hill and dale at a madman’s pace. The side that was neither cold, nor risk-averse. He didn’t know what to do with her, how he could safely manage her. He glanced at the clock on a bureau by the wall, then looked at Retford. “Show Collier up.” Retford bowed and withdrew. Royce looked at Minerva. “It’s nearly time to dress for dinner. I’ll see Collier, and arrange for him to read the will after dinner. If you can organize with Jeffers to show him to a room, and to have him fed…?” “Yes, of course.” She rose, met his gaze as he came to his feet. “I’ll see you at dinner.” She turned and walked to the door; Royce watched while she opened it, then went out, then he exhaled and sank back into his chair. Dinner was consumed in a civil but restrained atmosphere. Margaret and Aurelia had decided to be careful; both avoided subjects likely to irritate him, and, in the main, held their tongues. Susannah made up for their silence by relating a number of the latest on-dits, censored in deference to their father’s death. Nevertheless, she added a welcome touch of liveliness to which his brothers-in-law responded with easy good humor. They dined in the family dining room. Although much smaller than the one in the main dining salon, the table still sat fourteen; with only eight of them spread along the board, there remained plenty of space between each place, further assisting Royce’s hold on his temper. The meal, the first he’d shared with his sisters for sixteen years, passed better than he’d hoped. As the covers were drawn, he announced that the reading of the will would take place in the library. Margaret frowned. “The drawing room would be more convenient.” He raised his brows, set his napkin beside his plate. “If you wish you may repair to the drawing room. I, however, am going to the library.” She compressed her lips, but rose and followed. Collier, a neat individual in his late fifties, bespectacled, brushed, and burnished, was waiting, a trifle nervous, but once they’d settled on the chaise and chairs, he cleared his throat, and started to read. His diction was clear and precise enough for everyone to hear as he read through clause after clause