He was standing staring at the door.

“If it makes any difference, it’s been over a decade since your father used this room.”

That got her a frowning look. “Which room did he use?”

“He moved to the east tower room. It’s remained untouched since he died.”

“When did he move there?” He looked at the door before him. “Out of here.”

It wasn’t her place to hide the truth. “Sixteen years ago.” In case he failed to make the connection, she added, “When he returned from London after banishing you.”

He frowned, as if the information made no sense.

Which made her wonder, but she held her tongue. She waited, but he asked no more.

Brusquely he nodded in dismissal, turned the knob, and opened the door. “I’ll see you in the study in an hour.”

With a serene inclination of her head, she turned and walked away.

And felt his dark gaze on her back, felt it slide down from her shoulders to her hips, eventually to her legs. Managed to hold back her inner shiver until she was out of his acutely observant sight.

Then she picked up her pace, walking swiftly and determinedly toward her own domain-the duchess’s morning room; she had an hour to find armor sufficiently thick to protect her against the unexpected impact of the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.

Royce halted just inside the duke’s apartments; shutting the door, he looked around.

Decades had passed since he’d last seen the room, but little had changed. The upholstery was new, but the furniture was the same, all heavy polished oak, glowing with a rich, golden patina, the edges rounded by age. He circled the sitting room, running his fingers over the polished tops of sideboards and the curved backs of chairs, then went into the bedroom-large and spacious with a glorious view south over the gardens and lake to the distant hills.

He was standing before the wide window drinking in that view when a tap on the outer door had him turning. He raised his voice. “Come.”