The Heir (11 page)

Sabrina was forced to accept that reasoning, not that the northern Highlands were barbaric, because who knew, after all, what they were like, when Englishmen so rarely visited there to tell about it? No, she accepted that reasoning only because she knew that people did fall in love based on mutual attraction, and if Ophelia was now attracted to Duncan, that might be all that was necessary to turn her into a good wife for him. The London girl had schemed and lied because she had felt desperate and trapped, but now she
found it had all been wasted effort on her part, that she was pleased with her fiancé, or ex-fiancé at the moment, after all.

So Sabrina found herself walking to Summers Glade that afternoon, even though she’d rather be walking in any other direction. She really, really didn’t want to be doing this, not just because she liked Duncan, and didn’t really like Ophelia all that much, after getting to know her, but because this matchmaking thing just wasn’t something she would ordinarily do. Ordinarily?
Never
was more like it. It was tampering with people’s lives, trying to matchmake them, when they might end up with a disastrous marriage that she would then see as
all
her fault.

But a favor—no, a discharge of an owed debt was how she tried to see it. And the sooner she got her part out of the way, the sooner the bile in her stomach would go away.

Frazzled, that was how Duncan started feeling, once Neville’s guests began arriving at Summers Glade. It was bad enough before the party began, when he had to sit through the arguing over the agenda for it. He’d swear, if his grandfathers were any younger at all, they’d be taking their fists to each other, so much did they hotly disagree on things.

But once the guests showed up, he had Archie taking him from room to room to point out the physical attributes of each lass they came across. Then he had Neville dragging him aside to point
out the family histories of each girl, and which ones were more desirable socially. He’d had to put his foot down finally. There were just too many women there for him to keep track of all the information being given to him about each. So now the two old men were sending him notes, and the butler, delivering them, was becoming as frazzled as he was.

He had to wonder, what ever happened to the old tried-and-true fall-in-love-and-then-get-married philosophy that served so many people well? This getting married because this lass was the prettiest, or this one had the most titles in her ancestry, just didn’t sit well with him.

He’d already seen the most beautiful, and so knew firsthand that prettiest did not make for best choice. Of course, Archie insisted they couldn’t all be senseless twits like Ophelia Reid, and so he was still pushing for beauty rather than credentials. Neville agreed that beauty often came paired with too much vanity and overweening pride, so was still insisting on the better social status. Duncan was inclined to think they’d disagree just to disagree.

He had to admit, though, that he was being offered an abundance in the way of choices. Since he
had
agreed to get married—a moment of insanity, surely—if he couldn’t find at least one lass to his liking out of the fifty or so who had been invited, then he’d be deliberately not trying. During that first day of the arrivals, and on into the next morning, he did find himself continually looking for a pair of lilac eyes, but none were to be found.

Not that he was thinking of that particular girl as a possible candidate for matrimony. He’d simply enjoyed her company, and was looking forward to a bit of her humor, which had managed to lighten his mood that day he met her, and he was definitely in need of mood lightening again.

When he began to wonder why she hadn’t made an appearance, since she had seemed to be a neighbor of Neville’s, having been out for a walk in the area—and who better to invite to a party than your own neighbors?—he decided to take his question to his grandfather.

It was the first time that he had actually sought out the old man since the day of his own arrival. They had spoken, of course, at meals and in passing, the stilted speech of strangers, which they really still were. But Duncan still wasn’t comfortable in Neville’s presence, his bitterness rising each time he saw him, and so he avoided him when he could.

He found Neville after lunch, back in his private sitting room. The old man did seem to hide out upstairs for most of each day. He’d been making an appearance at meals, and for a few hours each evening, but other than that, he left his guests to their own devices.

Too many years of solitary company, Duncan supposed, would make a large house party of the scope this one had become very intimidating, or rather, unappealing. Neville wasn’t the sort to be intimidated, after all, though at his age, he didn’t inspire that emotion either, at least not with his
grandson. But he was the sort who wanted to just be left alone, thus the “recluse” description that Duncan had heard more than once paired with Neville’s name.

He had no intention of disturbing the old man for long, in fact, got right to the point in asking about his violet-eyed neighbor.

After blinking a few times, indicating that Duncan’s knock might have caught Neville nodding off for an afternoon nap, the marquis said with assurance, “There are no young women of gentry in the neighborhood, not suitable for marriage to you, that is, or I would have invited them, since they, at least, wouldn’t have to abide here for the duration, but could commute back and forth. Bloody well running out of room here as it is.”

Duncan dismissed the notion that the lass could have been common stock—her speech had been cultured, and she’d displayed no nervousness in dealing with a lord, as the working class tended to do, so he insisted, “She’s gentry.”

“Then she might have been a visitor, might even have been one of those fools who came here at the Reid girl’s request and were sent packing with her. Lilac eyes, you say?” Neville shook his head. “I don’t know a single person with unusual eyes like that. But if you were taken with the girl, I’ll investigate and find out who she was.”

Duncan shook his head. “I just enjoyed her company when I met her. She made me laugh, and I was sore in need of that at the time.”

That remark had been thoughtless on Duncan’s part, rather than deliberate, and now they were both embarrassed. Sighing over his own loose tongue—if he was going to get a dig in on someone, it should at least be intentional—Duncan went back downstairs.

He was disappointed, though, that the lass wouldn’t be showing up as he’d thought, so he was in no hurry to rejoin the guests in one of the many rooms they were congregating in, and hearing the knock at the door, took that opportunity for delay by answering it himself. The butler, absent, was no doubt off searching for him to deliver another note. The thought almost amused him.

But he really wished he hadn’t decided on this particular delay when the young man standing on the other side of the door looked him over in a rude manner and then exclaimed, “Good God, you must be the barbarian, with that hair, yes, must be indeed. Didn’t expect to meet you this soon. They’ve put you to opening doors, have they?”

Duncan, in the process of trying to unravel the English drawl, with not all that much success, latched on to the one word he’d heard a bit too much since coming to England. And in his present mood, which was still mixed with embarrassment, he very easily could come to blows over it.

“You’re calling me a barbarian, are you?”

“Me? Wouldn’t think of it. Barbarically handsome, perhaps, but no, no, just what’s making the
rounds, don’t you know, but then—perhaps you don’t know? You’ve been the major
on-dit
for weeks now.”

Duncan decided what he was hearing might as well be an unknown foreign language, yet he did grasp the “you’ve been the major” part, he wanted clarified, “What is
‘on-dit’?”

“Gossip, dear boy, juicy gossip of the slanderous sort,” he was told. “I have it on good authority—but then can there really be such a thing when dealing with rumors?—that your dear fianceé, er, wen, your dear er-fiancée, was the very one to start it all.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that he had been the subject of rumors, either. Hadn’t the lass on the hill mentioned something about
hearing
that he was a barbarian? With her, though, he’d been unable to take offense. With this fellow, he was having a hard time not being offended.

Nearly as tall as himself, though not quite as broad of shoulder, the man was athletically built. Wearing a traveling greatcoat merely draped over his shoulders, impeccably dressed beneath it, despite the fact that he’d been traveling and that tended to rumple even the best materials, he cut a dashing figure. Blond—Duncan was truly beginning to think most of England was—blue eyed, and in his mid-twenties, he had an air of importance about him.

Duncan wouldn’t have cared if he were royalty, he still didn’t like the fellow’s manner, and in one of his calmer tones—though those who knew him would surely call it ominous—he asked, “What,
exactly, has been said aboot me, if you dinna mind telling me?”

“Just rubbish that anyone with a whit of intelligence would dismiss, but you know how ridiculous some females can be. Take my sister there.”

The fellow nodded over his shoulder at a lass with the same shade of blond hair that the gentleman sported. She was in the process of directing no fewer than four servants in the unloading of no fewer than six large trunks from the coach pulled up nearby. Very pretty girl, though.

Duncan no sooner had that thought than the fellow added, “Had to drag her here kicking and screaming, the silly chit is so sure you’re going to be toting a club and wearing bearskins to dinner. Takes gossip as the literal truth, Mandy does, when it should be enjoyed for what it is, titillating fiction designed to break the inevitable boredom of a nonworking class.”

“Why come, if she didna want tae come?”

“And miss this golden opportunity to meet the reclusive Neville Thackeray? Wouldn’t think of it. He’s only been speculated about for years and years, and most of the people I know have never even clapped eyes on him. ‘Sides, the little sister there is in the market, if you know what I mean, so Mum and Dad pretty much insisted she not miss the exposure of a grand country gathering as this one is sure to be. Not that they’re hoping for
you
in particular, dear boy, just that they want to keep her circulating while the Season lasts, and yours truly gets to chaperone, don’t you know.”

Duncan was starting to understand the fellow better now, and wishing he didn’t That “dear boy,” he found particularly condescending, enough for him to remark, “If you havena noticed, I’m no’ exactly a
boy,
and certainly no’ a
dear
one tae you, when we havena met prior. I’ve laid men on the floor for implying less.”

“Have you?”

This was said in a very unimpressed tone. But then the fellow began to chuckle. That in turn turned into some extended laughter. When that wound down, the Englishman continued, “A piece of advice, my friend. Learn to distinguish between a deliberate insult and what is clearly, or at least clearly intended as, no more than an affectation of speech. It might save you much angst, I’m sure, and might save a few innocent noses as well.”

Feeling foolish never had been a preference of Duncan’s. It usually annoyed the hell out of him instead, and now was no different. “Your own nose isna safe yet, mon. Just who are you?”

Grinning, and so obviously not taking Duncan’s threat seriously, the Englishman answered, “I’ve a few titles, but truly deplore passing them out. Just call me Rafe,
old
chap.”

That last crack got the door shut on one of the most highly sought-after young lords of the realm, heir to a dukedom, wealthy beyond measure, the most eligible bachelor of the Season and every hostess’s dream come true. And yet the door was being shut on him.

Duncan would
not
have been impressed had he
known all of that. He was hoping their first meeting would be their last. They were to become great friends, though. They just didn’t know it yet.

Seventeen

“W
hy, Miss Sabrina!” Richard Jacobs exclaimed in surprise. “You’ve never come this far on one of your walks before. Is something amiss?”

Sabrina smiled at Lord Neville’s butler to put him at ease. She knew the man well, and his family. She knew just about everyone in their small area of Yorkshire, after all, including everyone’s servants, and everyone knew her. Her walks did take her everywhere, after all, and being the friendly sort she was, she would usually strike up a conversation with anyone she came across. Then, too, she had grown up here, and it was hard not to know everyone in such a small community—with the exception of Lord Neville himself.

Her embarrassment was starting to show, however,
since Jacobs would know that she wasn’t there by invitation. He did so pride himself on knowing every single thing that had to do with Lord Neville, and in his position of greeting the guests, would know whom to expect.

To put
herself at
ease, she didn’t get right to the point, asked instead, “How is your lovely wife faring now? Better, I hope?”