The Heir (8 page)

“Must it be?” he said.

“What?”

“Civilized.”

She appeared to give that some careful thought, then replied logically, “Well, it might not be quite as civilized as England, of course. But I seriously doubt it’s still producing barbarians of the truly barbaric sort. Look at you, after all. Or did you forget to bring your war paint?”

He burst out laughing. He doubled over with it. He had to wipe tears from his eyes.

But when he wound down a bit, he noticed she was now frowning at him, and then she said so seriously, “You did, didn’t you? You forgot it.”

He fell over this time, he laughed so hard. And when he was done, he felt… almost normal, the bitterness that had been eating at him gone, at least for the moment. And he saw the impish grin she was now wearing, proving she’d been no more than teasing him again.

What a gem she was, this young girl, certainly not what he’d been expecting from English lasses. If the rest were like her, well, he might not find it so disagreeable to wed one after all.

Twelve

N
eville’s guests—and the number had grown considerably as the day progressed—had no idea that the only reason they hadn’t been summarily sent on their way was that Neville was actually relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with his grandson alone again, after their disastrous first meeting. He was hoping that a house full of young people—and he’d been informed that most of those arriving were close to Duncan’s age—would entertain the boy enough that he would feel more comfortable being there.

It had been obvious that that wasn’t the case, that Duncan resented this trip to England. Oddly enough, Neville had never considered that his heir might not want to
be
his heir. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with that, or make his grandson
more disposed to assuming the responsibilities that would come with his inheritance.

Duncan had much to learn, but perhaps immediately was not the time to begin. Getting the marriage accomplished and out of the way might be a better start, since Duncan did seem to be agreeable to that—for
Archie’s
sake.

That still infuriated Neville, that the boy was quite willing to please his Scots relative, but not his English one. To be expected, he supposed, but he still didn’t like it. However, he was grateful that Archibald had gotten the boy to agree to wed. He wouldn’t feel relieved himself until it was accomplished and a child conceived, since he feared that if the old Scot didn’t get a new heir in Duncan’s first son, as soon as Neville passed on, he would try to lure Duncan back to the Highlands.

Not an unfounded fear. His communications with Archibald MacTavish had led to one clear indication. The man was very possessive of what was his, and very stubborn and unbending in his demands. Neville didn’t like this dividing of heirs, as the Scot had proposed. Duncan
was
his only heir, no matter Elizabeth’s promise that the lad would come to England to claim and administer his inheritance.

That he was also Archibald’s only heir, Neville had no problem with. Managers could be hired to oversee the two large estates when Duncan needed to divide his time between one or the other. Neville’s holdings were not so complicated that they needed constant supervision. It would
be nice if Duncan could devote himself fully to one country, but Englishmen were long accustomed to owning properties in far-off places, as well as on the home front.

It was a moot point, however. The Scotsman clearly felt that he’d lost Duncan because of Elizabeth’s promise, and so insisted on the continuation of the line that would give him a new heir. On that, at least, Neville could agree. What man wouldn’t like to know that his line would continue and not die out—
before
he died himself? For Duncan to produce lots of offspring would assure both men of that, but only if he got started on that producing soon.

Neville was pleased with his choice of bride for the boy. He probably should have made an effort to meet her prior to making the commitment, but he had still been so furious at Archibald for insisting on the
most
beautiful bride to be had, as if that were the only thing of importance when choosing a bride, that when his agents had promised she was just that, he had contacted her parents posthaste.

But having met her now for the first time that afternoon, he was not displeased. Ophelia Reid was most definitely as beautiful as the reports on her had claimed. She might have been a bit on the stiff side, and had seemed somewhat haughty, but that could easily be attributed to nervousness on her part, in meeting her future in-law.

And haughty pride was not an altogether bad thing, in his opinion. Neville had been known to give that impression himself on occasion. Depending
on whom he was dealing with, a certain amount of condescension could be useful. But he was sure now that Duncan, once he saw her, would be quite taken with her. And that was all that mattered, really, that the boy be happy with his bride.

Sabrina
could
have been quite correct in her assumption that Ophelia would change her opinion about Duncan MacTavish once she saw him. She very well might have if they could have met alone, and under different circumstances.

But as Fate would have it, Ophelia was surrounded by her friends and admirers when Duncan made an appearance in the drawing room where they were all gathered. Having just come in from his ride, he was still wearing the clothes he’d donned for Neville’s benefit, and she saw them as a confirmation of the unfounded rumors she’d started about him. Unfortunately, so did her friends.

“Good God, he’s wearing a skirt,” was whispered next to her.

“That’s perfectly acceptable dress in Scotland,’ someone tried to point out. “It’s called a—”

“It’s a bloody skirt. And here I’d thought the marquis’s relative couldn’t possibly be as barbaric as anticipated, but apparently I was wrong and he is.”

Ophelia was embarrassed, a circumstance that she abhorred. She had expected to have to ridicule Duncan MacTavish in other ways, not
have the rumors she’d spread about him end up being quite on the mark. Because of it, she wasn’t really seeing him clearly. She saw the kilt, and the red tints in his wildly windblown dark auburn hair, and she saw nothing else except that, ironically, she’d been right.

On the one hand, she was relieved. Her parents would have to see now that a Highlander, a barbaric one at least, simply wouldn’t do for her. They had heard the rumors. She’d made sure of that. But they had scoffed that they couldn’t possibly be true. They wouldn’t be scoffing now.

But on the other hand, it was one thing to be in control of a rumor and to have it work for your benefit, but quite another to be caught in the truth of it—and the embarrassment of it. And Ophelia hated embarrassment. Pink cheeks simply didn’t suit her a’tall.

So she was quite annoyed when Duncan presented himself after his moment of observing the room from the doorway, gave her a flourishing—she saw it as exaggerated—bow, and said, “Since there canna be a lassie more bonny in all o’ creation, you mun be Lady Ophelia.”

She had understood him well enough, but said, “When you can manage your compliments in English, I might pay attention to them. You might try dressing properly as well, or do you Highlanders actually prefer to look like women?”

To imply that there was anything even remotely feminine about a Scottish kilt was as grave an insult as could be imagined. Duncan could have forgiven her, though, attributing it to
English ignorance, if she hadn’t said it for effect. He couldn’t miss the effect, the titters and outright chuckles from her audience, nor her smug look when she heard it.

His embarrassment was unmistakable, though, and apparently exactly what she was hoping for. Why, he couldn’t imagine, not that it mattered now. Yet what he had felt at first—thrilled, amazed, grateful even, and resigned that he’d have to be thanking his grandfather for this magnificent bride—made the blow all the worse.

He might have been truly surprised when he first saw her, and utterly dazzled by her beauty—she really was a bonny sight to behold. But at that precise moment, she could not have been more ugly in his eyes.

He said not another word to her. He turned on his heel and left the room to go in search of his grandfather, and found him immediately, since Neville was on the stairs coming down to join his guests.

Duncan didn’t pause on his way up, said simply in passing, “She won’t do.”

Neville, shocked at first by the very finality in his tone, would have gone after Duncan to find out why. But considering their less-than-amicable relationship thus far, he decided to find out by other means.

Having been so pleased with Ophelia Reid, Neville was understandably annoyed and wanting to know what had happened to ruin more than a year’s efforts in finding the perfect bride. He signaled his butler, who was standing duty in
the hall below, and who had never failed him in knowing all. And this time was no different, since he was informed, verbatim, what had been said in the drawing room.

Silly chit, to not know any better than to voice her ignorance aloud. Beauty was desirable, but not when it came packaged with such stupidity. Duncan was quite right, she wouldn’t do at all.

Thirteen

D
uncan had ridden off, leaving Sabrina on the hill, but then he hadn’t known that she would be going in the same direction as he. And she was in no hurry to follow, quite the contrary. She had sat back down and completely lost track of the time as she sorted through each and every single thing he’d said to her and preserved it for all time in her memory.

What an incredibly
exciting
afternoon for her, quite the most exciting she could ever remember having, but then she’d never before spent time, and discourse, with such a handsome man. And complicated. He hadn’t
wanted
to smile or laugh with her. She’d had to make an extra effort to get him to. And she wondered, after he’d gone, what could be so bothering him to cause such a sour mood.

But he’d been smiling when he left her, and
that pleased her more than she could say, that she’d lightened his mood, because she had liked him. She didn’t usually make such a judgment that quickly, but in his case it was hard not to like him, his voice, his smile, his sense of humor when he allowed it loose, and of course, the look of him. He had disturbed her senses in a myriad of ways, but she still had enjoyed every moment she had spent in his presence.

But she wasn’t delusional. A man like him was not for the likes of her; he was for the Ophelias of the world. A shame, a pitiful shame really, that it was so, but there you had it. Beautiful for beautiful, and for her, a nice, plain-looking man, intelligent, resourceful, kind, someone who would enjoy taking walks with her, and laughing, and sitting on a hill watching the sunset together.

Oh, my, the sun really was about to set. Wherever had the time got to?

Sabrina leapt to her feet and ran, nearly all the way, to Summers Glade. She entered the house at the back, so as to encounter fewer people who might see her windblown appearance, and finding the servants’ stairs, made it up to her room. Her aunt Alice was there, however, so she wasn’t going to escape complete notice. But Alice had been impatiently waiting on her—and packing for her—so she really didn’t spare her more than a brief glance before bringing another dress to the open valise on the bed.

She did spare the query, “Wherever have you been? We should have left hours ago with everyone else.”

“Everyone else? So Lord Neville didn’t like having London descend on him after all?”

Alice tsked. “Whether he did or didn’t, he
was
agreeable to having a house party, then suddenly he wasn’t, but no more than to be expected from that senile old coot. And there we were just getting ready to go down, when his housekeeper came round to ask us to leave. Poor woman was quite embarrassed about it, too.”

Sabrina moved to help her aunt finish the packing. “You can’t blame Lord Neville, when having this gathering wasn’t his idea. He no doubt feels that Ophelia and her fiancé should have some time alone together, to become acquainted—”