But he came forward and stood directly across from Neville's desk. And grew quite uncomfortable under the close examination Neville was giving him. Squirming came to mind, it was certainly what he felt like doing, though he managed to stand still.
"Elizabeth would be proud of you, if she could see you now."
It was a compliment of sorts, from Neville, not from his mother. It had the effect of annoying Duncan rather than flattering him.
"And how would you be knowing what she'd feel, when you ne'er saw her again after she wed?"
The bitterness was unmistakable. Neville would have had to be deaf not to hear it, and some of his other senses might be failing him at his advanced age, but not his hearing. He stiffened. If he'd been willing to talk of the past, he changed his mind.
Abruptly he said, "Lady Ophelia and her parents will arrive today. It would be in our best interest if you would make an effort to impress her. Although she will benefit more from this marriage than you will, I have been informed that she is extremely popular with the London crowd, and has had countless other offers, so until the wedding, we will need to keep her happy. These young people today," he added in disgust, "think nothing of breaking commitments on a whim."
Duncan wondered if that last had been said just for his benefit. They might be blood related, but Neville had never made any effort to contact him, even by letter, before the time of "fulfilling the promise," and even then it was to Archie that he'd written, not to Duncan. There was no way he could know what manner of man Duncan had turned into—unless Archie had told him. He frowned to himself, wondering just what Archie had told Neville about him, in all those letters that had passed between them.
"I dinna break commitments—once I make them, but I've no' made one yet."
A look of surprise. "Didn't Sir Henry tell you of your engagement—?"
"He told me o' the engagement o'your making, which wasna my doing. D'you ken yet, Lord Neville, that 'tis a grown man you have standing here, no' a lad who needs decisions made for him? I'm here for my mother's sake. I'll wed for Archie's sake, since he seems tae want that done quickly. But I'll be picking my own bride. If your Lady Ophelia suits me, I may even wed her, but by no means am I committed tae do so until I do the committing m'self"
"I see," Neville said slowly, stiffly. "You've come here with a chip on your shoulder—"
"D'you think so? I'd call it a powerful dislike for being here m'self. Someone—you, Archie, my mother—someone should have bluidy well told me aboot that promise of hers sooner than Sir Henry did."
Duncan left the room then before he could say even more that he'd regret later. He shouldn't have revealed his true feelings. He hadn't meant to, at least not so soon.
Chapter Eleven
It wasn't surprising that Sabrina would find her way outside for a nice walk the first chance she got. She loved the seasons, all four of them, and even when it was its coldest, she could enjoy a brisk walk. Nature, at its harshest or its most beautiful, was always a marvel to her. She took pleasure in lifting her face to the rain, rather than running for cover, of feeling the wind in her hair, the sun on her cheeks. Her aunts had teased her as a child that she had fairy blood and had merely misplaced her wings.
She climbed the hill that she had sometimes stopped on in the past, when coming from the other direction during one of her walks. It was as close as she had ever come to Summers Glade before, that hill, but it had always offered a perfect view of Lord Neville's large estate. She had viewed it in each of the seasons, so knew that the dreary look of it now would change come springtime, when the stately old trees around it donned their green mantles again.
It was truly a lovely old home, and now that she'd seen the inside of it, she was quite impressed. A shame that Lord Neville didn't entertain more often, to show it off to his neighbors, who, like the Lamberts, had always been most curious about him and his home.
Of course, he really wasn't entertaining now, though he did have guests of the unexpected sort. Whether he would be entertaining them, though, was still a matter of speculation. In fact, Sabrina could return from her walk to find her aunts packing once again. That wouldn't bother her much, though she was looking forward to finally meeting the esteemed Lord Neville, after living so close to him all these years but never actually seeing him, even from afar.
But she was in no hurry to return and find out, either way, and reaching the top of the hill, she sat down, with no thought to the grass or dirt stains she might pick up, and simply enjoyed the view. Her aunts use to complain to their friends that Sabrina never outgrew her cloths as a child because they were always ruined by bramble tears or grassy stains long before they needed replacing due to growth.
She had been careless in that respect and still was, but then her appearance as perceived by others had never been high on her list of concerns. When there wasn't much to work with or improve upon, why waste time trying?
She removed her bonnet and set it aside on the ground next to her. It would have blown away if the ribbons weren't still in her hand, but it did bounce around on the ground, unnoticed by her, getting quite demolished. She had closed her eyes, to better feel the wind as it caught her hair and sent it flying in all directions about her head. She chuckled as a strand whisked across her nose, tickling.
That her eyes were closed, though, and the wind loud in her ears, wasn't the reason she didn't see or hear the rider coming and was nearly run over. He had simply come up so quickly from the other side of the hill behind her that he was upon her before either of them noticed.
It really was a close call, so close that when the horse reared up and was jerked to the side to avoid her, its hooves came down right on top of her bonnet. Not that she noticed that—yet. She was too busy rolling out of the way, which had been quicker to do than to try and find her footing under her heavy skirts.
But she wasn't the only one to do some rolling on the ground. The rider had been unseated when his horse reared up, and landing where the hill started to sharply decline, he'd found no flat purchase and so had rolled a bit before he could stop himself.
Sabrina was the first to recover, though, and get back to her feet. The man was sitting there with his legs spread wide, looking somewhat dazed, or at least he was probably wondering what had happened. The horse wandered off, snorting, but not far. He took Sabrina's bonnet with him, still stuck to his foot as it was, and was now trying to eat the silk flowers he noticed on it.
It was a big man sitting there. She took note of that first, couldn't help but note it, the thickness of his short winter coat emphasizing it across some very broad shoulders. But it was his legs she stared at. She couldn't help it, they were somewhat bare, at least the knees were, between the kilt he wore and his high boots.
A kilt in winter—how unusual. She'd seen Scotsmen in kilts before, as they passed through Oxbow on their way south or back north, but only in the summer. Most of them preferred to dress warmer for the more brisk seasons. Did he not feel the cold?
She knew who he might be, Ophelia's fiancé. The kilt and the dark red hair suggested that he was at least Scottish, and Summers Glade, the direction he'd been heading, was expecting a Scotsman. And oh, my, was Ophelia going to be surprised and likely change her mind real quick about wanting to be rid of him. How could she not, when he was so very handsome, he took even Sabrina's breath away?
He stood up, surprising her that he wasn't just big, but very tall as well. And he dusted off his kilt in such a way that some thigh became visible, causing Sabrina to blush. He hadn't noticed her yet, though, and even so, her cheeks were likely pinkened enough by the wind for a blush not to make much difference.
"Are you all right?"
He swung about to face her. "Och, so there you are. I should be asking you that. I didna see you sitting there till it was almost tae late."
She smiled at him. His brogue was light and pleasant, if his voice somewhat deep. She liked the sound of it, though, strange to her ears, but lyrical. And
those eyes, so dark a blue, quite disconcerting now that they were gazing directly at her.
"So I gathered."
"I mun apologize. The beastie and I dinna get along tae well," he said, giving the horse a disgruntled glower. "But then I'm no' much of a horsemon tae begin wi', preferring tae walk if the distance isna tae far."
How coincidental. Her sentiments exactly. She could ride, and very well. She'd been taught as a child as a matter of course, a rounding out of her accomplishments. She just found sidesaddles rather uncomfortable, and besides, she had two sturdy legs that the good Lord meant her to make use of.
His mention of distance prompted her to ask, "Are you just arriving then, to Summers Glade?"
He glanced down the hill at the house, which got another one of his glowers, before he said, "Nay, just needed tae work off a wee bit o' steam, and thought the stallion there could accommodate me. Silly notion. I should've known riding would cause me more aggravation than ease."
She chuckled. It caused Duncan to take a second look at her, more closely than his first.
She was a bedraggled wee lass, with her long brown hair gone all hither and yon, but he found her lack of decorum rather appealing. She was small, but even her long coat, covering her from neck to foot, couldn't hide the very plumpness of her breasts, though it did conceal the rest of her shape. He noted two buttons were missing. He noted the prettiest lilac eyes he'd ever seen.
A thought occurred to him and he voiced it abruptly. "Are you Lady Ophelia, by chance?"
"Good heavens, no, but you must be the Highland barbarian I've been hearing so much about."
For some reason, he didn't take offense. Perhaps because of the twinkle in her lovely eyes as she said it. She was obviously amused by the term "barbarian" used in context with him, and he was amused by her amusement.
Then, too, he'd donned the kilt, which he normally wouldn't wear in winter, to make a statement for Neville's benefit, that he preferred things Scottish to English. It could be seen as a barbaric statement, though, by others, considering the time of year, not that this paltry English cold could bother him. But that, too, was amusing, now that he was calm enough to think about it.
So he said with a bit of humor in his own tone, "Aye, that would be me."
"You're not as old as I thought you would be," she continued.
He raised an auburn brow at her, asking, "How auld was that?"
"Forty at least."
"Forty!" he roared.
Her peal of laughter was infectious. Duncan just managed to not chuckle with her and gave her what he hoped was a stern look instead.
"You were teasing me then?" he said.
"Was it obvious then?"
"There's no' many I know that brave."
She smiled at him. "I highly doubt you're the barbarian you've been reputed to be, but then I'm not the walking ghost I've been reputed to be either. Strange thing about rumors and gossip. They so rarely deal with the real facts, yet so often are taken as the literal truth."
"So Neville was expecting a barbarian, was he?" Duncan said.
She blinked at him, then laughed again. "Oh, my, I highly doubt it. He would know better, wouldn't he, since he knows you well enough, being your grandfather. No, no, it's those who haven't met you yet, but know of your coming, that might be predisposed to wonder about a Highland Scot, when so few ever come to England to prove that the Highlands of Scotland must be civilized by now, and goodness, that was quite a mouthful, wasn't it?"
Duncan had been about to growl in response. That assumption that his grandfather should know him had really rubbed him on the raw. But the rest of what she said he found so amusing, it actually put him at ease again, so much so that he felt like teasing her back, rather than seriously addressing what the Highlands were reputed to be.
"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.
Chapter Twelve
Neville'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 mo
st 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.
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