Unaware of the arriving London guests, Duncan and his grandfather were at that moment upstairs meeting for the first time themselves. Duncan had insisted on waiting in Neville’s sitting room for him, while Neville’s valet had refused to wake him any sooner than the marquis’s customary hour of arising. So Duncan had waited, nearly two hours, for the old man to bestir himself and make an appearance.

But he had finally done that, and the valet, looking red-faced on his way out, had obviously gotten a scolding for not waking Neville sooner. Not that Duncan had minded the wait, which had given him time to examine some of the possessions that Neville must consider of importance, for them to be in his personal sitting room.

The strange African artifacts on one wall suggested that Neville must have visited that continent at some point in his life, or wished he had. Another corner of the room was filled with Chinese art; around the mantel were things Egyptian. Either Neville liked to travel or he was a collector of unusual art.

The furnishings, however, were in the same French flavor prevalent throughout the house. The desk was so dainty looking, Duncan would be afraid to use it himself, concerned that the slightest bit of weight from an elbow might send it crumbling to the floor. On it were two miniature portraits, one of which he recognized as his mother when she was a young woman, undoubtedly painted before she’d left home to marry Donald. The other was of a child—with bright red hair.

The second picture caused Duncan to pause and simply stare at it. It could have been himself, he supposed, though he certainly had no recollection of anyone ever being around him who could have painted it. It wasn’t a pose, was a male child in play outdoors, oblivious to anyone who might have been watching him. And Duncan’s hair had been that bright when he’d been a child, though it was nowhere near that color now, had darkened considerably as he’d aged. He saw no resemblance, though, really, other than the hair, but that could be the fault of the artist—and he was running out of reasons why it might not be his portrait, when he knew deep down that it was.

He just couldn’t figure out why Neville would have it, or want it, when he’d never, not once in Duncan’s entire life, tried to see him or even contact him. He’d written to Archie, but never to his only grandson, which spoke eloquently, as far as Duncan was concerned, about how Neville felt about him. He was a promised possession, and Neville probably saw him no differently from one of his art objects, to be prized and of value, but there was no sentimentality involved.

Now, seeing each other for the first time—Neville had paused in the doorway that connected to his bedroom and moved no further—they each simply stared, each surprised that the other was not what he’d been expecting.

Neville had a full head of hair, albeit every bit of it a silvery white, and cut just below the ear in the current style. And he had aged—gracefully. There was no doubting that he was far up there in years, yet he sported very few wrinkles, and his eyes were sharply alert. With the silver goatee he wore, he had a very distinguished if Continental look, his slimness, or what could be considered frailty in his case, and his lack of height adding to it. His posture was very erect, though. In fact, this was not a man near his deathbed, as Henry had implied. Far from it. Neville looked in perfect health.

“You’re bigger than I expected,” was the first thing Neville said.

In the same vein, Duncan replied, “You’re no’ as old as I was expecting—nor as sickly.”

The words broke the surprised silence. Neville entered the room, his stride brisk, though he did sigh as he took the chair behind his small desk. Duncan, finding no chair in the room that looked like it wouldn’t shatter if he even glanced at it, moved to stand in front of the fireplace. A bad choice, he quickly found, since the fire had been burning strongly before he even arrived, and still was, making the room uncomfortably warm, and near the fireplace, intolerably hot.

He moved to one of the windows instead and started to open it—all three in the room were closed tight.

“Please don’t,” Neville stopped him, and after a questioning glance from Duncan, added in a somewhat embarrassed tone, “I have been cautioned against drafts. My doctors seem to think my lungs won’t withstand another bout with congestion. Regrettably, that means the rooms I frequent are kept unduly warm.”

“So you have been sick then?”

“I spent the last entire winter in bed. I have fared better this year.”

Duncan nodded. It had been said matter-of-factly. Neville wasn’t bemoaning the fact, merely relating it. Duncan stayed near the window, where it was at least a little cooler, but not cool enough after standing next to the fire. Sweating now, he shrugged out of his jacket.

“I suppose you get that height from your father—and the hair,” Neville remarked, watching him.

“I’ve your eyes, I’m told.”

“Would you mind—coming closer so I might see them?”

The question, almost in the form of a plea, disconcerted Duncan. “Is your sight no’ so good then?”

“I have spectacles,” Neville replied in a grumbling tone, “I just keep misplacing them.”

The new tone, reminding him of Archie, nearly had Duncan relaxing. He had to mentally remind himself that this old man wasn’t the grandfather who’d raised him and who’d earned his love. This one, never a part of his life, meant nothing to him at all.

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.