Good God, you were never told?”

Duncan MacTavish was standing behind his desk now, leaning partially across it, and nearly shouting, “Does it sound like I ken what you’re talking aboot?”

Henry was incredulous. Duncan was twenty-one years of age. He knew that for a fact. And in all his years no one had told him, not even his parents? Nor had Lord Neville warned him that his grandson didn’t know. He had to wonder now if Neville was even aware of that himself.

Henry also admonished himself for not realizing sooner who Duncan was. His eyes, after all, were exact copies of Neville’s, a dark midnight blue. The nose, also, had that patrician slant that the Thackerays were known for; at least, each ancestor portrayed in the gallery at Summers Glade sported that exact same nose. Nothing else about the young Duncan, though, resembled the marquis. Although Henry hadn’t known Neville when he was a young man, he’d seen the portrait of him done when he was this same age.

There was nothing remarkable about Neville Thackeray, fourth Marquis of Birmingdale, to stand out and draw particular notice to him. He’d been a plain-looking aristocrat in his youth, and had not improved much with age, now that he was in his late seventies. His young grandson, however, was quite the opposite.

Duncan’s brawny size and height must come from the MacTavishes. His dark red hair certainly did. And he was handsome, very much so, in a rugged sort of way. It was that very ruggedness, a harsh masculinity, coupled with his size, that belied his youthful age.

Henry knew how old the lad was, yet if he didn’t, he’d swear he was much older. Perhaps the Highlands aged one prematurely, the harsh clime, the hardships entailed with living in such an isolated place.

As for the question that had been directed at him, Henry really wished that Archibald MacTavish were present at the moment. He knew of the promise, and the others added to it, that the two old men had finally, after many heated letters sent between them, agreed upon. He should have explained the situation to young Duncan before now.

“It was a promise made by your mother before you were born,” Henry said at last. “Without making it, she wouldn’t have been allowed to marry your father. She made it gladly, though. She loved your father. And no one objected at the time, not your father, who wanted her any way he could have her—he loved her too—nor his father, Archibald.”

“Sir Henry, if you dinna spit it oout, what that promise was, I’m liable tae toss you back intae that storm this verra second.”

It was said calmly. Even Duncan’s expression had turned inscrutable. Yet Henry didn’t doubt that the lad meant every word. And he could hardly blame him for his upset. Why hadn’t anyone told him before now?

“You, or rather, your mother’s firstborn son, which turned out to be you, were promised to Lord Neville for his heir, if he sired no other heirs, which he never did.”

Duncan sat back down. “Is that all?”

Henry wasn’t sure now how to proceed with the lad. Any other young man would undoubtedly feel that this was the luckiest day of his life, to be a great lord’s heir when he hadn’t known he would be. But he also knew how Highlanders felt about the English, and Duncan MacTavish had been raised a Highlander. He had also never met his English grandfather, nor ever stepped foot in England.

“Do you realize what a great honor this is, Lord Duncan?” Henry tried to point out.

“I’m no’ a laird, so dinna be calling me—

“Actually, you are,” Henry was quick to interrupt. “One of Lord Neville’s lesser titles has already been bestowed on you, as well as the estate—”

“Be damned if it has!” Duncan was on his feet again. “You willna be turning me into an Englishmen just because that auld mon wants it so.”

“You are half English.”

That gained Henry a seriously disgusted look that had him flinching, but Duncan’s reply was again a quiet one. It was amazing how easily he could switch from fury to calm and back again.

“You ken that I dinna have tae accept that English title?” Duncan said.

“Do you understand that you will become the Marquis of Birmingdale whether you want to be or not?”

There was a long, uncomfortable—at least for Henry—moment of silence, which included a bit of teeth grinding on Duncan’s part before he said, “So why are you here tae tell o’ this now, when, as you said, the marquis isna dead yet?”

“You have come of age. Part of your mother’s promise was that you would be sent to Lord Neville at this time, if he was still living, which he is, so that he could himself instruct you on your responsibilities, and also so that he can see you settled properly before he dies.”

“Settled?”

“Married.”

“I suppose, then, he’d even be picking me a bride?” Duncan said sarcastically.

“Well, yes, actually, he has,’ Henry replied with the utmost reluctance.

But it was at that point that Duncan MacTavish burst out laughing.