The vicar could scarcely conceal his joyous relief. "There are worse things than having to marry a wonderful young woman who also had the excellent judgment to fall in love with you," he pointed out.

Ian almost, but not quite, smiled at that. The impulse pa.s.sed in an instant, however, as reality crushed down on him, infuriating and complicated. "Whatever she felt for me, it was a long time ago. All she wants now is independence."

The vicar's brows shot up, and he chuckled with surprise. "Independence? Really? What an odd notion for a female. I'm sure you'll be able to disabuse her of such fanciful ideas."

"Don't count on it." "Independence is vastly overrated. Give it to her and she'll hate it," he suggested.

Ian scarcely heard him; the fury at having to capitulate to his grandfather was building inside him again with terrible force. "d.a.m.n him!" he said in a murderous underbreath. "I'd have let him rot in h.e.l.l, and his t.i.tle with him."

Duncan's smile didn't fade as he said with asperity, "It's possible that it's fear of 'rotting in h.e.l.l,' as you so picturesquely phrased it, that has made him so desperate to affirm you now as his heir. But consider that he has been trying to make amends for over a decade-long before his heart became weak."

"He was a decade too late," Ian gritted. "My father was the rightful heir, and that old b.a.s.t.a.r.d never relented until after he died."

"I'm well aware of that. However, that's not the point, Ian. You've lost the battle to remain distant from him. You must lose it with the grace and dignity of your n.o.ble lineage, as your father would have done. You are rightfully the next Duke of Stanhope. Nothing can really change that. Furthermore, I fervently believe your father would have forgiven the duke if he'd had the chance that you now have."

In restless fury Ian shoved away from the wall. "I am not my father," he snapped.

The vicar, fearing that Ian was vacillating, said pointedly, "There's no time to lose. There's every chance you may arrive at your grandfather's only to be told he's already done what he said he meant to do last week-name a new heir."

"There's an equally good chance I'll be told to go to h.e.l.l after my last letter to him."

"Then, too," said the vicar, "if you tary, you may arrive after Elizabeth's wedding to this Belhaven."

Ian hesitated an endless moment, and then he nodded curtly, shoved his hands into his pockets, and started reluctantly up the stairs, "Ian?" he called after him, Ian stopped and turned. "Now what?" he asked irritably. "I'll need directions to Elizabeth's. You've changed brides, but I gather I'm still to have the honor of performing the ceremony in London?"

In answer his nephew nodded.

"You're doing the right thing," the vicar said quietly, unable to shake the fear that Ian's anger would cause him to deliberately alienate the old duke. "Regardless of how your marriage turns out, you have no choice. You wreaked havoc in her life."

"In more ways than you know," Ian said tersely. "What in G.o.d's name does that mean?"

"I'm the reason her uncle is now her guardian," he said with a harsh sigh. "Her brother didn't leave to avoid debts or scandal, as Elizabeth evidently thinks."

"You're the cause? How could that be?"

"He called me out, and when he couldn't kill me in a legitimate duel he tried twice more-on the road-and d.a.m.ned near accomplished his goal both times. I had him hauled aboard the Arianna and shipped off to the Indies to cool his heels."

The vicar paled and sank down upon the sofa. "How could you do a thing like that?"

Ian stiffened under the unfair rebuke. "There were only two other alternatives-I could have let him blow a hole through my back, or I could have handed him over to the authorities. I didn't want him hanged for his overzealous determination to avenge his sister; I just wanted him out of my way."

"But two years!"

"He would have been back in less than one year, but the Arianna was damaged in a storm and put into San Delora for repairs. He jumped ship there and vanished. I a.s.sumed he'd made his way back here somehow. I had no idea," he finished as he turned and started back up the stairs, "that he had never returned until you told me a few minutes ago."

"Good G.o.d!" said the vicar. "Elizabeth couldn't be blamed if she took it in her mind to hate you for this."

"I don't intend to give her the opportunity," Ian replied in an implacable voice that warned his uncle not to interfere. "I'll hire an investigator to trace him, and after I find out what's happened to him, I'll tell her."

Duncan's common sense went to battle with his conscience, and this time his conscience lost. "It's probably the best way," he agreed reluctantly, knowing how hard Elizabeth would undoubtedly find it to forgive Ian for yet another, and worse, transgression against her. "This all could have been so much easier," he added with a sigh, "if you'd known sooner what was happening to Elizabeth. You have many acquaintances in English society; how is it they never mentioned it to you?"

"In the first place, I was away from England for almost a year after the episode. In the second place," Ian added with contempt, "among what is amusingly called Polite Society, matters that concern you are never discussed with you. They're discussed with everyone else, directly behind your back if possible."

Ian watched an inexplicable smile trace its way across his uncle's face. "Putting their gossip aside, you find them an uncommonly proud, autocratic, self-a.s.sured group, is that it?"

"For the most part, yes," Ian said shortly as he turned and strode up the stairs. When his door closed the vicar spoke to the empty room. "Ian," he said, his shoulders beginning to shake with laughter, "you may as well have the t.i.tle-you were born with the traits."

After a moment, however, he sobered and lifted his eyes to the beamed ceiling, his expression one of sublime contentment. "Thank You," he said in the direction of heaven. "It took You a rather long time to answer the first prayer," he added, referring to the reconciliation with Ian's grandfather, "but You were wonderfully prompt with the one for Elizabeth."

Chapter 18.

It was nearly midnight four days later when Ian finally reached the White Stallion Inn. Leaving his horse with a hostler, he strode into the inn, past the common room filled with peasants drinking ale. The innkeeper, a fat man with a soiled ap.r.o.n around his belly, cast an appraising eye over Mr. Thornton's expensively tailored charcoal jacket and dove-gray riding breeches, his hard face and powerful physique, and wisely decided it wasn't necessary to charge his guest for the room in advance something at which the gentry occasionally took offense.

A minute later, after Mr. Thornton had ordered a meal sent to his room, the innkeeper congratulated himself on the wisdom of that decision, because his new guest inquired about the magnificent estate belonging to an ill.u.s.trious local n.o.ble.

"How far is it to Stanhope Park?" "Bout an hour's ride, gov'ner."

Ian hesitated, debating whether to arrive there in the morning unannounced and unexpected or to send a message. "I'll need a message brought there in the morning," he said after a hesitation.

"I'll have my boy take it there personal. What time will you be wantin' it taken over t' Stanhope Park?"

Ian hesitated again knowing there was no way to avoid it. "Ten o'clock."

Standing alone in the inn's private parlor the next morning, Ian ignored the breakfast that had been put out for him long ago and glanced at his watch. The messenger had been gone for three hours-almost a full hour more than it should have taken him to return with a message from Stanhope, if there was going to be a message. He put his watch away and walked over to the fireplace, moodily slapping his riding gloves against his thigh. He had no idea if his grandfather was at Stanhope or if the old man had already named another heir and would now refuse to see Ian in retaliation for all the gestures of reconciliation Ian had rebuffed in the last decade. With each minute that pa.s.sed Ian was more inclined to believe the latter.

Behind him the innkeeper appeared in the doorway and said, "My boy hasn't yet returned, though there's been time aplenty. I'll have to charge ye extra. Mr. Thornton, if he don't return within the hour."

Ian glanced at the innkeeper over his shoulder and made a sublime effort not to snap the man's head off. "Have my horse saddled and brought round," he replied curtly, not certain exactly what he meant to do now. He'd actually have preferred a public flogging to writing that curt message to his grandfather in the first place. Now he was being brushed off like a supplicant, and that infuriated him.

Behind him the innkeeper frowned at Ian's back with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Ordinarily male travelers who arrived without private coach or even a valet were required to pay for their rooms when they arrived. In this instance the innkeeper hadn't demanded advance payment because this particular guest had spoken with the clipped, authoritative accents of a wealthy gentleman and because his riding clothes bore the unmistakable stamp of elegant cloth and custom tailoring. Now, however, with Stanhope Park refusing even to answer the man's summons, the innkeeper had revised his earlier estimation of the worth of his guest. and he was bent on stopping the man from trying to mount his horse and galloping off without paying his blunt.

Belatedly noting the innkeeper's continued presence. Ian pulled his scowling gaze from the empty grate. "Yes, what is it?"

"It's yer tick, gov'ner. I'll be wantin' payment now."

His greedy eyes widened in surprise as his guest extracted a fat roll of bills, yanked off enough to cover the cost of the night's lodgings, and thrust it at him.

Ian waited thirty minutes more and then faced the fact that his grandfather wasn't going to reply. Furious at having wasted valuable time, he strode out of the parlor, deciding to ride to London and try to buy Elizabeth's uncle's favor. His attention on pulling on his riding gloves, he strode through the common room without noticing the sudden tension sweeping across it as the rowdy peasants who'd been drinking ale at the scarred tables turned to gape in awed silence at the doorway. The innkeeper, who'd only moments before eyed Ian as if he might steal the pewter, was now standing a few feet away from the open front door, staring at Ian with slackened jaw. "My lord!" he burst out, and then, as if words had failed him completely, the stout man made a sweeping gesture toward the door.

Ian's gaze shifted from the last b.u.t.ton on his glove to the innkeeper, who was now bowing reverently, then snapped to the doorway, where two footmen and a coachman stood at rigid attention, clad in formal livery of green and gold.

Unconcerned with the peasants' gaping stares, the coachman stepped forward, bowed deeply to Ian, and cleared his throat. In a grave, carrying voice he repeated a message from the duke that could leave no doubt in Ian's mind about his grandfather's feelings toward him or his unexpected visit: "His Grace the Duke of Stanhope bade me to extend his warmest greetings to the Marquess of Kensington. . . and to say that he is most eagerly awaiting your convenience at Stanhope Park."

By instructing the coachman to address Ian as the Marquess of Kensington the duke had just publicly informed Ian and everyone else in the inn that the t.i.tle was now-and would continue to be-Ian's. The public gesture was beyond anything Ian had antic.i.p.ated, and it proved two things to him simultaneously: first, that his grandfather bore him no ill will for repeatedly rejecting his peace offerings; second, that the wily old man was still keen enough in his mind to have sensed that victory was now in his grasp.

That irritated Ian, and with a curt nod at the coachman he strode past the gaping villagers, who were respectfully tipping their caps to the man who'd just been publicly identified as the duke's heir. The vehicle waiting in the inn yard was another testament to his grandfather's eagerness to welcome him home in style. Instead of a carriage and horse he'd sent the closed coach with a team of four handsome horses decked out in silver trappings.

It occurred to Ian that this grand gesture might be his grandfather's way of treating Ian as a long-awaited and much-loved guest, but he refused to dwell on that possibility. He had not come to be reunited with his grandfather; he had come to accept the t.i.tle that had been his father's. Beyond that, he wanted nothing whatever to do with the old man.

Despite his cold detachment, Ian felt an odd sensation of unreality as the coach pulled through the gates and swept along the drive of the estate that his father had called home until his marriage at the age of twenty-three. Being here made him feel uncharacteristically nostalgic, and at the same time it increased his loathing for the tyrannical aristocrat who'd deliberately disowned his own son and cast him out of this place. With a critical eye he looked over the neatly tended parkland and the sprawling stone mansion with chimneys dotting the roof. To most people Stanhope Park would look very grand and impressive; to Ian it was an old, sprawling estate, probably badly in need of modernization, and not nearly as lovely as the least of his own.

The coach drew up before the front steps, and before Ian alighted, the front door was already being opened by an ancient, thin butler clad in the usual black. Ian's father had rarely spoken of his own father, nor of the estate and possessions he'd left behind, but he had talked often and freely of those servants of whom he was particularly fond. As he ascended the steps Ian looked at the butler and knew he had to be Ormsley. According to Ian's father, it was Ormsley who'd found him secretly sampling Stanhope's best French brandy in a hayloft when he was ten years old. It was also Ormsley who took the blame for the missing brandy-and its priceless decanter-by confessing to drinking it himself and misplacing the decanter in his inebriated state.

At the moment Ormsley looked on the verge of tears as his damp, faded blue eyes roved almost lovingly over Ian's face. "Good afternoon, my lord," he intoned formally, but the ecstatic expression on his face gave Ian the impression the servant was restraining himself from wrapping his arms around him. "And-and may I say-" The elderly man stopped, his voice hoa.r.s.e with emotion, and cleared his throat. "And may I say how very-how very very good it is to have you here at-" His voice choked, he flushed, and Ian's ire at his grandfather was momentarily forgotten.

"Good afternoon, Ormsley," Ian said, grinning at the look of sublime pleasure that crossed Ormsley's lined face when Ian knew his name. Sensing the butler was about to bow again, Ian put out his hand instead, forcing the loyal retainer to shake hands with him. "I trust," Ian joked gently, "that you've conquered your habit of overindulging in French brandy?"

The faded old eyes brightened like diamonds at this added proof that Ian's father had spoken of him to Ian.

"Welcome home. Welcome home at last, my lord," Ormsley said hoa.r.s.ely, returning Ian's handshake.

"I'm only staying a few hours," Ian told him calmly, and the butler's hand went a little limp with disappointment. He recovered himself, however, and escorted Ian down a wide, oak-paneled hall. A small army of footmen and housemaids seemed to be lurking about, ostensibly dusting mirrors, paneling, and floors. As Ian pa.s.sed, several of them stole long, lingering looks at him, then turned to exchange swift, gratified smiles. His mind on the looming meeting with his grandfather, Ian was oblivious to the searching scrutiny and startled glances he was receiving, but he was dimly aware that a few of the servants were hastily dabbing at their eyes and noses with handkerchiefs.

Ormsley headed toward a pair of double doors at the end of a long hall, and Ian kept his mind perfectly blank as he braced himself for his first meeting with his grandfather. Even as a boy he'd refused to permit himself the weakness of thinking about his relative, and on those rare occasions when he had contemplated the man he'd always imagined him as looking rather like his father, a man of average height with light brown hair and brown eyes, Ormsley threw open the doors to the study with a flourish, and Ian strode forward. walking toward the chair where a man was leaning upon a cane and arising with some difficulty. Now, as the man finally straightened and faced him, Ian felt an almost physical shock. Not only was he as tall as Ian's own 6'2"; to his inner disgust, Ian realized that his own face bore a startling resemblance to the duke's, whereas he'd scarcely resembled his own sire at all. It was, in fact, eerily like looking at a silver-haired, older version of his own face.

The duke was studying him, too, and apparently reached the same conclusion, although his reaction was diametrically opposite, he smiled slowly, sensing Ian's ire at the discovery of their resemblance to each other. "You didn't know?" he asked in a strong baritone voice very like Ian's.

"No," Ian said shortly, "I didn't."

"I have the advantage of you, then," the duke said, leaning on his cane, his eyes searching Ian's face much as the butler's had done, "You see, I did know,"

Ian stolidly ignored the mistiness he saw in those amber eyes, "I'll be brief and to the point," he began, but his grandfather held up a long, aristocratic hand.

"Ian, please," he said gruffly, nodding to the chair across from him. "I've waited for this moment for more years than you can imagine. Do not deprive me, I implore you, of an old man's pleasure at welcoming home his prodigal grandson."

"I haven't come here to heal the family breach," Ian snapped. "Were it up to me, I'd never have set foot in this house."

His grandfather stiffened at his tone, but the duke's voice was carefully mild, "I a.s.sume you've come to accept what is rightfully yours," he began, but an imperious female voice made Ian swing around toward the sofa, where two elderly ladies were sitting, their fragile bodies all but engulfed by the plump cushions. "Really, Stanhope," one of them said in a surprisingly st.u.r.dy voice, "how can you expect the boy to be civil when you've quite forgotten your own manners?

You haven't even bothered to offer him refreshment, or to acknowledge our presence to him." A thin smile touched her lips as she regarded a startled Ian. "I am your great-aunt Hortense," she advised him with a regal inclination of her head. "We met in London some years back, though you obviously do not recognize me." Having met his two great-aunts only once, purely by accident, Ian had neither animosity nor affection for either of them. He bowed politely to Hortense, who tipped her head toward the elderly gray-haired lady beside her, who seemed to be dozing, her head drooping slightly forward.

"And this person, you may recall, is my sister Charity, your other great-aunt, who has again dozed off as she so often does. It's her age, you understand."

The little gray head snapped up, and blue eyes popped open, leveling on Hortense in wounded affront. "I'm only four little years older than you, Hortense, and it's very mean-spirited of you to go about reminding everyone of it," she cried in a hurt voice; then she saw Ian standing in front of her, and a beatific smile lit her face. "Ian, dear boy, do you remember me?"

"Certainly, ma'am," Ian began courteously, but Charity interrupted him as she turned a triumphant glance on her sister. "There, you see, Hortense-he remembers me, and it is because, though I may be just a trifle older than you, I have not aged nearly so much as you in the last years! Have I?" she asked, turning hopefully to Ian.

"If you'll take my advice," his grandfather said dryly, "you won't answer that question. "Ladies," he said, bending a stem look on his sisters, "Ian and I have much to discuss. I promised you could meet him as soon as he arrived. Now I must insist you leave us to our business and join us later for tea."

Rather than upset the elderly ladies by telling them he wouldn't be here long enough for tea, Ian waited while they both arose. Hortense extended her hand for his kiss, and Ian obliged. He was about to bestow the same courtesy on his other aunt, but Charity lifted her cheek, not her hand, and so he kissed that instead.

When the ladies left so did the temporary diversion they'd provided, and the tension grew thick as the two men stood looking at each other-complete strangers with nothing in common except a startling physical resemblance and the blood that flowed in their veins. The duke stood perfectly still, rigidly erect and aristocratic, but his eyes were warm; Ian slapped his gloves impatiently against his thigh, his face cold and resolute-two men in an undeclared duel of silence and contest of wills. The duke yielded with a faint inclination of his head that acknowledged Ian as the winner as he finally broke the silence. "I think this occasion calls for champagne," he said, reaching out for the bell cord.

Ian's clipped, cynical reply stilled his hand. "I think it is for something much stronger." The implication that Ian found the occasion repugnant, rather than cause for celebration, was not lost on the duke. Inclining his head in another faint, knowing smile, he pulled the bell cord. "Scotch, isn't it?" he asked.

Ian's surprise that the old man seemed to know what drink he preferred was eclipsed by his astonishment when Ormsley instantly whisked into the room bearing a silver tray with a decanter of Scotch, a bottle of champagne, and two appropriate gla.s.ses on it. The butler was clairvoyant or lad wings, or else the tray had been ordered before Ian arrived.

With a quick, self-conscious smile directed at Ian, the butler withdrew, closing the doors behind him. "Do you think," the duke asked with mild amus.e.m.e.nt, "we could sit down, or are we now to have a contest to see who can stand the longest?"

"I intend to get this ordeal over with as quickly as possible," Ian countered icily.

Instead of being insulted, as Ian meant him to be, Edward. Avery Thornton looked at his grandson, and his heart swelled with pride at the dynamic, forceful man who bore his name. For over a decade Ian had flung one of the most important t.i.tles in England back in Edward's face, and while that might have enraged another man, Edward recognized in the gesture the same proud arrogance and indomitable will that had marked all the Thornton men. At the moment, however, that indomitable will was on a collision course with his own, and so Edward was prepared to yield in almost anything in order to win what he wanted most in the world his grandson. He wanted his respect, if he couldn't have his love; he wanted just one small, infinitesimal piece of his affection to carry in his heart. And he wanted absolution. Most of all he needed that. He needed to be forgiven for making what had been the biggest mistake of his life thirty-two years ago, and for waiting too long to admit to Ian's father that he was wrong. To that end, Edward was prepared to endure anything from Ian-except his immediate departure. If he couldn't have anything else-not Ian's affection or his respect or his forgiveness he wanted his time. Just a little of it. Not much-a day or two, or even a few hours to cherish, a few memories to h.o.a.rd in his heart during the dreary days before his life ended.

In hopes of gaining this time the duke said noncommittally, "I can probably have the papers drawn up within the week."

Ian lowered his gla.s.s of Scotch. In a cold, clear voice he said, "Today."

"There are legalities involved." Ian, who dealt with thousands of legalities in his business ventures on a daily basis, lifted his brows in glacial challenge. "Today."

Edward hesitated, sighed, and nodded. "I suppose my clerk could begin drawing up the doc.u.ments while we have a talk in here. It's a complicated and time-consuming business, however, and it will take a few days at least. There's the matter of the properties that are yours by right-"

"I don't want the properties," Ian said with contempt. "Nor the money, if there is any. I'll take the d.a.m.ned t.i.tle and be done with it, but that's all."

"But-" "Your clerk should be able to draw up a straightforward doc.u.ment naming me your heir in a quarter of an hour. I'm on my way to Brinshire and then to London. I'll leave as soon as the doc.u.ment is signed."

"Ian," Edward began, but he would not plead, particularly not when he could see it was useless. The pride and unbending will, the strength and determination that marked Ian as his grandson, also put him out of Edward's reach. It was too late. Surprised by Ian's willingness to take a t.i.tle but not the wealth that accompanied it, he arose stiffly from his chair and went down the hall to tell his clerk to draw up the doc.u.ments. He also told him to include all the properties and their substantial incomes. He was a Thornton, after all, with pride of his own. His luck had obviously run out, but not his pride. Ian would leave in an hour, but he would leave endowed with all the wealth and estates that were his birthright.

Ian was standing at the windows when his grandfather returned. "It's done," Edward said, sitting back down in his chair. Some of the rigidity went out of Ian's shoulders; the loathsome matter was finished. He nodded, then refilled his gla.s.s and sat down across from his grandfather.

After another long moment of pregnant silence he remarked conversationally, "I understand felicitations are in order."

Ian started. His betrothal to Christina, which was about to be broken, was not yet common knowledge.

"Christina Taylor is a lovely young woman. I knew her grandfather and her uncles, and, of course, her father, the Earl of Melbourne. She'll make you a fine wife, Ian."

"Inasmuch as bigamy is a crime in this country, I find that unlikely."

Startled by the discovery that his information was apparently incorrect, Edward took another swallow of champagne and asked, "May I ask who the fortunate young woman is, then?"

Ian opened his mouth to tell him to go to h.e.l.l, but there was something alarming about the way his grandfather was slowly putting his gla.s.s down. He watched as the older man began to rise. "I'm not supposed to drink spirits," the duke said apologetically. "I believe I'll have a rest. Ring for Ormsley, if you please," he said in a harsh voice. "He'll know what to do."

There was an urgency about the scene that hit Ian as he did as bidden. An instant later Ormsley was helping his grandfather upstairs and a physician was being summoned. He arrived within a half hour, rushing up the stairs with his bag of instruments, and Ian waited in the drawing room, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling that he'd arrived just in time for his grandfather's death.

When the physician came downstairs, however, he seemed relieved. "I've warned him repeatedly not to touch spirits," he said, looking hara.s.sed. "They affect his heart. He's resting now, however. You may go up after an hour or two."

Ian didn't want to care how ill he was. He told himself the old man who looked so much like him was nothing to him, and despite that he heard himself ask in a curt voice, "How long does he have?"

The physician lifted his hands, palms up. "Who's to say? A week, a month," he speculated, "a year, maybe more. His heart is weak, but his will is strong-more so now than ever," he continued, shrugging into the light cape Ormsley was putting over his shoulders.

"What do you mean, 'more now than ever'?" The physician smiled in surprise. "Why, I meant that your coming here has meant a great deal to him, my lord. It's had an amazing effect on him-well, not amazing, really. I should say a miraculous effect. Normally he. rails at me when he's ill. Today he almost hugged me in his eagerness to tell me you were here, and why. Actually, I was ordered to 'have a look at you'," he continued in the confiding tone of an old family friend, "although I wasn't supposed to tell you I was doing so, of course." Grinning, he added, "He thinks you are a 'handsome devil."

Ian refused to react to that astonishing information with any emotion whatsoever.