Johanna Lindsay - The Heir

"You really are exquisitely beautiful," Raphael told her at last, not in awe, though, more in belated surprise. "But then you probably hear that so often that it has little or no meaning to you."

That was true, but hardly circumspect to say so, so she demurred, "On the contrary, a lady can never hear such compliments too often, particularly from such a handsome gentleman as yourself."

For some reason, her own compliment made him tense and his look turn wary. She found out why when he said baldly, "Don't look here for another conquest, m'dear. The men in my family do the pursuing, they do not tolerate being pursued by marriage-minded females."

She could have taken offense easily enough, but that wouldn't suit her purpose. "Why, Lord Locke, whatever can you mean? Surely you aren't implying that you think I want to marry you, just because I find you handsome? I find many men handsome, and if they compliment me, I might return the compliment as I just did with you. Perfectly innocent, I assure you, with no hidden motives."

"Excellent," he replied jauntily. "Glad to hear it, 'deed I am."

He should have been embarrassed now over his mistake, but he wasn't. Instead, he was smiling in a way that implied he was skeptical. Well, no matter. She would marry him. She made the decision right then and there. He was young and very handsome, and the dukedom and wealth that he would inherit would suit her well enough. But she wouldn't tolerate his association with Sabrina any longer, sordid or otherwise, and would nip that in the bud right now.

"You shouldn't be so obvious, you know," she said to him in a conspiratorial whisper. "Obvious? Pray tell about what?"

"That you've been bedding Sabrina. Or don't you care that her reputation is in danger?"

His reaction wasn't what she anticipated at all. Any other man would have immediately assured her that there was nothing between him and Sabrina. Whether there was or wasn't, that would have been the gentlemanly response. And then henceforth, he'd make sure to avoid Sabrina if only to support his claim. Either way, he wouldn't be hovering over the girl again.

Instead, Raphael Locke took a step back from Ophelia, gave her an incredulous look as color slowly climbed his cheeks, and in what was apparent anger, actually started to walk away from her without any response at all. He changed his mind, though, swung about, and the anger was most definitely there—and turned on her.

"Good God, what an appalling rumormonger you are," he said in an amazed tone. "I had heard that it was so, but hadn't believed that any female could be quite as spiteful as you, but apparently it's true. But I warn you, Lady Ophelia, if you attempt to spread that particular rumor about Sabrina, which isn't the least bit true, I will ruin you myself. Do you understand? I will see to it that you are never accepted again in polite society. Your superficial beauty will not save you, m'dear, I promise you it won't."

Now he did walk away, back stiff, fury contained—he hadn't once raised his voice—and left her in shock. The very idea that he would talk to her like that, her, and threaten her, just to protect a nobody like Sabrina, she simply couldn't comprehend it. Well, she wouldn't have him now. The stupid man had quite ruined his chances.

And that left Duncan MacTavish.

Ophelia sighed inwardly. She didn't really want to marry him, but he wasn't as bad as she had feared. He was different, with his brogue, his red hair, his unpredictability, but he was handsome enough, and every other woman there seemed to find him a fine catch, which made all the difference as far as she was concerned.

But dealing with that Scot again and his denseness—he hadn't even grasped that she was apologizing to him yesterday—as well as his offended pride, was going to be a lesson in patience for her. Yet he did want her back. That was obvious, at least to her, or she wouldn't be here now. He was just pretending otherwise, nursing his grudge, she supposed, and probably quite at wits' end, trying to figure out how to get her back without it appearing that he was willing to forgive her.

She could help in that regard by pretending that the incident was forgotten as far as she was concerned. It might be more amusing to let him flounder about, no more than he deserved for not immediately forgiving her, but there were all these other young hopefuls in attendance who needed to realize that they didn't stand a chance with him, now that she was here. She didn't want to see any more simpering looks and eyes batting his way than she already had.

As for Sabrina garnering Duncan's attention as she'd apparently done last night, he was obviously just trying to make Ophelia jealous, since he knew she'd hear about it, which she did. As if Sabrina could. So absurd. But at least Ophelia had figured out what he was up to now, and she knew just how to counter such nonsense.

Now that the guests at Summers Glade had been in residence for several days, and Duncan had been introduced, and in some cases reintroduced, to all of them, they were no longer wary of him as being the "outsider^ in their midst. The simple passing of a few days acquaintance had elevated him into being "one of them."

This began a phenomenon that he discovered late that day. It was now increasingly difficult for him to pass from room to room, or even just across the hall, without being stopped by guests who wanted to chat with him. He found he much preferred it when he'd been the "stranger" and most of them were leery of approaching him.

The phenomenon continued into the evening. He had tried to get to the ballroom sooner, where he expected to find Sabrina and could attempt to correct the blunder he'd made with her on the terrace that afternoon. But not all the guests were interested in dancing, however informal it was, and so many of them were still spread out in the other rooms. And they thought nothing of dragging him into the drawing room to settle an argument, or into another room to join what they considered a discussion he shouldn't miss.

Unwilling to be outright rude, which he was striving not to be, Duncan had been detained again and again, so it was several hours into the evening before he did finally escape long enough to slip into the ballroom. But it didn't end there as he'd hoped.

His eyes went right to Sabrina on the far side of the room, passing over Ophelia without really noticing her, though she noticed his oversight. But there was quite a trail of people between them, each determined to stop him to say something, so that he was actually annoyed by the time he reached Sabrina and his tone a bit surly in his greeting.

But insightful as she usually was, she took one look at him and laughed, guessing, "You're not used to being so popular, are you?"

" Tis no' that, lass. In the Highlands we dinna talk just tae hear ourselves talk as these English do, we talk o' real concerns."

"I understand," she replied, still grinning. "It must have been difficult for you, the conversations you and I have had, which were for the most part quite frivolous."

He blushed to his roots and tried to quickly amend, "I dinna mean tae imply—"

"Duncan, stop that," she chided gently. "You should know by now when I'm teasing."

He sighed. She was right. He should have known. But then he'd been expecting a more reserved attitude from her after what had passed between them on the terrace, possibly even anger. Yet, now that he thought of it, it was almost impossible to imagine Sabrina angry, truly angry, with raised voice, flashing eyes—that would be something to behold, violet eyes filled with hot passion . . .

He glanced away from her so she wouldn't see what his own thoughts were doing to him. Unfortunately, his eyes did light on Ophelia this time, and he couldn't miss the smile she was sending him as she started his way.