Johanna Lindsay - The Heir

But distracted as she was in searching the crowd in the drawing room for Duncan, she was only half listening to Raphael, though she did vaguely recognize the dryness of his tone and the distinct edge of disgust in it.

"The theme of this gathering has changed to one of celebration," he said. "Course, it would depend on the individual, and come to think of it, I doubt either camp would have much reason to celebrate. Any fool madly in love with the ice queen won't feel like celebrating, though they certainly ought to, since they've been saved from a fate worse than death, they just don't know it yet. And any young lady who fancied she had a chance with our esteemed newcomer, yourself included, m'dear, will now be sadly

disappointed."

That last remark did manage to get Sabrina's attention, enough to ask, "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about happy tidings that don't make a bit of bloody sense."

"Well, thank you kindly for not making sense in explaining what doesn't make sense."

"Don't mind me, Sabrina. I'd just prefer not to be the one to break the news to you," he said with a sigh just before he walked off.

"Well, that was certainly enlightening," Sabrina mumbled to herself.

She considered going after him for a better explanation, at least one that made sense, when she saw Hilary charge into the room, spot her, and march to her side to say, "I don't believe it!"

Sabrina recognized the signs that Hilary was about to have a ranting fit, and by habit, tried to abate that. "I don't either," she agreed with an emphatic nod, but then with a grin, "What is it we don't believe?"

"Don't bother trying those tactics on me, dear, this is just too incredulous to shrug off. And I was so sure this time that I had the right of it. Just goes to show that speculating should be left to the London stockbrokers."

Sabrina blinked. Had her aunt just made a joke, or was she serious? "You bought stock in something?"

Hilary made a snorting sound. "I'm not talking about stock, I'm talking about the vagaries of romance. I know that you maintained you were only friends, but I was certain there was more to it—"

"Wait a minute," Sabrina interrupted in amused exasperation. "How did I get involved in this? Which of my friends are you talking about?"

Hilary frowned at her. "Don't tell me you haven't heard yet? It was announced last night right after Alice and I left, apparently, which is why we didn't hear about it until just now. You, of course, had gone home with your headache, but surely someone has told you by now? It's all anyone is talking about this morning."

This was starting to sound exactly like the nonsensical conversation Sabrina had just had with Raphael, enough to start a premonition of dread. "What announcement was made?"

"That the ex-engaged couple have made up from the tiff that caused them to get unengaged in the first place, and are happily engaged again."

The color drained from Sabrina's face. The moment of dizziness that caused had her reaching for Hilary's arm to steady herself. Hilary didn't notice; she continued to expound on her disbelief.

"It just doesn't make sense to me, indeed it don't. Why go to all this trouble and the expense of this gathering, get all these young women here for the boy to make a choice from, if he knew all along that it was no more'n a tiff they'd had that could be repaired?"

"If who knew?" "Neville, of course. I hope he realizes how much disappointment his announcement has caused. Celebrate indeed. It's a bloody tragedy."

Tragedy, no. Shock, yes. Unexpected, not really, merely forgotten for a short time, that it was the more likely outcome. So Ophelia had been right all along, and unfortunately, so had Sabrina. Last night with her and Duncan had merely been an impulse for him, an opportunity a healthy male wouldn't pass up, and she certainly hadn't tried to prevent it from happening. Nor could she regret it even now.

What hurt, though, what was devastating to her, was that he went from making love with her directly to making amends with Ophelia and asking her to marry him. A little time in between, even if only a week, would have lessened the blow. But apparently his making love to Sabrina had been the catalyst that made him realize where his true feelings lay.

Ophelia entered the room just then and was met with halfhearted congratulations from a few people, though she didn't seem to notice, was radiating with triumph. Raphael had been correct in one thing, at least—no one really felt like celebrating this particular engagement. The young men there, with the exception of Raphael, who seemed to really not like her, were no doubt disappointed, if not brokenhearted, that Ophelia was officially unavailable again. And there was at least one female with shattered hopes . . .

Sabrina really couldn't bear to listen to Ophelia gloat, yet knew she would if given the chance. And she suspected the only way to avoid that was to leave, and very quickly, before the London girl noticed her.

"I'm not feeling too well, Aunt Hilary."

"Don't blame you a'tall, m'dear. Feeling rather sick to my stomach myself. Shall we go home?" "Yes, please."

The pounding on the door finally woke Duncan, enough to growl that he'd help whoever it was to roast himself over some hot coals if he didn't take his pounding somewhere else. The person outside didn't. He opened the door instead. Duncan didn't notice, sitting there in the middle of his bed trying to hold his head together, since it truly felt like it was coming apart.

"You don't look too good, old chap. Imbibe a bit too much while celebrating last night?"

Duncan opened one very bloodshot eye, pinned Raphael Locke with it, and said, "I'll have tae find a vat o' oil tae boil. Hot coals just willna do it for you."

Raphael chuckled and pulled up a chair next to the bed. Duncan, seeing that his unwelcome visitor wasn't getting the message that he was unwelcome, groaned and buried his head under his pillow.

Unfortunately, though Rafe's voice was now muffled, it was still heard. "I know why I would be sick unto death this dreary morning, all things considered, but what's your excuse? Since you've changed your mind about marrying Ophelia—"

"Why the devil would I do that?"

"Possibly because she's so beautiful she takes your breath away?"

Duncan sat back up with a snort. "What an Englishmon may find fashionably beautiful, a Highlander might find pale and sickly. A Scotsmon would want his lass tae have a sturdy constitution and enough meat on her bones tae wi' stand a northern winter. D'you ken that Ophelia would ne'er survive in the north country, that she'd wilt at the first sign o' bad weather? And bad weather is a constant there, no' the exception. I would have realized that, e'en if she hadna turned me again' her wi' her vicious tongue."

"But you will be living in England now, won't you, so what's the difference?"

"If I thought I'd ne'er see the homeland again, I'd wither and die m'self."

"Then how is it, old chap, that you happen to be engaged to her again?"

It was there on the tip of Duncan's tongue, an automatic answer, but this being the second time Rafe was implying that Duncan had changed his mind about Ophelia, it jarred a vague memory of why he had gotten falling-down drunk last night.

And that stirred another, even more elusive memory of both his grandfathers confronting him with the news that he now had to marry Ophelia, and he was too drunk to care at that point. Had he really told them that? That he didn't care?

Trying to remember it all was stabbing even worse pains through his head, so he finally gave up and replied, "No' by my choice, I assure you."

"Ah, so it's like that, is it?" Raphael said, disgust and disappointment mixed equally in his tone. "Somehow I thought you would have a bit more of an independent nature, rather than jumping to do the old man's bidding."