Almost Heaven (39 page)

“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 hoarsely, 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 passed, 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 assume 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 sturdy 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 glasses on it. The butler was clairvoyant or had 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 amusement, “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 titles 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 hoard 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 glass 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 documents 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 damned title and be done with it, but that’s all.”

“But –”

“Your clerk should be able to draw up a straightforward document 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 document 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 title 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 documents. 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 glass 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 hell, but there was something alarming about the way his grandfather was slowly putting his glass 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 harassed. “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.