Page 26 of The Texan Duke
Connor shook his head. “If I hadn’t been born, if my father hadn’t had any male heirs, who would own all this?” His hands stretched out to encompass the library and beyond, to the whole of Bealadair. “My cousins?”
“No, Your Grace. The title is reserved for male heirs by letters patent.”
He wasn’t an attorney. Nor was he conversant in English law. He had to depend on Glassey to tell him what was what, but it seemed as if the solicitor was willfully not understanding him.
“So they couldn’t inherit?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“And if there wasn’t a male heir?”
“Then I imagine the title would be placed in abeyance. But, Your Grace, you are here. You are the heir.”
He nodded. “And this is mine to do with what I wish?”
Glassey only stared back at him.
He’d gotten used to the man’s beady-eyed look after traveling half a world with him.
Connor made his way to the window, surveying the white world before him. The rolling landscape beyond the lawn looked to be covered in cotton, hinting at hills and hedges. To his left, the earth formed a V shape leading down to the river. Woods to his right had a fairy-tale appearance with ice creating a curtain of stalactites from the branches.
This was not his home. This wasn’t his land, for all that it was his father’s birthplace.
He’d been born on the XIV Ranch with his father and a grizzled ranch hand in attendance. As he’d been told, Matt Thompson had a lot of experience with pulling calves, and it looked like he was going to have to use it in helping to birth the last of the McCraight brood.
His mother, as stubborn a woman as he’d ever met, had decided that she didn’t need anyone other than one of the maids with her. He’d been born ten hours later, the largest of the six McCraight children and—as his father would attest—the loudest.
Something squeezed around his chest. What would Graham have thought to see him here? Would he have apologized for never mentioning Bealadair in all those years? Would he have said anything about why he’d named their home the XIV Ranch?
He’d gotten a blow to the chest when Glassey had first told him he was the 14th duke. What if Elsbeth was right and the name of the ranch was some sort of reference to Scotland, to the possibility that he might be the next in line?
He’d never know, just as he’d never know what Graham would think.
“Is it mine to sell?” he asked.
“Your Grace?”
He turned and looked at the solicitor. “Is the house mine to sell?”
“Yes, Your Grace. But...” Glassey’s voice halted.
Connor had known, ever since learning that he was his uncle’s heir, that he wasn’t going to remain in Scotland. Instead, he was going to divest himself of the property and use the proceeds to benefit the ranch.
If Glassey had been paying attention all this time, he would’ve figured that out. Connor had been uncomfortable ever since learning he had a title. Some of the ranch hands had snickered and he could just imagine what they were saying behind his back. A man who put on airs wasn’t welcome in Texas.
“You can’t do such a thing, Your Grace.”
He didn’t take kindly to people telling him what he could or couldn’t do. Not unless that person was either his father or his colonel. Since Glassey was neither of those people, he ignored the man.
“The property is entailed,” Glassey said. “For the 15th duke. It can’t be sold.”
“Then you just lied.”
He folded his arms and waited for Glassey to explain his way out of that.
The other man looked to his left, then his right, then back to his left. Connor had once questioned a ranch hand accused of theft by another man. He’d had the same kind of shifty eyes, while his accuser had met Connor’s gaze and hadn’t looked away.
“No, Your Grace,” Glassey finally said, “I didn’t lie. Castle McCraight is the only part of your inheritance that’s entailed. Everything else can be sold.”
