Page 24 of The Texan Duke
No doubt the McCraight daughters would concentrate on the most attractive of Bealadair’s features, not those with more historical significance. The house was a treasure known throughout Scotland and England.
Would Connor, as an American, realize the depth of his good fortune? Would he acknowledge the responsibility of being a steward to the great house? It was for him to protect his heritage for the next generation.
Why hadn’t he married? Another question that hadn’t been answered to her satisfaction. How very odd that he hadn’t. He was at the age where a man would’ve had a wife and several children by now. Why hadn’t he?
He didn’t consider Scotland his home. Perhaps he would after he had the opportunity to get to know his heritage. Would anyone show him the portrait gallery?
It was really none of her concern. She wasn’t a McCraight. She simply occupied a strange and novel place at Bealadair. Neither fish nor fowl, but something in between. She wasn’t a servant, exactly, but neither was she a member of the family.
Nor did she have any right to be curious about the 14th duke for all that he hated being called that.
According to Elsbeth, the rest of the family didn’t rise until midmorning, or until half the day was done as far as he was concerned. He could accomplish a hell of a lot by noon, but evidently accomplishment wasn’t a goal for his relatives.
What did they need to do? Everything had already been done. They had land. They had possessions. They had a standing in the community. They had a house to live in, one that amazed him with its very size.
He left the family dining room and found himself at the base of the staircase.
The foyer was paved in stone squares that looked as if they’d been polished for a few hundred years. It was so shiny that he could see the reflection of the soaring ceiling in it.
Snow had accumulated on the glass of the cupola. He bet on a fair day that sunlight blazed through the glass, illuminating the area and the double staircase with its mahogany trim.
He’d seen stairs like that only once, on a plantation in Georgia. He’d thought, then, that the architect had to have been touched with whimsy to create such a marvel. Other than the landings, this staircase didn’t look as if it was anchored to anything, either.
The plantation had burned to the ground, but Bealadair had lasted hundreds of years. In fact, the house had an air of permanence about it, as if it had sunk its foundations deep into the soil, becoming part of the landscape.
You can’t burn me out,the house seemed to say.
He nodded to the footman standing at the door, almost like a sentry at his post. The young man was tall, equipped in the Bealadair uniform of dark blue, and standing at attention, his gaze on a spot far away.
“Do you stand there all day?” he asked.
The man blinked and focused on him. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Something had to be done about that title.
“Why?”
“In case anyone needs help at the door, Your Grace.”
Connor glanced outside. “I doubt anyone is going to be visiting today, don’t you?”
The young man looked confused.
“Who says you’re to stand at the door all day?”
Now the footman looked scared, as if the answer to that question would deliver a hammer blow to his head.
“Mr. Barton, Your Grace. The majordomo.”
“Where is Mr. Barton now?”
“He’s got a touch of the gout, Your Grace.”
Were all the senior staff ill? No doubt Elsbeth took up the slack with Barton’s duties as well.
Connor took pity on the footman. “Do you know where Mr. Glassey’s room is?”
“He’s in the guest wing, Your Grace. In the Turquoise Room.”
