Page 31 of The Texan Duke
Oddly enough, he felt as if Bealadair was waiting for something, that the great house was this massive Scottish monster he’d climbed inside, and that it was ready to devour him unless he said the secret word. Perhaps he should have promised allegiance, or cut himself to bleed on the carpet. Maybe the house needed proof that he was a descendent, that he was the rightful duke.
He smiled at himself, wondering where those thoughts had come from. He was probably tired from weeks of travel. Or perhaps he was feeling something despite his earlier words. Did Bealadair have the ability to pull emotion from him?
He nodded to Elsbeth and she turned, ascending the steps once more. As he followed her, he tried to marshal his thoughts. He was not given to whimsy. Nor did he believe in ghosts. The moment seemed to portend one, however. If nothing else, the shade of his father as a boy racing down the steps in violation of his tutor’s rules. Or the young man standing at the door, looking upward in a final view of Bealadair before he left forever.
Did his father know in that moment that he would never return? Had he set it as a goal? Had he ever wanted to come back?
What had sent him away from Scotland?
Once, the two of them were riding a fence line and his father had stopped, his gaze on the expanse before him. Some would say that area of the XIV Ranch was nothing but desert and prairie dogs, but they didn’t know where to look. Connor knew the undulations of the land itself, the unexpected green spots where a creek bubbled to the surface, the signs of deer, the hints of earlier habitation.
They’d talked about a man’s destiny that day. Whether what he became was laid out by the Almighty or was strictly a man’s choice.
“A man will make of himself what he wants,” Graham had said. “What he believes he can be.”
He looked up, realizing they’d reached the third-floor landing. Elsbeth didn’t question his hesitation, simply turned and walked down the corridor, stopping in front of a set of double doors like those that led to his suite.
She opened one door and stepped aside, a set expression on her face that warned him they were about to have another battle of the doorway. He bit back his smile and stepped inside, only to be confronted with a portrait gallery of his ancestors.
The dark mahogany floorboards were so polished that he could see the reflections of the gilt frames. His boots sounded loud as he walked to the middle of the room, almost as if this was a hallowed spot, a temple of memory.
No hint of laughter reached this room. No conversation. Nothing but the ponderous passing of time, one second ticking off after another.
Solitude wasn’t unknown to him. Many times he’d taken off, alone, to ride the ranch or to visit the other divisions on the ranch. He was comfortable in his own skin and didn’t need diversions or company. Now, however, in this gallery, oddly lit by the gray skies visible through the high-placed windows, he was glad of Elsbeth’s presence. Glad, too, that she didn’t seem to feel the sudden ominous press of Bealadair or its history.
Chapter 11
Connor began at the end, at the very first Duke of Lothian and slowly walked the portraits, seeing the change in artist style, dress, and expressions of his ancestors. By the time he made it to the tenth duke they’d begun to smile, as if certain of their place in life, certain that the dukedom wasn’t a plum to be snatched from their grasp if they showed any signs of levity.
The space occupied by each duke was greater, too, as wives and children were featured. His steps lagged as he walked, reluctance making it feel as if he was tromping through Guadalupe River mud.
He hesitated at the 12th Duke of Lothian.
This man was his grandfather. The woman to his left must be his grandmother. Had his father ever mentioned either of them? He couldn’t remember. His mother’s parents lived in Austin and visited a few times a year. Surely, as a boy, he’d questioned his father about his parents? Yet the answer, if it had been given to him, eluded him now.
This grandfather bore a vague resemblance to his father with his squared chin, thin line of lips and broad nose. The eyes were the same, brown and piercing, as if wanting to see the depths of a man’s soul. His hair was silver at the temples and he’d been portrayed standing in the library Connor had seen earlier. In this painting he saw the view that had been obscured by snow: an undulating valley down to a wide and sparkling river. He paused for a moment to appreciate the scene, then glanced to his right and froze.
Here the children of his grandfather were portrayed, both sons sitting together, side by side.
“They were twins?”
“Yes,” Elsbeth said, coming to stand beside him. “You didn’t know?”
He shook his head, his gaze never leaving the portraits of the twin boys. They’d been pictured sitting on matching chairs, smiling at a long-haired puppy sitting on the floor between them. The dog’s back was to the artist, his pose one that made Connor think the dog had been real and had alternated between looking at one boy then the other.
“I understand Gavin was born only a few minutes before your father,” Elsbeth said.
He didn’t want to look to his right, but his mind had already furnished what he knew he was going to see. The image of his father stared back at him from Gavin’s portrait.
“When was this painted?” he asked, grateful that his voice sounded steady and without a hint of the emotion surging through him.
“About five years ago,” she said.
If his voice gave nothing away, hers was the opposite. He heard the compassion in it. Or was it pity? Perhaps another time he would have refuted that emotion, but not right now. He felt unsteady and unprepared for the sight of his father’s twin brother.
The man in the portrait looked exactly like his father down to the small smile playing around his lips. Graham often wore that look, especially when witnessing his five daughters. Sometimes, he and Connor would glance at each other across the room as if to say,Whatare you going to do with them? They’re loud. They’re boisterous, and we probably don’t understand everything they’re saying, but we love them anyway.
Elsbeth turned slightly and smiled at the portrait. Maybe at another time he wouldn’t have understood so quickly, but he did now.
